diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 841-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 106530 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 841-h/841-h.htm | 7421 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 841.txt | 7062 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 841.zip | bin | 0 -> 104876 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/almwg10.txt | 6947 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/almwg10.zip | bin | 0 -> 100666 bytes |
9 files changed, 21446 insertions, 0 deletions
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/841-h.zip b/841-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b44c8d --- /dev/null +++ b/841-h.zip diff --git a/841-h/841-h.htm b/841-h/841-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1dd01b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/841-h/841-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7421 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!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> + Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + </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;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +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: Men, Women and Ghosts + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Release Date: July 21, 2008 [EBook #841] +Last Updated: January 9, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br />< + </p> + <h1> + MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Amy Lowell + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) <br /> poet and critic—1874-1925.] + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the + continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors have been + corrected.] + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'... See small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth':... + So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip, + Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees, + And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly." + William Blake. "Europe. A Prophecy." + + 'Thou hast a lap full of seed, + And this is a fine country.' + William Blake. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> + <p> + This is a book of stories. For that reason I have excluded all purely + lyrical poems. But the word "stories" has been stretched to its fullest + application. It includes both narrative poems, properly so called; tales + divided into scenes; and a few pieces of less obvious story-telling import + in which one might say that the dramatis personae are air, clouds, trees, + houses, streets, and such like things. + </p> + <p> + It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of 'vers libre' + have not been sufficiently plumbed, that there is in them a power of + variation which has never yet been brought to the light of experiment. I + think it was the piano pieces of Debussy, with their strange likeness to + short vers libre poems, which first showed me the close kinship of music + and poetry, and there flashed into my mind the idea of using the movement + of poetry in somewhat the same way that the musician uses the movement of + music. + </p> + <p> + It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern + of a metrical form, but the flowing, fluctuating rhythm of vers libre + seemed to open the door to such an experiment. First, however, I + considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced movements of + natural objects. If the reader will turn to the poem, "A Roxbury Garden", + he will find in the first two sections an attempt to give the circular + movement of a hoop bowling along the ground, and the up and down, + elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock. + </p> + <p> + From these experiments, it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music. + In "The Cremona Violin", I have tried to give this flowing, changing + rhythm to the parts in which the violin is being played. The effect is + farther heightened, because the rest of the poem is written in the seven + line Chaucerian stanza; and, by deserting this ordered pattern for the + undulating line of vers libre, I hoped to produce something of the suave, + continuous tone of a violin. Again, in the violin parts themselves, the + movement constantly changes, as will be quite plain to any one reading + these passages aloud. + </p> + <p> + In "The Cremona Violin", however, the rhythms are fairly obvious and + regular. I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the + various movements of Stravinsky's "Three Pieces 'Grotesques', for String + Quartet". Several musicians, who have seen the poem, think the movement + accurately given. + </p> + <p> + These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for + thought and matter for study, and I hope many poets will follow me in + opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre. + </p> + <p> + A good many of the poems in this book are written in "polyphonic prose". A + form about which I have written and spoken so much that it seems hardly + necessary to explain it here. Let me hastily add, however, that the word + "prose" in its name refers only to the typographical arrangement, for in + no sense is this a prose form. Only read it aloud, Gentle Reader, I beg, + and you will see what you will see. For a purely dramatic form, I know + none better in the whole range of poetry. It enables the poet to give his + characters the vivid, real effect they have in a play, while at the same + time writing in the 'decor'. + </p> + <p> + One last innovation I have still to mention. It will be found in "Spring + Day", and more fully enlarged upon in the series, "Towns in Colour". In + these poems, I have endeavoured to give the colour, and light, and shade, + of certain places and hours, stressing the purely pictorial effect, and + with little or no reference to any other aspect of the places described. + It is an enchanting thing to wander through a city looking for its + unrelated beauty, the beauty by which it captivates the sensuous sense of + seeing. + </p> + <p> + I have always loved aquariums, but for years I went to them and looked, + and looked, at those swirling, shooting, looping patterns of fish, which + always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon the "unrelated" + method. The result is in "An Aquarium". I think the first thing which + turned me in this direction was John Gould Fletcher's "London Excursion", + in "Some Imagist Poets". I here record my thanks. + </p> + <p> + For the substance of the poems—why, the poems are here. No one + writing to-day can fail to be affected by the great war raging in Europe + at this time. We are too near it to do more than touch upon it. But, + obliquely, it is suggested in many of these poems, most notably those in + the section, "Bronze Tablets". The Napoleonic Era is an epic subject, and + waits a great epic poet. I have only been able to open a few windows upon + it here and there. But the scene from the windows is authentic, and the + watcher has used eyes, and ears, and heart, in watching. + </p> + <p> + Amy Lowell + </p> + <p> + July 10, 1916. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>FIGURINES IN OLD SAXE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Patterns </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Pickthorn Manor </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Cremona Violin </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Cross-Roads </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> A Roxbury Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> 1777 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BRONZE TABLETS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> The Fruit Shop </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Malmaison </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> The Hammers </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Two Travellers in the Place Vendome </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <b>WAR PICTURES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Allies </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> The Bombardment </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Lead Soldiers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Painter on Silk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> A Ballad of Footmen </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>THE OVERGROWN PASTURE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Reaping </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Off the Turnpike </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> The Grocery </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Number 3 on the Docket </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> <b>CLOCKS TICK A CENTURY</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Paper Windmill </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> The Red Lacquer Music-Stand </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Spring Day </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Dinner-Party </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for + String Quartet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Towns in Colour </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Some Books by Amy Lowell </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + The two sea songs quoted in "The Hammers" are taken from + </p> + <p> + 'Songs: Naval and Nautical, of the late Charles Dibdin', London, John + Murray, 1841. The "Hanging Johnny" refrain, in "The Cremona Violin", is + borrowed from the old, well-known chanty of that name. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIGURINES IN OLD SAXE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Patterns + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I walk down the garden paths, + And all the daffodils + Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. + I walk down the patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, + I too am a rare + Pattern. As I wander down + The garden paths. + + My dress is richly figured, + And the train + Makes a pink and silver stain + On the gravel, and the thrift + Of the borders. + Just a plate of current fashion, + Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. + Not a softness anywhere about me, + Only whalebone and brocade. + And I sink on a seat in the shade + Of a lime tree. For my passion + Wars against the stiff brocade. + The daffodils and squills + Flutter in the breeze + As they please. + And I weep; + For the lime-tree is in blossom + And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + + And the plashing of waterdrops + In the marble fountain + Comes down the garden-paths. + The dripping never stops. + Underneath my stiffened gown + Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, + A basin in the midst of hedges grown + So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, + But she guesses he is near, + And the sliding of the water + Seems the stroking of a dear + Hand upon her. + What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! + I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. + All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. + + I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, + And he would stumble after, + Bewildered by my laughter. + I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles + on his shoes. + I would choose + To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, + A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, + Till he caught me in the shade, + And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, + Aching, melting, unafraid. + With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, + And the plopping of the waterdrops, + All about us in the open afternoon— + I am very like to swoon + With the weight of this brocade, + For the sun sifts through the shade. + + Underneath the fallen blossom + In my bosom, + Is a letter I have hid. + It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. + "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell + Died in action Thursday se'nnight." + As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, + The letters squirmed like snakes. + "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. + "No," I told him. + "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. + No, no answer." + And I walked into the garden, + Up and down the patterned paths, + In my stiff, correct brocade. + The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, + Each one. + I stood upright too, + Held rigid to the pattern + By the stiffness of my gown. + Up and down I walked, + Up and down. + + In a month he would have been my husband. + In a month, here, underneath this lime, + We would have broke the pattern; + He for me, and I for him, + He as Colonel, I as Lady, + On this shady seat. + He had a whim + That sunlight carried blessing. + And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." + Now he is dead. + + In Summer and in Winter I shall walk + Up and down + The patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + The squills and daffodils + Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. + I shall go + Up and down, + In my gown. + Gorgeously arrayed, + Boned and stayed. + And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace + By each button, hook, and lace. + For the man who should loose me is dead, + Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, + In a pattern called a war. + Christ! What are patterns for? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Pickthorn Manor + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! + A steely silver, underlined with blue, + And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, + Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through + And tip the edges of the waves with shifts + And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems + Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp + As wind through leafless stems. + The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts + Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts + Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Her little feet tapped softly down the path. + Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze + Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath + Of fallen petals on the grass, could please + Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside + With a swift move, and a half-angry frown. + She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, + And held them to her gown + To test the colours; put them at her side, + Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried + Some new arrangement, but it would not do. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + A lady in a Manor-house, alone, + Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke + Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown + Too apathetic even to rebuke + Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? + No woman surely, since she neither can + Be wed nor single, must not let her mind + Build thoughts upon a man + Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth + Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth, + And when she thought of him her eyes were kind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. + Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel + Other than strange delight at her wife's doing. + Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal + Over her face, and then her lips would frame + Some little word of loving, and her eyes + Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw + Was the bright sun, slantwise + Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame + Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame + She shut her heart and bent before the law. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + He was a soldier, she was proud of that. + This was his house and she would keep it well. + His honour was in fighting, hers in what + He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell + Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying + Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about? + Were any branches broken? Had the weeds + Been duly taken out + Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying + Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying + Their leaves and satisfying all their needs? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + She picked a stone up with a little pout, + Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders. + Where should she put it? All the paths about + Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders. + No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So + She hurried to the river. At the edge + She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue + Beyond the river sedge. + She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow + Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, "Hullo, + My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray + To save herself from tumbling in the shallows + Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away + She peered down stream among the budding sallows. + A youth in leather breeches and a shirt + Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon + An overhanging bole and deftly swayed + A well-hooked fish which shone + In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt + Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt + With crimson spots and moons which waned and played. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed + And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade + Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged + With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade + Broke up and splintered into shafts of light + Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air + And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod + Almost to snapping. Care + The young man took against the twigs, with slight, + Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight + Obedience to his will with every prod. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. + He seemed uncertain what more he should do. + He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, + Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw, + He caught it nearer to the point. At last + The fish was near enough to touch. He paused. + Eunice knew well the craft—"What's got the thing!" + She cried. "What can have caused— + Where is his net? The moment will be past. + The fish will wriggle free." She stopped aghast. + He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket + Must hang from, held instead a useless arm. + "I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it." + He smiled, for she had spoke aloud. "The charm + Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced + When you must play your fish on land as well." + "How will you take him?" Eunice asked. "In truth + I really cannot tell. + 'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced + I never thought of that until he glanced + Into the branches. 'Tis a bit uncouth." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + He watched the fish against the blowing sky, + Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line. + "The hook is fast, I might just let him die," + He mused. "But that would jar against your fine + Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would," + Cried Eunice. "Let me do it." Swift and light + She ran towards him. "It is so long now + Since I have felt a bite, + I lost all heart for everything." She stood, + Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood + Tingled her lissom body to a glow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + She quickly seized the fish and with a stone + Ended its flurry, then removed the hook, + Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, + She asked him where he kept his fishing-book. + He pointed to a coat flung on the ground. + She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case, + Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp + Filling the middle space. + Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round + About them gay rococo flowers wound + And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII + + The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. + "G. D." the young man gravely said. "My name + Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please." + "Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame + For exploits in the field has reached my ears. + I did not know you wounded and returned." + "But just come back, Madam. A silly prick + To gain me such unearned + Holiday making. And you, it appears, + Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears + At being caught a-trespassing were quick." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIV + + He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. + "You are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more, + I offer you the fishing, and am proud + That you should find it pleasant from this shore. + Nobody fishes now, my husband used + To angle daily, and I too with him. + He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace. + He even had a whim + That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused + The greater fish. And he must be excused, + Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XV + + She sighed because it seemed so long ago, + Those days with Everard; unthinking took + The path back to the orchard. Strolling so + She walked, and he beside her. In a nook + Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs, + Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down. + She questioned him about the war, the share + Her husband had, and grown + Eager by his clear answers, straight allows + Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse + Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVI + + Under the orchard trees daffodils danced + And jostled, turning sideways to the wind. + A dropping cherry petal softly glanced + Over her hair, and slid away behind. + At the far end through twisted cherry-trees + The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks + Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, + Gabled, and with quaint tricks + Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these + Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze + Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVII + + Needled its way through sound of bees and river. + The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves, + Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. + The Lady Eunice listens and believes. + Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, + His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life. + She quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness + Of being this man's wife. + Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word + Is kindly said, but to a softer chord + She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVIII + + "And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I fain + Would know the truth." "Quite well, dear Lady, quite." + She smiled in her content. "So many slain, + You must forgive me for a little fright." + And he forgave her, not alone for that, + But because she was fingering his heart, + Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so + Only to ease her smart + Of painful, apprehensive longing. At + Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat + An hour there. The thrush flew to and fro. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIX + + The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, + As always since Sir Everard had gone, + In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array + Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone. + Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. + Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout + And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, + A peony just burst out, + With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked + Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked + It with the best, and scorned to change their name. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XX + + A sturdy family, and old besides, + Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe. + Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides + Among the highest born, but always so, + Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, + But never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong, + The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams, + Scorning the common throng. + Gazing upon these men, she understands + The toughness of the web wrought from such strands + And pride of Everard colours all her dreams. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXI + + Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces + Flickering in the wind-blown candle's shine. + Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places, + And set out plates of fruit and jugs of wine. + The table glitters black like Winter ice. + The Dartle's rushing, and the gentle clash + Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears. + And through the casement sash + She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice + Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice + And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXII + + "In such a night—" she laid the book aside, + She could outnight the poet by thinking back. + In such a night she came here as a bride. + The date was graven in the almanack + Of her clasped memory. In this very room + Had Everard uncloaked her. On this seat + Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees, + How white they were and sweet + And later, coming to her, her dear groom, + Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom + Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXIII + + Her little taper made the room seem vast, + Caverned and empty. And her beating heart + Rapped through the silence all about her cast + Like some loud, dreadful death-watch taking part + In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest, + Put out the light and crept into her bed. + The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold. + And brimming tears she shed, + Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest, + Her weeping lips into the pillow prest, + Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXIV + + The morning brought her a more stoic mind, + And sunshine struck across the polished floor. + She wondered whether this day she should find + Gervase a-fishing, and so listen more, + Much more again, to all he had to tell. + And he was there, but waiting to begin + Until she came. They fished awhile, then went + To the old seat within + The cherry's shade. He pleased her very well + By his discourse. But ever he must dwell + Upon Sir Everard. Each incident +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXV + + Must be related and each term explained. + How troops were set in battle, how a siege + Was ordered and conducted. She complained + Because he bungled at the fall of Liege. + The curious names of parts of forts she knew, + And aired with conscious pride her ravelins, + And counterscarps, and lunes. The day drew on, + And his dead fish's fins + In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue. + At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew. + But she sat long in still oblivion. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXVI + + Then he would bring her books, and read to her + The poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river + Would murmur through the reading, and a stir + Of birds and bees make the white petals shiver, + And one or two would flutter prone and lie + Spotting the smooth-clipped grass. The days went by + Threaded with talk and verses. Green leaves pushed + Through blossoms stubbornly. + Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty, + Fell into strong and watchful loving, free + He thought, since always would his lips be hushed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXVII + + But lips do not stay silent at command, + And Gervase strove in vain to order his. + Luckily Eunice did not understand + That he but read himself aloud, for this + Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him + And spoilt him like a brother. It was now + "Gervase" and "Eunice" with them, and he dined + Whenever she'd allow, + In the oak parlour, underneath the dim + Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim + Figure, so bright against the chair behind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXVIII + + Eunice was happier than she had been + For many days, and yet the hours were long. + All Gervase told to her but made her lean + More heavily upon the past. Among + Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving + Her morning orders, even when she twined + Nosegays to deck her parlours. With the thought + Of Everard, her mind + Solaced its solitude, and in her striving + To do as he would wish was all her living. + She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXIX + + Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun, + Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other. + Eunice was standing, panting with her run + Up to the tool-house just to get another + Basket. All those which she had brought were filled, + And still Gervase pelted her from above. + The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher + Until his shoulders strove + Quite through the top. "Eunice, your spirit's filled + This tree. White-hearts!" He shook, and cherries spilled + And spat out from the leaves like falling fire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXX + + The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself + Over the quiet garden. And they packed + Full twenty baskets with the fruit. "My shelf + Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked. + In future, none of us will drink strong ale, + But cherry-brandy." "Vastly good, I vow," + And Gervase gave the tree another shake. + The cherries seemed to flow + Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail. + Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale, + Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXI + + She gave a little cry and fell quite prone + In the long grass, and lay there very still. + Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan, + And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill + Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat, + And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart. + "Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?" + His trembling fingers dart + Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove + To answer, opened wide her eyes, above + Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXII + + Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight, + "My Love!" she murmured, "Dearest! Oh, my Dear!" + He took her in his arms and bore her right + And tenderly to the old seat, and "Here + I have you mine at last," she said, and swooned + Under his kisses. When she came once more + To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing + Herself laid as before + Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing + Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing + She twined him in her arms and soft festooned +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXIII + + Herself about him like a flowering vine, + Drawing his lips to cling upon her own. + A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine + Where her half-opened bodice let be shown + Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress, + Half-gasping with her gladness. And her pledge + She whispers, melting with delight. A twig + Snaps in the hornbeam hedge. + A cackling laugh tears through the quietness. + Eunice starts up in terrible distress. + "My God! What's that?" Her staring eyes are big. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXIV + + Revulsed emotion set her body shaking + As though she had an ague. Gervase swore, + Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking + His face was ghastly with the look it wore. + Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man + In worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing, + Made off. But turned every few steps to gaze + At Eunice, and to fling + Vile looks and gestures back. "The ruffian! + By Christ's Death! I will split him to a span + Of hog's thongs." She grasped at his sleeve, "Gervase! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXV + + What are you doing here? Put down that sword, + That's only poor old Tony, crazed and lame. + We never notice him. With my dear Lord + I ought not to have minded that he came. + But, Gervase, it surprises me that you + Should so lack grace to stay here." With one hand + She held her gaping bodice to conceal + Her breast. "I must demand + Your instant absence. Everard, but new + Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu." + "Eunice, you're mad." His brain began to reel. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXVI + + He tried again to take her, tried to twist + Her arms about him. Truly, she had said + Nothing should ever part them. In a mist + She pushed him from her, clasped her aching head + In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud. + "Oh! Where is Everard? What does this mean? + So lately come to leave me thus alone!" + But Gervase had not seen + Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed + And sickening spirit, he told of her proud + Surrender to him. He could hear her moan. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXVII + + Then shame swept over her and held her numb, + Hiding her anguished face against the seat. + At last she rose, a woman stricken—dumb— + And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet. + Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass + The barrier set between them. All his rare + Joy broke to fragments—worse than that, unreal. + And standing lonely there, + His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass + He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas! + The loss so great his life could never heal. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXVIII + + For days thereafter Eunice lived retired, + Waited upon by one old serving-maid. + She would not leave her chamber, and desired + Only to hide herself. She was afraid + Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing, + Of what her longing urge her then to do. + What was this dreadful illness solitude + Had tortured her into? + Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing + The thought of that one morning. And her being + Bruised itself on a happening so rude. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXXIX + + It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came + Her tirewoman with a letter, printed + Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name. + With utmost gentleness, the letter hinted + His understanding and his deep regret. + But would she not permit him once again + To pay her his profound respects? No word + Of what had passed should pain + Her resolution. Only let them get + Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet + With starting tears, now truly she deplored +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XL + + His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep + Away from him. He hardly was to blame. + 'Twas she—she shuddered and began to weep. + 'Twas her fault! Hers! Her everlasting shame + Was that she suffered him, whom not at all + She loved. Poor Boy! Yes, they must still be friends. + She owed him that to keep the balance straight. + It was such poor amends + Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall + Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical + It was, and she must leave him desolate. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLI + + Hard silence he had forced upon his lips + For long and long, and would have done so still + Had not she—here she pressed her finger tips + Against her heavy eyes. Then with forced will + She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms + Of Crowe and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter + When this was done. It seemed her constant care + Might some day cease to fright her. + Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms + Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms + Would lessen when she saw him standing there, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLII + + Simple and kind, a brother just returned + From journeying, and he would treat her so. + She knew his honest heart, and if there burned + A spark in it he would not let it show. + But when he really came, and stood beside + Her underneath the fruitless cherry boughs, + He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed. + He made her no more vows, + Nor did he mention one thing he had tried + To put into his letter. War supplied + Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLIII + + Daily they met. And gravely walked and talked. + He read her no more verses, and he stayed + Only until their conversation, balked + Of every natural channel, fled dismayed. + Again the next day she would meet him, trying + To give her tone some healthy sprightliness, + But his uneager dignity soon chilled + Her well-prepared address. + Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying + Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying + Whirred overhead for days and never stilled. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLIV + + One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind, + Eunice awaited Gervase by the river. + The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined + Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver + Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank. + All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves + Blew up, and settled down, and blew again. + The cherry-trees were weaves + Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank + Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank + With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLV + + Eunice paced up and down. No joy she took + At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown + Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook, + And caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown + Sir Everard emerging from the mist. + His uniform was travel-stained and torn, + His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride + Jangled his spurs. A thorn + Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst + He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran—a twist + Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLVI + + But he had seen her as she swiftly ran, + A flash of white against the river's grey. + "Eunice," he called. "My Darling. Eunice. Can + You hear me? It is Everard. All day + I have been riding like the very devil + To reach you sooner. Are you startled, Dear?" + He broke into a run and followed her, + And caught her, faint with fear, + Cowering and trembling as though she some evil + Spirit were seeing. "What means this uncivil + Greeting, Dear Heart?" He saw her senses blur. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLVII + + Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried + To speak, but only gurgled in her throat. + At last, straining to hold herself, she cried + To him for pity, and her strange words smote + A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase + To leave her, 'twas too much a second time. + Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind + Repeated like a rhyme + This name he did not know. In sad amaze + He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze, + So unremembering and so unkind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLVIII + + Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt + With what he feared her madness. By and by + He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt + Upon the seat, and took her hands: "Now try + To think a minute I am come, my Dear, + Unharmed and back on furlough. Are you glad + To have your lover home again? To me, + Pickthorn has never had + A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear + To come and sit awhile beside me here? + A stone between us surely should not be." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XLIX + + She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile, + Then came to him and on his shoulder laid + Her head, and they two rested there awhile, + Each taking comfort. Not a word was said. + But when he put his hand upon her breast + And felt her beating heart, and with his lips + Sought solace for her and himself. She started + As one sharp lashed with whips, + And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest + Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest, + Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + L + + Eunice was very quiet all that day, + A little dazed, and yet she seemed content. + At candle-time, he asked if she would play + Upon her harpsichord, at once she went + And tinkled airs from Lully's 'Carnival' + And 'Bacchus', newly brought away from France. + Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon + To please him with a dance + By Purcell, for he said that surely all + Good Englishmen had pride in national + Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LI + + He whispered her that if she had forgiven + His startling her that afternoon, the clock + Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven + He entered when she opened to his knock. + The hours rustled in the trailing wind + Over the chimney. Close they lay and knew + Only that they were wedded. At his touch + Anxiety she threw + Away like a shed garment, and inclined + Herself to cherish him, her happy mind + Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LII + + Eunice lay long awake in the cool night + After her husband slept. She gazed with joy + Into the shadows, painting them with bright + Pictures of all her future life's employ. + Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel, + Each shining with the other. Soft she turned + And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed + Her happiness was earned. + Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel + To light this Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel + Affrightings would she ever be dismayed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LIII + + When Everard, next day, asked her in joke + What name it was that she had called him by, + She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke + She hardly realized it was a lie. + Her vision she related, but she hid + The fondness into which she had been led. + Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear, + And quite out of her head + The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid + Himself for laziness, and off he rid + To see his men and count his farming-gear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LIV + + At supper he seemed overspread with gloom, + But gave no reason why, he only asked + More questions of Gervase, and round the room + He walked with restless strides. At last he tasked + Her with a greater feeling for this man + Than she had given. Eunice quick denied + The slightest interest other than a friend + Might claim. But he replied + He thought she underrated. Then a ban + He put on talk and music. He'd a plan + To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LV + + Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed, + Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride + Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged + All round his torment. Lady Eunice tried + To sooth him. So a week went by, and then + His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands + Striving to stem his words, he told her plain + Tony had seen them, "brands + Burning in Hell," the man had said. Again + Eunice described her vision, and how when + Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LVI + + He could not credit it, and misery fed + Upon his spirit, day by day it grew. + To Gervase he forbade the house, and led + The Lady Eunice such a life she flew + At his approaching footsteps. Winter came + Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees. + All the roof-edges spiked with icicles + In fluted companies. + The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame + Kept herself sighing company. The flame + Of the birch fire glittered on the walls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LVII + + A letter was brought to her as she sat, + Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound, + The writer's, had so well recovered that + To join his regiment he felt him bound. + But would she not wish him one short "Godspeed", + He asked no more. Her greeting would suffice. + He had resolved he never should return. + Would she this sacrifice + Make for a dying man? How could she read + The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed, + She read. Then dropped it in the fire to burn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LVIII + + Gervase had set the river for their meeting + As farthest from the farms where Everard + Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating + Was quite expected, at least no dullard + Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid + Among the willows watching. Dusk had come, + And from the Manor he had long been gone. + Eunice her burdensome + Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid + Over the slippery paths, and soon amid + The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LIX + + Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed + Into the boat. She shook her head, but he + Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed + Words told her of what peril there might be + From listeners along the river bank. + A push would take them out of earshot. Ten + Minutes was all he asked, then she should land, + He go away again, + Forever this time. Yet how could he thank + Her for so much compassion. Here she sank + Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LX + + His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved the keel + Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside + Her; took the oars, and they began to steal + Under the overhanging trees. A wide + Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade + Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting + Rigid and stark upon the after thwart. + It blazed upon their flitting + In merciless light. A moment so it stayed, + Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made + One leap, and landed just a fraction short. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LXI + + His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat + To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized + His wife and held her smothered to his coat. + "Everard, loose me, we shall drown—" and squeezed + Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped + "Never, by God!" The slidden boat gave way + And the black foamy water split—and met. + Bubbled up through the spray + A wailing rose and in the branches rasped, + And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped + In the blue evening, a clear moon was set. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LXII + + They lie entangled in the twisting roots, + Embraced forever. Their cold marriage bed + Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots + Of willows and pale birches. At the head, + White lilies, like still swans, placidly float + And sway above the pebbles. Here are waves + Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane + Gold-woven on their graves. + In perfect quietness they sleep, remote + In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote + Them to perpetual oneness who were twain. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cremona Violin + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Part First + + Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. + A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind + Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before + Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind + The distant town was black, and sharp defined + Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, + Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. + + A pasted city on a purple ground, + Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud + Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound + Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, + Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud + Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. + Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. + + She bustled round to shake by constant moving + The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, + She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving + Its careful setting, then her own attire + Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher + She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting + A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting + + This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, + Or rather plumping down upon a chair, + She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, + And watched the rain upon the window glare + In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare + Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!" + She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!" + + A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. + Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, + Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping + She stood and gazed along the street. A man + Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran + Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear, + What in the name of patience brings you here? + + Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin + I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. + This clasp is very much too worn and thin. + I'll take the other fiddle out to-night + If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite + Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I— + Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. + + Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? + A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. + Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few + Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. + What do you say? That you were feared for me? + Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. + I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk." + + Her needles still, her hands upon her lap + Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat + And watched the rain-run window. In his nap + Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, + Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, + Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room + Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. + + But even rainy windows, silver-lit + By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give + But poor content to loneliness, and it + Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive + And down her eagerness and learn to live + In placid quiet. While her husband slept, + Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man + Gentle and unambitious, that alone + Had kept him back. He played as few men can, + Drawing out of his instrument a tone + So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone + Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, + Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. + + Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, + Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine + Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life + Was flowering out of early discipline + When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine + The belly was. The back of broadly curled + Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. + + The slanting, youthful sound-holes through + The belly of fine, vigorous pine + Mellowed each note and blew + It out again with a woody flavour + Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are + When breezes in their needles jar. + + The varnish was an orange-brown + Lustered like glass that's long laid down + Under a crumbling villa stone. + Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point + Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint + Clear, and bold, and thin. + Such was Herr Theodore's violin. + + Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone + With his best violin, the rain being stopped, + Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone + Watching the embers which the fire dropped. + The china shone upon the dresser, topped + By polished copper vessels which her skill + Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. + + An air from 'Orfeo' hummed in her head. + Herr Altgelt had been practising before + The night's performance. Charlotta had plead + With him to stay with her. Even at the door + She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore + You for this evening, Theodore," she had said. + "Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead." + + "A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her ear. + "You'd like to have our good Elector turn + Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer + Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, + My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, + And cold, and only love your work, I know. + But Theodore, for this evening, do not go." + + But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, + For she had kept him talking. Now she sat + Alone again, always alone, the trend + Of all her thinking brought her back to that + She wished to banish. What would life be? What? + For she was young, and loved, while he was moved + Only by music. Each day that was proved. + + Each day he rose and practised. While he played, + She stopped her work and listened, and her heart + Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed + And longing, she would hide from him her smart. + "Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start + She gave, and she would run to him and cry, + And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie. + + I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! + You'll hear the thing enough before I've done." + And she would draw away from him, still shaking. + Had he but guessed she was another one, + Another violin. Her strings were aching, + Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again + He played and she almost broke at the strain. + + Where was the use of thinking of it now, + Sitting alone and listening to the clock! + She'd best make haste and knit another row. + Three hours at least must pass before his knock + Would startle her. It always was a shock. + She listened—listened—for so long before, + That when it came her hearing almost tore. + + She caught herself just starting in to listen. + What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! + She wandered to the window, for the glisten + Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks + Of her two candles. Still she could not fix + To anything. The moon in a broad swath + Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. + + Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high + And black, their shadows doubling them. The night + Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh + Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight + Of insects, and the smell of aconite, + And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted + Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted + + The even flags. She let herself go dreaming + Of Theodore her husband, and the tune + From 'Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming + Changed—shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon + Showed her a passer-by, inopportune + Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. + Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. + + "The best laid plans of mice and men," alas! + The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. + Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, + Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, + Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, + Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, + And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. + + He seemed a proper fellow standing there + In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced + With silver, and he wore his own brown hair + Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced + A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased + Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position + Was hardly easy. When would his volition + + Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! + A half-a-dozen bars from 'Orfeo' + Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune + Had brought him there to stare about him so? + "Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!" + Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, + And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. + + Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, + Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. + If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes + Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, + He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig + Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose + Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose + + Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why + Do you stand there? I really must insist + Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly + To stay so long." The young man gave a twist + And turned about, and in the amethyst + Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen + From the green bushes which had been her prison. + + He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. + "Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea + I was not quite alone, and that is how + I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer + Impertinence. I thought no one was here, + And really gardens cry to be admired. + To-night especially it seemed required. + + And may I beg to introduce myself? + Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?" + Charlotta told him. And the artful elf + Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. + So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came + To conversation with him. When she went + Into the house, she found the evening spent. + + Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, + With all excitement in him burned away. + It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, + And he had played his very best to-day, + But afterwards he had been forced to stay + And practise with the stupid ones. His head + Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Part Second + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, + And the four strings of his violin + Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. + The notes rose into the wide sun-mote + Which slanted through the window, + They lay like coloured beads a-row, + They knocked together and parted, + And started to dance, + Skipping, tripping, each one slipping + Under and over the others so + That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance + Or a comet's tail, + Behind them. + Then a wail arose—crescendo— + And dropped from off the end of the bow, + And the dancing stopped. + A scent of lilies filled the room, + Long and slow. Each large white bloom + Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, + And the hum of an organ tone, + And they waved like fans in a hall of stone + Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. + Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. + Like smoke they rose from the violin— + Then faded as a swifter bowing + Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing + In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion + Between broad meadows to an ocean + Wide as a day and blue as a flower, + Where every hour + Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, + And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, + And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered + With spray. + And away a couple of frigates were starting + To race to Java with all sails set, + Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, + And wide moonsails; and the shining rails + Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. + All the sails went up with a run: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, + And the ship heeled over to the breeze. + He drew her into the shade of the sails, + And whispered tales + Of voyages in the China seas, + And his arm around her + Held and bound her. + She almost swooned, + With the breeze and the moon + And the slipping sea, + And he beside her, + Touching her, leaning— + The ship careening, + With the white moon steadily shining over + Her and her lover, + Theodore, still her lover! + + Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, + And slowly floated + A single note which spread and spread + Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, + And noises shivered throughout its length, + And tried its strength. + They pulled it, and tore it, + And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. + Then a wide rent + Split the arching tent, + And balls of fire spurted through, + Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. + One by one they were quenched as they fell, + Only the blue burned steadily. + Paler and paler it grew, and—faded—away. + Herr Altgelt stopped. + + "Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? + I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. + What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. + I wonder how it happens I'm the winner + Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; + You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. + Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. + + I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. + The days are getting short, and I'm so tied + At the Court Theatre my poor little bride + Has not much junketing I fear, but soon + I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. + To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, + And when I go, why Lotta can come too. + + Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup + To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. + You know it's odd how some women can stoop! + Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, + A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover + If it's his money. But she lives alone + Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, + + Pores over books all day, and has no ear + For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; + They need appreciation. But it's queer + What messes people make of their lives, when + They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then + His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. + I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce." + + Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went + Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind + Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, + Audacious wind it was, now close behind, + Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined + The strings across her face, then from in front + Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, + + Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, + Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound + Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing + Itself upon her, so that she was wound + In draperies as clinging as those found + Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze + Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze + + The shops and houses had a quality + Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp + And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. + The city streets were twanging like a harp. + Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly + She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing + Toward what destination she was going. + + She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, + Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, + And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop + And then float up again with lightness. Browns + Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns + Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, + Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. + + A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard + Delighted her. And rings of every size + Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, + Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred + To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred + Like rockets bursting on a festal day. + Charlotta could not tear herself away. + + With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, + Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, + Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks + Of shades and lustres always darting through + Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, + Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. + She started at the words: "Am I encroaching?" + + "Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought + We were to meet at three, is it quite that?" + "No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught + The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, + I cannot go on this way. Life is what + Might best be conjured up by the word: 'Hell'. + Dearest, when will you come?" Lotta, to quell + + His effervescence, pointed to the gems + Within the window, asked him to admire + A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems + Uneasily the burning of a fire. + Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. + Little by little she wooed him to her mood + Until at last he promised to be good. + + But here he started on another tack; + To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. + She vainly urged against him all her lack + Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use + A ring or brooch her husband might accuse + Her of extravagance, and ask to see + A strict accounting, or still worse might be. + + But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why + Should he not give her what he liked? And in + He went, determined certainly to buy + A thing so beautiful that it would win + Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin + He would outscore by such a handsome jewel + That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! + + Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. + If she went in with him, the shopman might + Recognize her, give her her name; in days + To come he could denounce her. In her fright + She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite + Capable of pursuing. By and by + She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. + + It took some pains to keep him from bestowing + A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, + The setting twined to represent the growing + Tendrils and leaves, upon her. "Who supposes + I could obtain such things! It simply closes + All comfort for me." So he changed his mind + And bought as slight a gift as he could find. + + A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, + Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, + Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls + Should lie in it. And further to bedeck + His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, + The merest puff of a thin, linked chain + To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain + + From weeping as they sauntered down the street. + She did not want the locket, yet she did. + To have him love her she found very sweet, + But it is hard to keep love always hid. + Then there was something in her heart which chid + Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, + That all these meetings were a foolish whim. + + She thought of Theodore and the life they led, + So near together, but so little mingled. + The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, + And the fresh wind about her body tingled; + The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; + Charlotta held her breath for very fear, + About her in the street she seemed to hear: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + + And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, + Who held her and who whispered in her ear. + She knew her heart was telling her no lies, + Beating and hammering. He was so dear, + The touch of him would send her in a queer + Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning + For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning + + Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. + He had some aim, she had forgotten what. + Their progress was confused and very slow, + But at the last they reached a lonely spot, + A garden far above the highest shot + Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town + Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. + + Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, + Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain + About her neck. She treated it in jest, + And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. + Then suddenly she felt as though a strain + Were put upon her, collared like a slave, + Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. + + She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands + To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. + Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands + Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance + Melted within her, from remotest distance, + Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, + And giving way she knew him very dear. + + For long he held her, and they both gazed down + At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. + From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown + Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver + Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver + When, opening the locket, they were placed + Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. + + "When will you have it so with us?" He sighed. + She shook her head. He pressed her further. "No, + No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried + To free herself and rise. He held her so, + Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. + "But you love me," he whispered, with his face + Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. + + Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew + That what her husband lit this other man + Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few + Women were so discreet as she, who ran + No danger since she knew what things to ban. + She opened her house door at five o'clock, + A short half-hour before her husband's knock. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Part Third + + The 'Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed + With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, + That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed + With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring + Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting + Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting + From muffled tympani made a dark slatting + + Across the silver shimmering of flutes; + A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; + The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, + And mutterings of double basses trailed + Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed + Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter + They lost themselves amid the general clatter. + + Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, + Felt lifted up into another world. + Before her eyes a thousand candles shone + In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled + And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. + She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, + And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering + + All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, + The house, like rubies set in filigree, + Filliped the candlelight about, and bold + Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly + Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. + An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. + Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling + + About a play-bill he had bought and lost. + Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. + Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post + Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected + The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected + When with no glance about him or her way, + He lifted up his violin to play. + + The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, + Charlotta never saw it go. + The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing + Only came to her like the ringing + Of bells at a festa + Which swing in the air + And nobody realizes they are there. + They jingle and jangle, + And clang, and bang, + And never a soul could tell whether they rang, + For the plopping of guns and rockets + And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, + And the shuffling and clapping of feet, + And the loud flapping + Of flags, with the drums, + As the military comes. + It's a famous tune to walk to, + And I wonder where they're off to. + Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. + But the rhythm changes as though a mist + Were curling and twisting + Over the landscape. + For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog + Encompasses her. Then her senses jog + To the breath of a stately minuet. + Herr Altgelt's violin is set + In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, + To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. + Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights + When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights + Blundering insects knock, + And the 'Rathaus' clock + Booms twice, through the shrill sounds + Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. + Pressed against him in the mazy wavering + Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering + She leans upon the beating, throbbing + Music. Laughing, sobbing, + Feet gliding after sliding feet; + His—hers— + The ballroom blurs— + She feels the air + Lifting her hair, + And the lapping of water on the stone stair. + He is there! He is there! + Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, + That the dancers may dance, and never discover + The old stone stair leading down to the river + With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over + Her and her lover. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The evening passed like this, in a half faint, + Delirium with waking intervals + Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint + Of a large company, the constant calls + For oranges or syrops from the stalls + Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, + Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. + + She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, + The music vaunted as most excellent. + The scenery and the costumes were applauded, + The latter it was whispered had been sent + From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent + A fortune on them, so the gossips said. + Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. + + When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, + Her prodded ears were aching and confused. + The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming + Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused + Into the music, Theodore's music! Used + To hear him play, she caught his single tone. + For all she noticed they two were alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Part Fourth + + Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, + Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down + Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat + A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown + Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown + The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes + Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. + + Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, + Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman + And ordered off. However, no great harm + Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan + When Theodore, her belated guardian, + Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, + Half out of fear, half out of the assembling + + Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. + Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. + "Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!" + "Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? + Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow + Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, + A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops." + + He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, + Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say + To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact + Kept him explaining all the homeward way + How this thing had gone well, that badly. "Stay, + Theodore!" she cried at last. "You know to me + Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy." + + And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed + Herself so much, and said so. "But it's good + To be got home again." He was employed + In looking at his violin, the wood + Was old, and evening air did it no good. + But when he drew up to the table for tea + Something about his wife's vivacity + + Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. + He talked of this and that but watched her close. + Tea over, he endeavoured to extort + The cause of her excitement. She arose + And stood beside him, trying to compose + Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, + And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. + + Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, + Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. + Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp + Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, + Sobbing out all her hours of despair. + "Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. + Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved." + + Theodore went under in this tearing wave, + He yielded to it, and its headlong flow + Filled him with all the energy she gave. + He was a youth again, and this bright glow, + This living, vivid joy he had to show + Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, + She asked assurances there's no denying. + + Over and over again her questions, till + He quite convinced her, every now and then + She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. + But later when they were composed and when + She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen," + He asked, "how is it your love has withstood + My inadvertence? I was made of wood." + + She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, + That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky + To her. And even if conscience were unruly + She salved it by neat sophistries, but why + Suppose her insincere, it was no lie + She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot + As though he'd never been within earshot. + + But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing + Fumbled against the locket where it lay + Upon her neck. "What is this thing I'm pressing?" + He asked. "Let's bring it to the light of day." + He lifted up the locket. "It should stay + Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. + To keep it hidden surely is a waste." + + Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused + Out of her happiness. The locket brought + A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused + Under its icy spurting she was caught, + And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought + The clasp, but with such art was this contrived + Her fumbling fingers never once arrived + + Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, + She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring + And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, + Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing + To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string + Binding her folly to her, and those curls + Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! + + Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. + "Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged. But he + Refused, and being in a happy mood, + Twitted her with her inefficiency, + Then looking at her very seriously: + "I think, Charlotta, it is well to have + Always about one what a mother gave. + + As she has taken the great pains to send + This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be + Ingratitude if you do not intend + To carry it about you constantly. + With her fine taste you cannot disagree, + The locket is most beautifully designed." + He opened it and there the curls were, twined. + + Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. + She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. + Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, + She heard her husband asking: "What are those?" + Put out her hand quickly to interpose, + But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded + At the calm way the question was propounded. + + "A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. + Indeed I will not let you put it off. + A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!" + Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. + "Never with my connivance shall you doff + This charming gift." He kissed her on the cheek, + And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. + + When later in their room she lay awake, + Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, + She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. + She had loved Heinrich also, and the core + Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore + She vowed from now to break this double life + And see herself only as Theodore's wife. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Part Fifth + + It was no easy matter to convince + Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say + That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) + She still must keep the locket to allay + Suspicion in her husband. She would pay + Him from her savings bit by bit—the oath + He swore at that was startling to them both. + + Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt + Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. + She found her husband all that she had felt + His music to contain. Her days were set + In his as though she were an amulet + Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; + Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. + + Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks + Were furbished up to seem like rituals. + She baked and brewed as one who only asks + The right to serve. Her daily manuals + Of prayer were duties, and her festivals + When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said + She had a knack in making up a bed. + + So Autumn went, and all the mountains round + The city glittered white with fallen snow, + For it was Winter. Over the hard ground + Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. + On the swept flags behind the currant row + Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip + Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership + + Was first again. This evening he had got + Important news. The opera ordered from + Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, + The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come + Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot + From copying, had been tried over. Never + Had any music started such a fever. + + The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, + The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, + With such a great attraction through the course + Of Carnival time. In what utter shade + All other cities would be left! The trade + In music would all drift here naturally. + In his excitement he forgot his tea. + + Lotta was forced to take his cup and put + It in his hand. But still he rattled on, + Sipping at intervals. The new catgut + Strings he was using gave out such a tone + The "Maestro" had remarked it, and had gone + Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, + He was as happy as a little child. + + From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, + Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first + Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore + Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst + Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; + That his short interest in her was a light + Flared up an instant only in the night. + + 'Idomeneo' was the opera's name, + A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. + Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came + Home for his tea, and it was very late, + Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state + Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin + Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. + + He practised every morning and her heart + Followed his bow. But often she would sit, + While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, + Absently fingering and touching it, + The locket, which now seemed to her a bit + Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, + And through the notes he played, her dreading ears + + Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; + Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take + Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged + Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take + Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, + Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. + What harm to pass it since she should not stop! + + It matters nothing how one day she met + Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. + Nor how the following week he stood to let + Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. + How once he took her basket, and once he + Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck + Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck + + How many times their business took them each + Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, + But she would only nod, he got no speech + From her. Next time he treated it in joke, + And that so lightly that her vow she broke + And answered. So they drifted into seeing + Each other as before. There was no fleeing. + + Christmas was over and the Carnival + Was very near, and tripping from each tongue + Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall + Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, + What singers hired. Pictures of the young + "Maestro" were for sale. The town was mad. + Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. + + Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will + And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore + And him. Sometimes she wished to kill + Herself to solve her problem. For a score + Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore + Her moods with patience, and so surely urged + Himself upon her, she was slowly merged + + Into his way of thinking, and to fly + With him seemed easy. But next morning would + The Stradivarius undo her mood. + Then she would realize that she must cleave + Always to Theodore. And she would try + To convince Heinrich she should never leave, + And afterwards she would go home and grieve. + + All thought in Munich centered on the part + Of January when there would be given + 'Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. + The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even + Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven + Behind the highest gallery, were sold. + The inches of the theatre went for gold. + + Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin + With work, he hardly printed black behind + The candle. He and his old violin + Made up one person. He was not unkind, + But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, + The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded + A part of him which he had quite discarded. + + It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, + In little lights, + Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, + Here—there— + Spurting, sputtering, + Fading and lighting, + Together, asunder— + Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, + And the faint grey patch of the window shone + Upon her sitting there, alone. + For Theodore slept. + + The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, + 'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant + Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play + His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent + Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went + Into the kitchen, with a weary word + Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. + + Lotta heard more than his spoken word. + She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. + She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, + When the sound began, + Long as the span + Of a white road snaking about a hill. + The orchards are filled + With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. + Hawthorn buds are cracking, + And in the distance a shepherd is clacking + His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. + The notes are asleep, + Lying adrift on the air + In level lines + Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, + Strung and threaded, + All imbedded + In the blue-green of the hazy pines. + Lines—long, straight lines! + And stems, + Long, straight stems + Pushing up + To the cup of blue, blue sky. + Stems growing misty + With the many of them, + Red-green mist + Of the trees, + And these + Wood-flavoured notes. + The back is maple and the belly is pine. + The rich notes twine + As though weaving in and out of leaves, + Broad leaves + Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, + Waving and falling. + Another sound peers + Through little pine fingers, + And lingers, peeping. + Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. + There is a twittering up in the branches, + A chirp and a lilt, + And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. + Wings! Wings! + And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. + The forest bends, tumultuous + With song. + The woodpecker knocks, + And the song-sparrow trills, + Every fir, and cedar, and yew + Has a nest or a bird, + It is quite absurd + To hear them cutting across each other: + Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, + And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother + A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, + "Roo—coo—oo—oo—" + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!" + A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! + And the great trees toss + And leaves blow down, + You can almost hear them splash on the ground. + The whistle again: + It is double and loud! + The leaves are splashing, + And water is dashing + Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; + And men are running up them to furl the sails, + For there is a capful of wind to-day, + And we are already well under way. + The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. + "Theodore, please. + Oh, Dear, how you tease!" + And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, + And the men pull on the sheets: + "My name is Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; + They are swinging over + Her and her lover. + Almost swooning + Under the ballooning canvas, + She lies + Looking up in his eyes + As he bends farther over. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, + She leant against the table for support, + Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands + Burning upon his music. He stopped short. + Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands + Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, + Her fingers touched the locket with a start. + + Herr Altgelt put his violin away + Listlessly. "Lotta, I must have some rest. + The strain will be a hideous one to-day. + Don't speak to me at all. It will be best + If I am quiet till I go." And lest + She disobey, he left her. On the stairs + She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! + + He could not hear, he was not there, for she + Was married to a mummy, a machine. + Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. + Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen + Case of his violin. She saw the clean + Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge + Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. + + A heavy cart went by, a distant bell + Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. + She was alone. Her throat began to swell + With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? + The violin she had begun to hate + Lay in its case before her. Here she flung + The cover open. With the fiddle swung + + Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking + Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused + The little door in it came open, flicking + A wooden cuckoo out: "Cuckoo!" It caused + The forest dream to come again. "Cuckoo!" + Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. + + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" the clock kept striking on; + But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cross-Roads + </h2> + <p> + A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a + woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in + shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows, cold dawn creeping + over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, creeping over his cold body, + creeping across his cold face. A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the + staring eyes. Wind howling through bent branches. A wind which never dies + down. Howling, wailing. The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids + are frozen open and the eyes glitter. + </p> + <p> + The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching. + Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering; + tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart, + drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning, + lopsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles and earth + and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again + into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses. Squeaking of + wheels. + </p> + <p> + "Whoa! Ready, Jim?" + </p> + <p> + "All ready." + </p> + <p> + Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin. + </p> + <p> + "Give us the stake, Jim. Now." + </p> + <p> + Pound! Pound! + </p> + <p> + "He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground." + </p> + <p> + An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him. He is + a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway, and + writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet in his + heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. + </p> + <p> + Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body, + and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick held him + in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green. Pink and + white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley at her breast, + puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young green leaves, the + horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise scarcely + turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under her puce-coloured + bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his correct blue coat and + brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun? The horse steps on a + rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan. The little leaves + tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over, tearing their stems. + There is a shower of young leaves, and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the + trees. + </p> + <p> + The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking—rocking, and all the branches + are knocking—knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate, the + branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage is + a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing. The stake + holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms. The blue spots widen, the + flesh tears, but the stake wears well in the deep, black ground. It holds + the body in the still, black ground. + </p> + <p> + Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away; it + is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the stake is + thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly jewelled with + stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises. Down the road to + Tilbury, silence—and the slow flapping of large leaves. Down the + road to Sutton, silence—and the darkness of heavy-foliaged trees. + Down the road to Wayfleet, silence—and the whirring scrape of + insects in the branches. Down the road to Edgarstown, silence—and + stars like stepping-stones in a pathway overhead. It is very quiet at the + cross-roads, and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, + endlessly points the way where nobody wishes to go. + </p> + <p> + A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide, still + leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes; + silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury + way; riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from + Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze all of + a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down. Dr. + Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves away + from the sign-post. An oath—spurs—a blurring of grey mist. A + quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing down the Tilbury + road with the wind dropping away behind him. + </p> + <p> + The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from flesh, + has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and clamping them + down in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and + spine. The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them + still in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine, for the + stake holds the fleshless bones in line. + </p> + <p> + Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself away; it + is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. Only flaky + bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone is + knit to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but upright + still, and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line. + </p> + <p> + Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the trees. + The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow ways, + saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust blows up + Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do more; it + ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind comes up Tilbury + road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet. The wind reels a moment and + faints to nothing under the sign-post. Wind again, wheels and feet louder. + Wind again—again—again. A drop of rain, flat into the dust. + Drop!—Drop! Thick heavy raindrops, and a shrieking wind bending the + great trees and wrenching off their leaves. + </p> + <p> + Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road, comes + the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard at Wayfleet. + Feet and wheels—feet and wheels. And among them one who is carried. + </p> + <p> + The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver + through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together in a little + puffing of dust. + </p> + <p> + Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession, now + well along the Wayfleet road. + </p> + <p> + He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like + smoke, his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the pouring + rain, he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down the + Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers among the + trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under, blown, contorted. + Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke. There is a wailing + through the trees, a wailing of fear, and after it laughter—laughter—laughter, + skirling up to the black sky. Lightning jags over the funeral procession. + A heavy clap of thunder. Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and + wheels. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Roxbury Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Hoops + + Blue and pink sashes, + Criss-cross shoes, + Minna and Stella run out into the garden + To play at hoop. + + Up and down the garden-paths they race, + In the yellow sunshine, + Each with a big round hoop + White as a stripped willow-wand. + + Round and round turn the hoops, + Their diamond whiteness cleaving the yellow sunshine. + The gravel crunches and squeaks beneath them, + And a large pebble springs them into the air + To go whirling for a foot or two + Before they touch the earth again + In a series of little jumps. + + Spring, Hoops! + Spit out a shower of blue and white brightness. + The little criss-cross shoes twinkle behind you, + The pink and blue sashes flutter like flags, + The hoop-sticks are ready to beat you. + Turn, turn, Hoops! In the yellow sunshine. + Turn your stripped willow whiteness + Along the smooth paths. + + Stella sings: + "Round and round, rolls my hoop, + Scarcely touching the ground, + With a swoop, + And a bound, + Round and round. + With a bumpety, crunching, scattering sound, + Down the garden it flies; + In our eyes + The sun lies. + See it spin + Out and in; + Through the paths it goes whirling, + About the beds curling. + Sway now to the loop, + Faster, faster, my hoop. + Round you come, + Up you come, + Quick and straight as before. + Run, run, my hoop, run, + Away from the sun." + + And the great hoop bounds along the path, + Leaping into the wind-bright air. + + Minna sings: + "Turn, hoop, + Burn hoop, + Twist and twine + Hoop of mine. + Flash along, + Leap along, + Right at the sun. + Run, hoop, run. + Faster and faster, + Whirl, twirl. + Wheel like fire, + And spin like glass; + Fire's no whiter + Glass is no brighter. + Dance, + Prance, + Over and over, + About and about, + With the top of you under, + And the bottom at top, + But never a stop. + Turn about, hoop, to the tap of my stick, + I follow behind you + To touch and remind you. + Burn and glitter, so white and quick, + Round and round, to the tap of a stick." + + The hoop flies along between the flower-beds, + Swaying the flowers with the wind of its passing. + + Beside the foxglove-border roll the hoops, + And the little pink and white bells shake and jingle + Up and down their tall spires; + They roll under the snow-ball bush, + And the ground behind them is strewn with white petals; + They swirl round a corner, + And jar a bee out of a Canterbury bell; + They cast their shadows for an instant + Over a bed of pansies, + Catch against the spurs of a columbine, + Jostle the quietness from a cluster of monk's-hood. + Pat! Pat! behind them come the little criss-cross shoes, + And the blue and pink sashes stream out in flappings of colour. + + Stella sings: + "Hoop, hoop, + Roll along, + Faster bowl along, + Hoop. + Slow, to the turning, + Now go!—Go! + Quick! + Here's the stick. + Rat-a-tap-tap it, + Pat it, flap it. + Fly like a bird or a yellow-backed bee, + See how soon you can reach that tree. + Here is a path that is perfectly straight. + Roll along, hoop, or we shall be late." + + Minna sings: + "Trip about, slip about, whip about + Hoop. + Wheel like a top at its quickest spin, + Then, dear hoop, we shall surely win. + First to the greenhouse and then to the wall + Circle and circle, + And let the wind push you, + Poke you, + Brush you, + And not let you fall. + Whirring you round like a wreath of mist. + Hoopety hoop, + Twist, + Twist." + + Tap! Tap! go the hoop-sticks, + And the hoops bowl along under a grape arbour. + For an instant their willow whiteness is green, + Pale white-green. + Then they are out in the sunshine, + Leaving the half-formed grape clusters + A-tremble under their big leaves. + + "I will beat you, Minna," cries Stella, + Hitting her hoop smartly with her stick. + "Stella, Stella, we are winning," calls Minna, + As her hoop curves round a bed of clove-pinks. + A humming-bird whizzes past Stella's ear, + And two or three yellow-and-black butterflies + Flutter, startled, out of a pillar rose. + Round and round race the little girls + After their great white hoops. + + Suddenly Minna stops. + Her hoop wavers an instant, + But she catches it up on her stick. + "Listen, Stella!" + Both the little girls are listening; + And the scents of the garden rise up quietly about them. + "It's the chaise! It's Father! + Perhaps he's brought us a book from Boston." + Twinkle, twinkle, the little criss-cross shoes + Up the garden path. + Blue—pink—an instant, against the syringa hedge. + But the hoops, white as stripped willow-wands, + Lie in the grass, + And the grasshoppers jump back and forth + Over them. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Battledore and Shuttlecock + + The shuttlecock soars upward + In a parabola of whiteness, + Turns, + And sinks to a perfect arc. + Plat! the battledore strikes it, + And it rises again, + Without haste, + Winged and curving, + Tracing its white flight + Against the clipped hemlock-trees. + Plat! + Up again, + Orange and sparkling with sun, + Rounding under the blue sky, + Dropping, + Fading to grey-green + In the shadow of the coned hemlocks. + "Ninety-one." "Ninety-two." "Ninety-three." + The arms of the little girls + Come up—and up— + Precisely, + Like mechanical toys. + The battledores beat at nothing, + And toss the dazzle of snow + Off their parchment drums. + "Ninety-four." Plat! + "Ninety-five." Plat! + Back and forth + Goes the shuttlecock, + Icicle-white, + Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds, + Overturning, + Falling, + Down, + And down, + Tinctured with pink + From the upthrusting shine + Of Oriental poppies. + + The little girls sway to the counting rhythm; + Left foot, + Right foot. + Plat! Plat! + Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores, + The parchment cracks with dryness; + But the shuttlecock + Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky, + Heaving up on the warm air + Like a foam-bubble on a wave, + With feathers slanted and sustaining. + Higher, + Until the earth turns beneath it; + Poised and swinging, + With all the garden flowing beneath it, + Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white— + Blurred colour reflections in rippled water— + Changing—streaming— + For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm. + Then the shuttlecock relinquishes, + Bows, + Descends; + And the sharp blue spears of the air + Thrust it to earth. + + Again it mounts, + Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers, + Buoyed up and under by the shining heat. + Above the foxgloves, + Above the guelder-roses, + Above the greenhouse glitter, + Till the shafts of cooler air + Meet it, + Deflect it, + Reject it, + Then down, + Down, + Past the greenhouse, + Past the guelder-rose bush, + Past the foxgloves. + + "Ninety-nine," Stella's battledore springs to the impact. + Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string. + "Oh! Minna!" + The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly, + Out of orbit, + Hits the path, + And rolls over quite still. + Dead white feathers, + With a weight at the end. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Garden Games + + The tall clock is striking twelve; + And the little girls stop in the hall to watch it, + And the big ships rocking in a half-circle + Above the dial. + Twelve o'clock! + Down the side steps + Go the little girls, + Under their big round straw hats. + Minna's has a pink ribbon, + Stella's a blue, + That is the way they know which is which. + Twelve o'clock! + An hour yet before dinner. + Mother is busy in the still-room, + And Hannah is making gingerbread. + + Slowly, with lagging steps, + They follow the garden-path, + Crushing a leaf of box for its acrid smell, + Discussing what they shall do, + And doing nothing. + + "Stella, see that grasshopper + Climbing up the bank! + What a jump! + Almost as long as my arm." + Run, children, run. + For the grasshopper is leaping away, + In half-circle curves, + Shuttlecock curves, + Over the grasses. + Hand in hand, the little girls call to him: + "Grandfather, grandfather gray, + Give me molasses, or I'll throw you away." + + The grasshopper leaps into the sunlight, + Golden-green, + And is gone. + + "Let's catch a bee." + Round whirl the little girls, + And up the garden. + Two heads are thrust among the Canterbury bells, + Listening, + And fingers clasp and unclasp behind backs + In a strain of silence. + + White bells, + Blue bells, + Hollow and reflexed. + Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness, + Cool wine-tunnels for bees. + There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head. + + "Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick!" + The wide mouth of a blossom + Is pressed together in Minna's fingers. + The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells, + And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand, + With the bee + Imprisoned in it. + Whirr! Buzz! Bump! + Bump! Whiz! Bang! + BANG!! + The blue flower tears across like paper, + And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. + + "If we could fly, we could catch him." + The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, + As she stares after the bee. + "We'll follow him in a dove chariot. + Come on, Stella." + Run, children, + Along the red gravel paths, + For a bee is hard to catch, + Even with a chariot of doves. + + Tall, still, and cowled, + Stand the monk's-hoods; + Taller than the heads of the little girls. + A blossom for Minna. + A blossom for Stella. + Off comes the cowl, + And there is a purple-painted chariot; + Off comes the forward petal, + And there are two little green doves, + With green traces tying them to the chariot. + "Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. + Fly, Doves, up in the sky, + With Minna and me, + After the bee." + + Up one path, + Down another, + Run the little girls, + Holding their dove chariots in front of them; + But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, + With his wings folded along his back. + + The dove chariots are thrown away, + And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, + Sucking the salvia tips, + And squeezing the snapdragons + To make them gape. + "I'm so hot, + Let's pick a pansy + And see the little man in his bath, + And play we're he." + A royal bath-tub, + Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. + The great purple-yellow wings + Rise up behind the little red and green man; + The purple-yellow wings fan him, + He dabbles his feet in cool green. + Off with the green sheath, + And there are two spindly legs. + "Heigho!" sighs Minna. + "Heigho!" sighs Stella. + There is not a flutter of wind, + And the sun is directly overhead. + + Along the edge of the garden + Walk the little girls. + Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, + Are dangling by the ribbons. + The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; + Buttercups and daisies streaming away + Up the hill. + The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; + The garden is hot with colours. + But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, + Cool, and long, and quiet. + The little girls pick buttercups + And hold them under each other's chins. + "You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. + You're going to be very rich, Minna." + "Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings + Just like Aunt Nancy's. + I wonder if he will. + I know. We'll tell fortunes. + That's what we'll do." + Plump down in the meadow grass, + Stella and Minna, + With their round yellow hats, + Like cheeses, + Beside them. + Drop, + Drop, + Daisy petals. + "One I love, + Two I love, + Three I love I say..." + The ground is peppered with daisy petals, + And the little girls nibble the golden centres, + And play it is cake. + + A bell rings. + Dinner-time; + And after dinner there are lessons. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 1777 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + The Trumpet-Vine Arbour + + The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, + And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight. + They bray and blare at the burning sky. + Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, + Trumpeted at the blue sky. + In long streaks of sound, molten metal, + The vine declares itself. + Clang!—from its red and yellow trumpets. + Clang!—from its long, nasal trumpets, + Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. + + I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight. + It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, + I only know that they are red and open, + And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat. + My quill is newly mended, + And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. + Down the long, white paper it makes little lines, + Just lines—up—down—criss-cross. + My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; + It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. + My hand marches to a squeaky tune, + It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. + My pen and the trumpet-flowers, + And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest. + "Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, + Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. + What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. + Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. + Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! + Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top + Through Father's spy-glass. + The red city, and the blue, bright water, + And puffs of smoke which you made. + Twenty miles away, + Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, + But the smoke was white—white! + To-day the trumpet-flowers are red—red— + And I cannot see you fighting, + But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, + And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. + The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, + And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The City of Falling Leaves + + Leaves fall, + Brown leaves, + Yellow leaves streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall again. + The brown leaves, + And the streaked yellow leaves, + Loosen on their branches + And drift slowly downwards. + One, + One, two, three, + One, two, five. + All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves— + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + "That sonnet, Abate, + Beautiful, + I am quite exhausted by it. + Your phrases turn about my heart + And stifle me to swooning. + Open the window, I beg. + Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! + 'Tis really a shame to stop indoors. + Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. + Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! + See how straight the leaves are falling. + Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, + It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. + Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'? + You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey? + Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?" + "Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'? + A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, + And Venus herself shines less..." + "You bore me, Abate, + I vow I must change you! + A letter, Achmet? + Run and look out of the window, Abate. + I will read my letter in peace." + The little black slave with the yellow satin turban + Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. + His yellow turban and black skin + Are gorgeous—barbaric. + The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings + Lies on a chair + Beside a black mantle and a black mask. + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous—barbaric. + The lady reads her letter, + And the leaves drift slowly + Past the long windows. + "How silly you look, my dear Abate, + With that great brown leaf in your wig. + Pluck it off, I beg you, + Or I shall die of laughing." + + A yellow wall + Aflare in the sunlight, + Chequered with shadows, + Shadows of vine leaves, + Shadows of masks. + Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, + Then passing on, + More masks always replacing them. + Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind + Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels, + The sunlight shining under their insteps. + One, + One, two, + One, two, three, + There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, + Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. + Yellow sunlight and black shadows, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous—barbaric. + Two masks stand together, + And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, + Marking the wall where they are not. + From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, + From elbow to sword-hilt, + The leaf falls. + The shadows mingle, + Blur together, + Slide along the wall and disappear. + Gold of mosaics and candles, + And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. + Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections. + A cloak brushes aside, + And the yellow of satin + Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement. + Under the gold crucifixes + There is a meeting of hands + Reaching from black mantles. + Sighing embraces, bold investigations, + Hide in confessionals, + Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. + Gorgeous—barbaric + In its mail of jewels and gold, + Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks; + And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, + Flutter, + Fall. + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + Blue-black, the sky over Venice, + With a pricking of yellow stars. + There is no moon, + And the waves push darkly against the prow + Of the gondola, + Coming from Malamocco + And streaming toward Venice. + It is black under the gondola hood, + But the yellow of a satin dress + Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. + Yellow compassed about with darkness, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous—barbaric. + The boatman sings, + It is Tasso that he sings; + The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, + And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. + But at Malamocco in front, + In Venice behind, + Fall the leaves, + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BRONZE TABLETS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fruit Shop + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, + High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; + A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown + She pluckered her little brows into + As she picked her dainty passage through + The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle, + A dirty pathway, we need rain, + My poor fruits suffer, and the shell + Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain + Here in the sun it has shrunk again. + The baker down at the corner says + We need a battle to shake the clouds; + But I am a man of peace, my ways + Don't look to the killing of men in crowds. + Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds! + Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun. + Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool + In here, for the green leaves I have run + In a curtain over the door, make a pool + Of shade. You see the pears on that stool— + The shadow keeps them plump and fair." + Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves + Held back the sun, a greenish flare + Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves + Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves, + Shot from the golden letters, broke + And splintered to little scattered lights. + Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke + Bonnet tilted itself to rights, + And her face looked out like the moon on nights + Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I + Want gooseberries, an apple or two, + Or excellent plums, but not if they're high; + Haven't you some which a strong wind blew? + I've only a couple of francs for you." + Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands. + What could he do, the times were sad. + A couple of francs and such demands! + And asking for fruits a little bad. + Wind-blown indeed! He never had + Anything else than the very best. + He pointed to baskets of blunted pears + With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest, + All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears. + Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears. + He took up a pear with tender care, + And pressed it with his hardened thumb. + "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there + Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come + Only from having a dish at home. + And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine, + Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey. + They're only this morning off the vine, + And I paid for them down in silver money. + The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony + Brought them in at sunrise to-day. + Those oranges—Gold! They're almost red. + They seem little chips just broken away + From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead + You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay, + When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray. + Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs, + They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships + Make it a little hard for our rigs. + They must be forever giving the slips + To the cursed English, and when men clips + Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts + A bit in price. Those almonds now, + I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts + A life or two in a nigger row + With the man who grew them, it does seem how + They would come dear; and then the fight + At sea perhaps, our boats have heels + And mostly they sail along at night, + But once in a way they're caught; one feels + Ivory's not better nor finer—why peels + From an almond kernel are worth two sous. + It's hard to sell them now," he sighed. + "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose. + There's plenty of cheaper things to choose." + He picked some currants out of a wide + Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue + Almost fly out to suck them, bride + Currants they are, they were planted long + Ago for some new Marquise, among + Other great beauties, before the Chateau + Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife, + He that marched off to his death at Marengo, + Sells them to me; she keeps her life + From snuffing out, with her pruning knife. + She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade + When her man was young, and the young Marquis + Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made + All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he + Was no friend to the people, and so they laid + Some charge against him, a cavalcade + Of citizens took him away; they meant + Well, but I think there was some mistake. + He just pottered round in his garden, bent + On growing things; we were so awake + In those days for the New Republic's sake. + He's gone, and the garden is all that's left + Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots, + And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft + Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots, + Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft + Or worm among them, and as for theft, + How the old woman keeps them I cannot say, + But they're finer than any grown this way." + Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring + Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down + And shook it, two coins fell with a ding + Of striking silver, beneath her gown + One rolled, the other lay, a thing + Sparked white and sharply glistening, + In a drop of sunlight between two shades. + She jerked the purse, took its empty ends + And crumpled them toward the centre braids. + The whole collapsed to a mass of blends + Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends + We have always been. In the days before + The Great Revolution my aunt was kind + When you needed help. You need no more; + 'Tis we now who must beg at your door, + And will you refuse?" The little man + Bustled, denied, his heart was good, + But times were hard. He went to a pan + And poured upon the counter a flood + Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood. + He took a melon with rough green rind + And rubbed it well with his apron tip. + Then he hunted over the shop to find + Some walnuts cracking at the lip, + And added to these a barberry slip + Whose acrid, oval berries hung + Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round + Basket, with handles, from where it swung + Against the wall, laid it on the ground + And filled it, then he searched and found + The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall. + "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?" + She smiled, "The next time that I call, + Monsieur. You know that very well." + 'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell. + Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed. + She took her basket and stepped out. + The sunlight was so bright it flashed + Her eyes to blindness, and the rout + Of the little street was all about. + Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed. + The heavy basket was a care. + She heard a shout and almost grazed + The panels of a chaise and pair. + The postboy yelled, and an amazed + Face from the carriage window gazed. + She jumped back just in time, her heart + Beating with fear. Through whirling light + The chaise departed, but her smart + Was keen and bitter. In the white + Dust of the street she saw a bright + Streak of colours, wet and gay, + Red like blood. Crushed but fair, + Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way. + Monsieur Popain joined her there. + "Tiens, Mademoiselle, + c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Malmaison + </h2> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, + beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, + over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships + of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky, over + the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river. A + breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison. Roses! + Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of + her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust, she smells dust, and + behind the wall are roses! Roses with smooth open petals, poised above + rippling leaves... Roses ... They have told her so. The Citoyenne + Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend + her pace if she would be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The + guillotine more likely. + </p> + <p> + The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles in the + sun. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people, and + scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, and your + children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come in a 'caleche' + and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates, you, Porter of + Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your master, the husband of + Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle and they are arrived, he and + she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for joy at her husband's return. + Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman here for two months? Fie! Fie, then! + Since when have you taken to gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I + suppose. That—all green, and red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as + ebony—that is a slave; a bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, + come from the hot countries to cure your tongue of idle whispering. + </p> + <p> + A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees. + </p> + <p> + "Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I pinned + to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her prophecy! + My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away, and + that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb—Imperial, but.. . My dear, + your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, no, Bonaparte, + not that—spare me that—did we not bury that last night! You + hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, Dear, no, thank + God, not long." + </p> + <p> + The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting dark. + Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely milkily + white. + </p> + <p> + The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for + roses? Smooth, open petals—her arms. Fragrant, outcurved petals—her + breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch the petals, + press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open roses! A little + shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the tiered clouds blow + across the sky like ships of the line, stately with canvas. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of the + avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer gallops up + with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his charger kicking. + 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and groups, like swirled + blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is changing, and the grenadiers off + duty lounge out of sight, ranging along the roads toward Paris. + </p> + <p> + The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely, the + great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now for the + sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and fountains, + blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique temples, vases + and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges of wood, arbours + and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new flowers, rare flowers, + parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the roses bloom at Malmaison. + It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing, trundling a country ahead of + it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, and spur janglings in tessellated + vestibules. Tripping of clocked and embroidered stockings in little + low-heeled shoes over smooth grass-plots. India muslins spangled with + silver patterns slide through trees—mingle—separate—white + day fireflies flashing moon-brilliance in the shade of foliage. + </p> + <p> + "The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos." + </p> + <p> + "As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley and + feeding the cockatoos." + </p> + <p> + "They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all + France." + </p> + <p> + "And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted when the + First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?" + </p> + <p> + Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the trees + the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line bright with + canvas. + </p> + <p> + Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping. The + First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. But he picks + himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, M. Le Premier + Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, my dear Sir! Stir + your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful as her mother. + She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly, warily, bearing + herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than running, never + far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests as something + indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose, smooth as satin, + reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. A rose that undulates + languorously as the breeze takes it, resting upon its leaves in a + faintness of perfume. + </p> + <p> + There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women, and + Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands on the wooden + bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing the pink and silver + water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its smoothness into pleats of + changing colour with his breast. Madame Bonaparte presses against the + parapet of the bridge, and the crushed roses at her belt melt, petal by + petal, into the pink water. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress will soon be + here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best not consider + that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce is not for you to + debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are muddy. The rain spears + are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart down and down, edged and + shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage grows out of the mist. Hist, + Porter. You can keep on your hat. It is only Her Majesty's dogs and her + parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It is Her + Majesty. At least, I suppose it is, but the blinds are drawn. + </p> + <p> + "In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the + gate without giving me a smile!" + </p> + <p> + You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head in the + pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think about. + </p> + <p> + Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming to + Malmaison to-night. + </p> + <p> + White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the + antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust. Ashes + of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth! + </p> + <p> + Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her a + clock ticks—ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought with the + echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, but the + minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come each + knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, and cold + pouring rain. + </p> + <p> + "I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that I am + no more." + </p> + <p> + Rain! Heavy, thudding rain! + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles, + geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. All the + year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, and + give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have been + brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France. There is + the 'Bonapartea' from Peru; the 'Napoleone Imperiale'; the 'Josephinia + Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the calix pricked out + with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as a lady wears her gems, + flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself to hide the hollow + within. + </p> + <p> + The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter reflections + to the sailing sun. + </p> + <p> + The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to console + herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, and then + patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won. Sport + truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her jewels, her + laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her fichus, her + veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd that she cannot be + happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her ingratitude. What could + he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never before. It is ridiculous. + Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure? Was ever monarch plagued with + so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes her chocolate-merchant, her + candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; her grocer, her butcher, her + poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper who sells her rouge; her + perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of shoes. She owes for fans, + plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes masons and carpenters, vintners, + lingeres. The lady's affairs are in sad confusion. + </p> + <p> + And why? Why? + </p> + <p> + Can a river flow when the spring is dry? + </p> + <p> + Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. The + clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old bit of + china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. She is soft, + crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing against + her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress crushes her + breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds sail over Malmaison + like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon. + </p> + <p> + Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of + soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial harnesses, + four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's arms on the + panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where else under the + Heavens could you see such splendour! + </p> + <p> + They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel of + Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale. The + house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire. We will + stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. She draws + him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. Her soft + transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her of debts, + of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she shall see + the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant. But she is + there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with violet, pungent + to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit room. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the looping + Seine. + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks and + ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they have + forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! It is the + rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at Malmaison. Roses! + Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath them. Fallen flowers + strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a fallen Emperor! The General + in charge of him draws back and watches. Snatches of music—snarling, + sneering music of bagpipes. They say a Scotch regiment is besieging + Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face, or is it his eyes. His tired eyes + which see nowhere the grace they long for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a + question, he does not answer, somebody else does that. There are voices, + but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears it all the time. + Josephine! The Emperor puts up his hand to screen his face. The white + light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden-trees. 'Vive + l'Empereur!' There are troops passing beyond the wall, troops which sing + and call. Boom! A pink rose is jarred off its stem and falls at the + Emperor's feet. + </p> + <p> + "Very well. I go." Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to clatter. + Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a click. + </p> + <p> + "Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses." + </p> + <p> + A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of dust. + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the + sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are + broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage + and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old recollections. + </p> + <p> + The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the + gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you touch + it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through a chink + in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky toward + the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Hammers + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 + + Bang! + Bang! + Tap! + Tap-a-tap! Rap! + All through the lead and silver Winter days, + All through the copper of Autumn hazes. + Tap to the red rising sun, + Tap to the purple setting sun. + Four years pass before the job is done. + Two thousand oak trees grown and felled, + Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald, + Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks + With huge boles + Round which the tape rolls + Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks. + Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir; + Planking from Dantzig. + My! What timber goes into a ship! + Tap! Tap! + Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways, + Tapping, tapping. + You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze. + Through the fog down the reaches of the river, + The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever. + The church-bells chime + Hours and hours, + Dropping days in showers. + Bang! Rap! Tap! + Go the hammers all the time. + They have planked up her timbers + And the nails are driven to the head; + They have decked her over, + And again, and again. + The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain. + Black and blue breeches, + Pigtails bound and shining: + Like ants crawling about, + The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out. + Joiners, calkers, + And they are all terrible talkers. + Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales + Of whales, and spice islands, + And pirates off the Barbary coast. + He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails. + Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice, + He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings: + "The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: + While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, + A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, + Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; + Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!" + Every Sunday + People come in crowds + (After church-time, of course) + In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, + And some have brought cold chicken and flagons + Of wine, + And beer in stoppered jugs. + "Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. + There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham." + + The third Summer's roses have started in to blow, + When the fine stern carving is begun. + Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls, + Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls. + Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place. + Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace. + The Three Town's people never saw such grace. + And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf! + Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief. + And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky + Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry. + Oh, my! Oh, my! + They have coppered up the bottom, + And the copper nails + Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails. + Bang! Clash! Bang! + "And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, + And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, + And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, + And swore there was nothing like grog." + It seems they sing, + Even though coppering is not an easy thing. + What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman, + Say the people of the Three Towns, + As they walk about the dockyard + To the sound of the evening church-bells. + And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour. + What immense taste and labour! + Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet, + Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it, + When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky; + Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky, + She explains. + Mr. Nichols says he is delighted + (He is the firm); + His work is all requited + If Miss Jessie can approve. + Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love". + The sides are yellow as marigold, + The port-lids are red when the ports are up: + Blood-red squares like an even chequer + Of yellow asters and portulaca. + There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline + And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine. + The inner bulwarks are painted red. + "Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note." + Mr. Nichols clears his throat, + And tells her the launching day is set. + He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet." + But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown + Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down. + "It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown. + + Tap! Tap! Rap! + An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind. + Three broad flags ripple out behind + Where the masts will be: + Royal Standard at the main, + Admiralty flag at the fore, + Union Jack at the mizzen. + The hammers tap harder, faster, + They must finish by noon. + The last nail is driven. + But the wind has increased to half a gale, + And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways. + The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming + In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs; + The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King"; + And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches. + The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers. + The wind hums over the ship, + And slips round the dog-shores, + Jostling them almost to falling. + There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands. + Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands. + He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below: + "Let her go!" + Bang! Bang! Pound! + The dog-shores fall to the ground, + And the ship slides down the greased planking. + A splintering of glass, + And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers. + "Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!" + And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Paris, March, 1814 + + Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor. + Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris. + Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters: + "Martin—Parfumeur", and something more. + A large gilded wooden something. + Listen! What a ringing of hammers! + Tap! + Tap! + Squeak! + Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap! + "Blaise." + "Oui, M'sieu." + "Don't touch the letters. My name stays." + "Bien, M'sieu." + "Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees." + "As M'sieu pleases." + Tap! Squeak! Tap! + The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two, + Then stops. + "He! Patron! + They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien! + What if I break them?" + "Break away, + You and Paul must have them down to-day." + "Bien." + And the hammers start again, + Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood. + Sunshine in a golden flood + Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses, + Glittering each window to a flash. + Squeak! Squeak! Tap! + The hammers beat and rap. + A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash. + From other shops, the noise of striking blows: + Pounds, thumps, and whacks; + Wooden sounds: splinters—cracks. + Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers. + "Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack + That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back + And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole. + I've just been taking a stroll. + The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees. + I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils. + Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills + Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go + Out of business if you lived in Russia. So! + We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we? + Blaise, + Be careful of the hen, + Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days. + That eagle's rather well cut, Martin. + But I'm sick of smelling Cossack, + Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack + Of orris-root and musk." + Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk + Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass, + Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass + Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold. + Gold and glass, + And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass. + The perfumer sits down and shakes his head: + "Always the same, Monsieur Antoine, + You artists are wonderful folk indeed." + But Antoine Vernet does not heed. + He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls, + Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls. + "What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique.' + I must say, mon cher, your names are chic. + But it won't do, positively it will not do. + Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another: + 'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother + Regrets. A little lubricant, too, + Might be useful. I have it, + 'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit + This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale." + "Monsieur Antoine, don't rail + At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly." + "And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely." + "Heaven forbid!" Bang! Whack! + Squeak! Squeak! Crack! + CRASH! + "Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash. + The whole street is covered with golden bees. + They look like so many yellow peas, + Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it. + 'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it + Might take with the Kings. Shall I try?" "Oh, Sir, + You distress me, you do." "Poor old Martin's purr! + But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know. + Now let us get back to the powders and patches. + Foolish man, + The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan + To change all these titles as fast as we can. + 'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink— + 'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think? + Not the same receipt? + Now, Martin, put away your conceit. + Who will ever know? + 'Extract of Nobility'—excellent, since most of them are killed." + "But, Monsieur Antoine—" + "You are self-willed, + Martin. You need a salve + For your conscience, do you? + Very well, we'll halve + The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices; + Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses. + 'Oil of Bitter Almonds'—the Empress Josephine can have that. + 'Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat." + Rap! Rap! Bang! + "What a hideous clatter! + Blaise seems determined to batter + That poor old turkey into bits, + And pound to jelly my excellent wits. + Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk. + 'The night cometh soon'—etc. Don't jerk + Me up like that. 'Essence de la Valliere'— + That has a charmingly Bourbon air. + And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this!— + 'Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amiss + With that—England, Austria, Russia and Prussia! + Martin, you're a wonder, + Upheavals of continents can't keep you under." + "Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed + At such levity. What France has gone through—" + "Very true, Martin, very true, + But never forget that a man must feed." + Pound! Pound! Thump! + Pound! + "Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground." + Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well, what then?—" + Antoine, with a laugh: "I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen." + The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous, + And the lilies go up. + A man must choose! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Paris, April, 1814 + + Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate, + Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate, + Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! Rap! Chink! + What falls to the ground like a streak of flame? + Hush! It is only a bit of bronze flashing in the sun. + What are all those soldiers? Those are not the uniforms of France. + Alas! No! The uniforms of France, Great Imperial France, are done. + They will rot away in chests and hang to dusty tatters in barn lofts. + These are other armies. And their name? + Hush, be still for shame; + Be still and imperturbable like the marble arch. + Another bright spark falls through the blue air. + Over the Place du Carrousel a wailing of despair. + Crowd your horses back upon the people, Uhlans and Hungarian Lancers, + They see too much. + Unfortunately, Gentlemen of the Invading Armies, what they do not see, + they hear. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! + Another sharp spear + Of brightness, + And a ringing of quick metal lightness + On hard stones. + Workmen are chipping off the names of Napoleon's victories + From the triumphal arch of the Place du Carrousel. + + Do they need so much force to quell the crowd? + An old Grenadier of the line groans aloud, + And each hammer tap points the sob of a woman. + Russia, Prussia, Austria, and the faded-white-lily Bourbon king + Think it well + To guard against tumult, + A mob is an undependable thing. + Ding! Ding! + Vienna is scattered all over the Place du Carrousel + In glittering, bent, and twisted letters. + Your betters have clattered over Vienna before, + Officer of his Imperial Majesty our Father-in-Law! + Tink! Tink! + A workman's chisel can strew you to the winds, + Munich. + Do they think + To pleasure Paris, used to the fall of cities, + By giving her a fall of letters! + + It is a month too late. + One month, and our lily-white Bourbon king + Has done a colossal thing; + He has curdled love, + And soured the desires of a people. + Still the letters fall, + The workmen creep up and down their ladders like lizards on a wall. + Tap! Tap! Tink! + Clink! Clink! + "Oh, merciful God, they will not touch Austerlitz! + Strike me blind, my God, my eyes can never look on that. + I would give the other leg to save it, it took one. + Curse them! Curse them! Aim at his hat. + Give me the stone. Why didn't you give it to me? + I would not have missed. Curse him! + Curse all of them! They have got the 'A'!" + Ding! Ding! + "I saw the Terror, but I never saw so horrible a thing as this. + 'Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'" + "Don't strike him, Fritz. + The mob will rise if you do. + Just run him out to the 'quai', + That will get him out of the way. + They are almost through." + Clink! Tink! Ding! + Clear as the sudden ring + Of a bell + "Z" strikes the pavement. + Farewell, Austerlitz, Tilsit, Presbourg; + Farewell, greatness departed. + Farewell, Imperial honours, knocked broadcast by the beating hammers + of ignorant workmen. + Straight, in the Spring moonlight, + Rises the deflowered arch. + In the silence, shining bright, + She stands naked and unsubdued. + Her marble coldness will endure the march + Of decades. + Rend her bronzes, hammers; + Cast down her inscriptions. + She is unconquerable, austere, + Cold as the moon that swims above her + When the nights are clear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Croissy, Ile-de-France, June, 1815 + + "Whoa! Victorine. + Devil take the mare! I've never seen so vicious a beast. + She kicked Jules the last time she was here, + He's been lame ever since, poor chap." + Rap! Tap! + Tap-a-tap-a-tap! Tap! Tap! + "I'd rather be lame than dead at Waterloo, M'sieu Charles." + "Sacre Bleu! Don't mention Waterloo, and the damned grinning British. + We didn't run in the old days. + There wasn't any running at Jena. + Those were decent days, + And decent men, who stood up and fought. + We never got beaten, because we wouldn't be. + See!" + "You would have taught them, wouldn't you, Sergeant Boignet? + But to-day it's everyone for himself, + And the Emperor isn't what he was." + "How the Devil do you know that? + If he was beaten, the cause + Is the green geese in his army, led by traitors. + Oh, I say no names, Monsieur Charles, + You needn't hammer so loud. + If there are any spies lurking behind the bellows, + I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!" + The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot poker + And advances, brandishing it, into the shadows. + The rows of horses flick + Placid tails. + Victorine gives a savage kick + As the nails + Go in. Tap! Tap! + Jules draws a horseshoe from the fire + And beats it from red to peacock-blue and black, + Purpling darker at each whack. + Ding! Dang! Dong! + Ding-a-ding-dong! + It is a long time since any one spoke. + Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes, + "Well," he sighs, + "He's broke." + The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows. + "It's the green geese, I tell you, + Their hearts are all whites and yellows, + There's no red in them. Red! + That's what we want. Fouche should be fed + To the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole. + That would breed jolly fine lick-bloods + To lead his armies to victory." + "Ancient history, Sergeant. + He's done." + "Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and I'll stun + You where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist." + The Sergeant gives the poker a savage twist; + He is as purple as the cooling horseshoes. + The air from the bellows creaks through the flues. + Tap! Tap! The blacksmith shoes Victorine, + And through the doorway a fine sheen + Of leaves flutters, with the sun between. + By a spurt of fire from the forge + You can see the Sergeant, with swollen gorge, + Puffing, and gurgling, and choking; + The bellows keep on croaking. + They wheeze, + And sneeze, + Creak! Bang! Squeeze! + And the hammer strokes fall like buzzing bees + Or pattering rain, + Or faster than these, + Like the hum of a waterfall struck by a breeze. + Clank! from the bellows-chain pulled up and down. + Clank! + And sunshine twinkles on Victorine's flank, + Starting it to blue, + Dropping it to black. + Clack! Clack! + Tap-a-tap! Tap! + Lord! What galloping! Some mishap + Is making that man ride so furiously. + "Francois, you! + Victorine won't be through + For another quarter of an hour." "As you hope to die, + Work faster, man, the order has come." + "What order? Speak out. Are you dumb?" + "A chaise, without arms on the panels, at the gate + In the far side-wall, and just to wait. + We must be there in half an hour with swift cattle. + You're a stupid fool if you don't hear that rattle. + Those are German guns. Can't you guess the rest? + Nantes, Rochefort, possibly Brest." + Tap! Tap! as though the hammers were mad. + Dang! Ding! Creak! The farrier's lad + Jerks the bellows till he cracks their bones, + And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans. + The Sergeant is lying on the floor + Stone dead, and his hat with the tricolore + Cockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays back + her ears. + What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + St. Helena, May, 1821 + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Through the white tropic night. + Tap! Tap! + Beat the hammers, + Unwearied, indefatigable. + They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead. + Lustreless black cloth + Which chokes the radiance of the moonlight + And puts out the little moving shadows of leaves. + Tap! Tap! + The knocking makes the candles quaver, + And the long black hangings waver + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Tap! Tap! + In the ears which do not heed. + Tap! Tap! + Above the eyelids which do not flicker. + Tap! Tap! + Over the hands which do not stir. + Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings, + Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight, + A face! + Sharp as a frozen flame, + Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver, + And still. Perfectly still. + In the next room, the men chatter + As they eat their midnight lunches. + A knife hits against a platter. + But the figure on the bed + Between the stifling black hangings + Is cold and motionless, + Played over by the moonlight from the windows + And the indistinct shadows of leaves. + + Tap! Tap! + Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown. + Tap! Tap! + Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shop + in Jamestown. + He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing, + Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring, + Working from a chart with figures, + Comparing with their rules, + Setting this and that part together with their tools. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Haste indeed! + So great is the need + That carpenters have been taken from the new church, + Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecterns + To work of greater urgency. + Coffins! + Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning. + Coffins—and all to measurement. + There is a tin coffin, + A deal coffin, + A lead coffin, + And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-table + Has been sawed up for the grand outer coffin. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Sunshine outside in the square, + But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them. + The men whistle, + And the coffins grow under their hammers + In the darkness of the shop. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + + Tramp of men. + Steady tramp of men. + Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails + Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders + March slowly along the road to Longwood. + Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road; + Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders. + Four coffins for the little dead man, + Four fine coffins, + And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table! + And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able + And of assured neutrality. + Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co. + Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow. + Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England! + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Marble likeness of an Emperor, + Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow, + The hammers drum you to your last throne + Which always you shall hold alone. + Tap! Tap! + The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire, + Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyre + In a twilit room. + Here is the emptiness of your dream + Scattered about you. + Coins of yesterday, + Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor, + Strange as those of Herculaneum— + And you just dead! + Not one spool of thread + Will these buy in any market-place. + Lay them over him, + They are the baubles of a crown of mist + Worn in a vision and melted away at waking. + Tap! Tap! + His heart strained at kingdoms + And now it is content with a silver dish. + Strange World! Strange Wayfarer! + Strange Destiny! + Lower it gently beside him and let it lie. + Tap! Tap! Tap! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Reign of Louis Philippe +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A great tall column spearing at the sky + With a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why? + He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high. + + What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play, + Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away, + High-crowned hat which the brims overlay. + + Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow. + Must have a sword, I can see the light glow + Between a dark line and his leg. Vertigo + + I get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun. + A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one? + As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne. + + Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn? + Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn, + A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn? + + But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress? + I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess. + Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes— + + I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all. + I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall. + Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small. + + What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there, + With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declare + Those spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair. + + A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feel + As though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel, + Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel. + + Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's, + Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns. + Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns. + + How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies. + That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies. + Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WAR PICTURES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Allies + </h2> + <h3> + August 14th, 1914 + </h3> + <p> + Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging cry + of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the head of + the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching men. Men + weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. The cry + jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky. + </p> + <p> + This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a + cause? + </p> + <p> + Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle is + red and its head is flame. + </p> + <p> + In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher. + </p> + <p> + His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at + the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, and + their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, "God + damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new shoots." + </p> + <p> + His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in the + shoulder of the worm. + </p> + <p> + A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet. + </p> + <p> + He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. He + will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. The + sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and + rippling. They cool his heart. + </p> + <p> + He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity, and + loveliness printed on white paper. + </p> + <p> + The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills. + </p> + <p> + He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck + away his men. + </p> + <p> + But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying + stars, and there are no more wars. + </p> + <p> + Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers—men, sway and + sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure + roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the eagle + and his scorching sword. + </p> + <p> + One! Two!—One! Two!—clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles + against the sky. + </p> + <p> + Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it + lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the eagle. + The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the battle, + stubbornly. + </p> + <p> + This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: + PEACE! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bombardment + </h2> + <p> + Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on + the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and + trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a + gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral + square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about + in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After + it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of + the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! + </p> + <p> + The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. + The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in + the bohemian glasses on the 'etagere'. Her hands are restless, but the + white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to + torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the + 'etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crimson + gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin + bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: + "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian + glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it—" + Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and + breaks. Boom! + </p> + <p> + It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut + within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his + pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams + of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at + the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see + copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a + cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, + iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The + flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long + broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And + there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. + Again, Boom!—Boom!—Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. + He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are + shelling the city! Boom! Boom! + </p> + <p> + A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the + bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am + here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." Boom! + "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so + afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. + Boom! + </p> + <p> + Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing + across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded + by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is his + story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases + like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from + people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see the rocking + steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears + apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, + zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts + like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, + and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the + rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night. + </p> + <p> + Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. + Boom! The bohemian glass on the 'etagere' is no longer there. Boom! A + stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot + walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom!—Boom!—Boom! + </p> + <p> + The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of + silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The + city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the + flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on + the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and + chuckles along the floors. + </p> + <p> + The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering + at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams. + </p> + <p> + The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning + Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and + crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and + without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes + down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the + gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lead Soldiers + </h2> + <p> + The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions + and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets + peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a + night of victorious wars. + </p> + <p> + The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, + slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into + the air and nods—forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a + crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green + eyes stare into the air, and he nods—nods. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tommy's soldiers march to battle, + Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle. + Bayonets flash, and sabres glance— + How the horses snort and prance! + Cannon drawn up in a line + Glitter in the dizzy shine + Of the morning sunlight. Flags + Ripple colours in great jags. + Red blows out, then blue, then green, + Then all three—a weaving sheen + Of prismed patriotism. March + Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch, + Boldly stepping to the rattle + Of the drums, they go to battle. +</pre> + <p> + Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts + his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their + instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers, + and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from + the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The song + jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet. Tommy + wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a squad of + cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool. + </p> + <p> + The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods—nods. The fire + makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold song + Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle. + </p> + <p> + Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tommy's army's off to war— + Not a soldier knows what for. + But he knows about his rifle, + How to shoot it, and a trifle + Of the proper thing to do + When it's he who is shot through. + Like a cleverly trained flea, + He can follow instantly + Orders, and some quick commands + Really make severe demands + On a mind that's none too rapid, + Leaden brains tend to the vapid. + But how beautifully dressed + Is this army! How impressed + Tommy is when at his heel + All his baggage wagons wheel + About the patterned carpet, and + Moving up his heavy guns + He sees them glow with diamond suns + Flashing all along each barrel. + And the gold and blue apparel + Of his gunners is a joy. + Tommy is a lucky boy. + Boom! Boom! Ta-ra! +</pre> + <p> + The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand + shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and + shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles. + </p> + <p> + Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must pass + the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the + wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading + the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has + flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie + overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks + glistening to the fire's shine. + </p> + <p> + The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its + sparkles. + </p> + <p> + The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and + steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the + hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song jeers + at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still + upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers + all bright and new? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tommy's leaden soldiers we, + Glittering with efficiency. + Not a button's out of place, + Tons and tons of golden lace + Wind about our officers. + Every manly bosom stirs + At the thought of killing—killing! + Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling. + We are gaudy, savage, strong, + And our loins so ripe we long + First to kill, then procreate, + Doubling so the laws of Fate. + On their women we have sworn + To graft our sons. And overborne + They'll rear us younger soldiers, so + Shall our race endure and grow, + Waxing greater in the wombs + Borrowed of them, while damp tombs + Rot their men. O Glorious War! + Goad us with your points, Great Star! +</pre> + <p> + The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and back—forward + and back—and the red rose writhes and wriggles, thrusting its + flaming petals under and over one another like tortured snakes. + </p> + <p> + The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old man + nods. + </p> + <p> + Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new, + gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud and + happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the door + to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees to one + battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his soldiers + and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky boy to have + such fine lead soldiers to enjoy. + </p> + <p> + Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the pitcher. + He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The pitcher falls, + and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It slips + between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is not water which + oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark from the + firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers, + licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at the + little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted uniforms. + </p> + <p> + The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose is + broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers under his + purple umbrella, and nods—forward and back, staring into the air + with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a rosebud pushes + between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground with a + splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and grows, with each + dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from the wash-stand. The + beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly forward, but the little green + platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood. + </p> + <p> + The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the + chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Painter on Silk + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a man + Who made his living + By painting roses + Upon silk. + + He sat in an upper chamber + And painted, + And the noises of the street + Meant nothing to him. + + When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, + He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses + Bursting in the sunshine, + And smiled as he worked. + + He thought only of roses, + And silk. + When he could get no more silk + He stopped painting + And only thought + Of roses. + + The day the conquerors + Entered the city, + The old man + Lay dying. + He heard the bugles and drums, + And wished he could paint the roses + Bursting into sound. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Ballad of Footmen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now what in the name of the sun and the stars + Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars? + + Do men find life so full of humour and joy + That for want of excitement they smash up the toy? + + Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses + All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" + + Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears, + And nine nations of women choking with tears. + + It is folly to think that the will of a king + Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing + + They value, and life is, at least one supposes, + Of some little interest, even if roses + + Have not grown up between one foot and the other. + What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smother + + Such quite elementary feelings, and tag + A man with a number, and set him to wag + + His legs and his arms at the word of command + Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned, + + Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace + And an upturned moustache can set him to face + + Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, + Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases. + + If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, + With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day," + + Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? + A king and his minions are really so few. + + Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! + But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or + + The dire results which could not be inflicted. + With no one to execute sentence, convicted + + Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. + What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows! + + To be killing each other, unmercifully, + At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea." + + Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws + They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws + + So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking + More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking. + + I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows, + And, as to men—what are men, when their marrows + + Are running with blood they have gulped; it is plain + Such excellent sport does not recollect pain. + + Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mast + The flags which meant order, for order is past. + + Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head, + The civilization we've worked for is dead. + + Squeeze into this archway, the head of the line + Has just swung round the corner to 'Die Wacht am Rhein'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OVERGROWN PASTURE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Reaping + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer? + My! ain't men blinder'n moles? + It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that. + Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed + Me changin' under your very nose, + Each day a little diff'rent. + But you never see nothin', you don't. + Don't touch me, Jake, + Don't you dars't to touch me, + I ain't in no humour. + That's what's come over me; + Jest a change clear through. + You lay still, an' I'll tell yer, + I've had it on my mind to tell yer + Fer some time. + It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night, + An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now. + An' don't make any mistake about one thing, + When I married yer I loved yer. + Why, your voice 'ud make + Me go hot and cold all over, + An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'. + Lord! I was a silly fool. + But that's the way 'twas. + Well, I married yer + An' thought Heav'n was comin' + To set on the door-step. + Heav'n didn't do no settin', + Though the first year warn't so bad. + The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess, + An' then I took her death real hard, + An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man. + I ain't blamin' yer exactly. + But that's how 'twas. + Do lay quiet, + I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought. + There come a time when I got to be + More wife agin than mother. + The mother part was sort of a waste + When we didn't have no other child. + But you'd got used ter lots o' things, + An' you was all took up with the farm. + Many's the time I've laid awake + Watchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree, + Out o' sight. + I'd foller yer around like a dog, + An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in, + Jest to feel its arms around me, + So long's I didn't have yours. + It preyed on me, I guess, + Longin' and longin' + While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night. + Yes, I know you're wide awake now, + But now ain't then, + An' I guess you'll think diff'rent + When I'm done. + Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock? + I didn't want to stay home for reasons, + But you said someone 'd have to be here + 'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone. + An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer, + Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes, + Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'. + But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin', + An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter! + 'Twas a lovely mornin'. + The apple-trees was jest elegant + With their blossoms all flared out, + An' there warn't a cloud in the sky. + You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said, + An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile, + The air was so still. + Then Elmer come. + It's no use your frettin', Jake, + I'll tell you all about it. + I know what I'm doin', + An' what's worse, I know what I done. + Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits, + An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go, + An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either, + I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer, + An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin' + An' gittin' no comfort. + I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things. + He stayed to dinner, + An' he helped me do the dishes, + An' he said a home was a fine thing, + An' I said dishes warn't a home + Nor yet the room they're in. + He said a lot o' things, + An' I fended him off at first, + But he got talkin' all around me, + Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin', + What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake, + You know. + He got all he wanted, + An' I give it to him, + An' what's more, I'm glad! + I ain't dead, anyway, + An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'. + Keep away, Jake, + You can kill me to-morrer if you want to, + But I'm goin' to have my say. + Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man. + Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months. + I don't want to pretend nothin', + Mebbe if he'd be'n lately + I shouldn't have told yer. + I'll go away in the mornin', o' course. + What you want the light fer? + I don't look no diff'rent. + Ain't the moon bright enough + To look at a woman that's deceived yer by? + Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now! + It ain't a question of forgiveness. + Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute; + It ain't decent. + Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Off the Turnpike + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest. + I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye. + Yes, it's all over. + All my things is packed + An' every last one o' them boxes + Is on Bradley's team + Bein' hauled over to th' depot. + No, I ain't goin' back agin. + I'm stoppin' over to French's fer to-night, + And goin' down first train in th' mornin'. + Yes, it do seem kinder queer + Not to be goin' to see Cherry's Orchard no more, + But Land Sakes! When a change's comin', + Why, I al'ays say it can't come too quick. + Now, that's real kind o' you, + Your doughnuts is always so tasty. + Yes, I'm goin' to Chicago, + To my niece, + She's married to a fine man, hardware business, + An' doin' real well, she tells me. + Lizzie's be'n at me to go out ther for the longest while. + She ain't got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you know + She's rented me a real nice little flat, + Same house as hers, + An' I'm goin' to try that city livin' folks say's so pleasant. + Oh, yes, he was real generous, + Paid me a sight o' money fer the Orchard; + I told him 'twouldn't yield nothin' but stones, + But he ain't farmin' it. + Lor', no, Mis' Priest, + He's jest took it to set and look at the view. + Mebbe he wouldn't be so stuck on the view + Ef he'd seed it every mornin' and night for forty year + Same's as I have. + I dessay it's pretty enough, + But it's so pressed into me + I c'n see't with my eyes shut. + No. I ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + Don't shut th' door. + I'll be all right in a minit. + But I ain't a mite sorry to leave that view. + Well, mebbe 'tis queer to feel so, + An' mebbe 'taint. + My! But that tea's revivin'. + Old things ain't always pleasant things, Mis' Priest. + No, no, I don't cal'late on comin' back, + That's why I'd ruther be to Chicago, + Boston's too near. + It ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + It's jest my thoughts. + I ain't sick, only— + Mis' Priest, ef you've nothin' ter take yer time, + An' have a mind to listen, + Ther's somethin' I'd like ter speak about + I ain't never mentioned it, + But I'd like to tell yer 'fore I go. + Would you mind lowerin' them shades, + Fall twilight's awful grey, + An' that fire's real cosy with the shades drawed. + Well, I guess folks about here think I've be'n dret'ful onsociable. + You needn't say 'taint so, 'cause I know diff'rent. + An' what's more, it's true. + Well, the reason is I've be'n scared out o' my life. + Scared ev'ry minit o' th' time, fer eight year. + Eight mortal year 'tis, come next June. + 'Twas on the eighteenth o' June, + Six months after I'd buried my husband, + That somethin' happened ter me. + Mebbe you'll mind that afore that + I was a cheery body. + Hiram was too, + Al'ays liked to ask a neighbor in, + An' ev'n when he died, + Barrin' low sperrits, I warn't averse to seein' nobody. + But that eighteenth o' June changed ev'rythin'. + I was doin' most o' th' farmwork myself, + With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, 'twas, + Comin' in fer an hour or two. + Well, that eighteenth o' June + I was goin' round, + Lockin' up and seein' to things 'fore I went to bed. + I was jest steppin' out t' th' barn, + Goin' round outside 'stead o' through the shed, + 'Cause there was such a sight o' moonlight + Somehow or another I thought 'twould be pretty outdoors. + I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess. + I ain't stuck on 'em no more. + Well, them laylock bushes side o' th' house + Was real lovely. + Glitt'rin' and shakin' in the moonlight, + An' the smell o' them rose right up + An' most took my breath away. + The colour o' the spikes was all faded out, + They never keep their colour when the moon's on 'em, + But the smell fair 'toxicated me. + I was al'ays partial to a sweet scent, + An' I went close up t' th' bushes + So's to put my face right into a flower. + Mis' Priest, jest's I got breathin' in that laylock bloom + I saw, layin' right at my feet, + A man's hand! + It was as white's the side o' th' house, + And sparklin' like that lum'nous paint they put on gate-posts. + I screamed right out, + I couldn't help it, + An' I could hear my scream + Goin' over an' over + In that echo be'ind th' barn. + Hearin' it agin an' agin like that + Scared me so, I dar'sn't scream any more. + I jest stood ther, + And looked at that hand. + I thought the echo'd begin to hammer like my heart, + But it didn't. + There was only th' wind, + Sighin' through the laylock leaves, + An' slappin' 'em up agin the house. + Well, I guess I looked at that hand + Most ten minits, + An' it never moved, + Jest lay there white as white. + After a while I got to thinkin' that o' course + 'Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield. + That calmed me some, + An' I commenced to think I'd better git him out + From under them laylocks. + I planned to drag him in t' th' barn + An' lock him in ther till Clarence come in th' mornin'. + I got so mad thinkin' o' that all-fired brazen tramp + Asleep in my laylocks, + I jest stooped down and grabbed th' hand and give it an awful pull. + Then I bumped right down settin' on the ground. + Mis' Priest, ther warn't no body come with the hand. + No, it ain't cold, it's jest that I can't abear thinkin' of it, + Ev'n now. + I'll take a sip o' tea. + Thank you, Mis' Priest, that's better. + I'd ruther finish now I've begun. + Thank you, jest the same. + I dropped the hand's ef it'd be'n red hot + 'Stead o' ice cold. + Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grass + Pantin'. + Then I up and run to them laylocks + An' pulled 'em every which way. + True es I'm settin' here, Mis' Priest, + Ther warn't nothin' ther. + I peeked an' pryed all about 'em, + But ther warn't no man ther + Neither livin' nor dead. + But the hand was ther all right, + Upside down, the way I'd dropped it, + And glist'nin' fit to dazzle yer. + I don't know how I done it, + An' I don't know why I done it, + But I wanted to git that dret'ful hand out o' sight + I got in t' th' barn, somehow, + An' felt roun' till I got a spade. + I couldn't stop fer a lantern, + Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience. + Then I scooped that awful thing up in th' spade. + I had a sight o' trouble doin' it. + It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn't bear + Ev'n to touch it with my foot to prop it, + But I done it somehow. + Then I carried it off be'ind the barn, + Clost to an old apple-tree + Where you couldn't see from the house, + An' I buried it, + Good an' deep. + + I don't rec'lect nothin' more o' that night. + Clarence woke me up in th' mornin', + Hollerin' fer me to come down and set th' milk. + When he'd gone, + I stole roun' to the apple-tree + And seed the earth all new turned + Where I left it in my hurry. + I did a heap o' gardenin' + That mornin'. + I couldn't cut no big sods + Fear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted 'em fer, + So I got teeny bits o' turf here and ther, + And no one couldn't tell ther'd be'n any diggin' + When I got through. + They was awful days after that, Mis' Priest, + I used ter go every mornin' and poke about them bushes, + An' up and down the fence, + Ter find the body that hand come off of. + But I couldn't never find nothin'. + I'd lay awake nights + Hearin' them laylocks blowin' and whiskin'. + At last I had Clarence cut 'em down + An' make a big bonfire of 'em. + I told him the smell made me sick, + An' that warn't no lie, + I can't abear the smell on 'em now; + An' no wonder, es you say. + I fretted somethin' awful 'bout that hand + I wondered, could it be Hiram's, + But folks don't rob graveyards hereabouts. + Besides, Hiram's hands warn't that awful, starin' white. + I give up seein' people, + I was afeared I'd say somethin'. + You know what folks thought o' me + Better'n I do, I dessay, + But mebbe now you'll see I couldn't do nothin' diff'rent. + But I stuck it out, + I warn't goin' to be downed + By no loose hand, no matter how it come ther + But that ain't the worst, Mis' Priest, + Not by a long ways. + Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry's Orchard. + Well, I'd got used to th' thought o' bein' sort o' blighted, + An' I warn't scared no more. + Lived down my fear, I guess. + I'd kinder got used to th' thought o' that awful night, + And I didn't mope much about it. + Only I never went out o' doors by moonlight; + That stuck. + Well, when Mr. Densmore's offer come, + I started thinkin' 'bout the place + An' all the things that had gone on ther. + Thinks I, I guess I'll go and see where I put the hand. + I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by. + I know'd the place real well, + Fer I'd put it right in between two o' the apple roots. + I don't know what possessed me, Mis' Priest, + But I kinder wanted to know + That the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway. + It had sorter bothered me, thinkin' I might ha' imagined it. + I took a mornin' when the sun was real pleasant and warm; + I guessed I wouldn't jump for a few old bones. + But I did jump, somethin' wicked. + Ther warn't no bones! + Ther warn't nothin'! + Not ev'n the gold ring I'd minded bein' on the little finger. + I don't know ef ther ever was anythin'. + I've worried myself sick over it. + I be'n diggin' and diggin' day in and day out + Till Clarence ketched me at it. + Oh, I know'd real well what you all thought, + An' I ain't sayin' you're not right, + But I ain't goin' to end in no county 'sylum + If I c'n help it. + The shiv'rin' fits come on me sudden like. + I know 'em, don't you trouble. + I've fretted considerable about the 'sylum, + I guess I be'n frettin' all the time I ain't be'n diggin'. + But anyhow I can't dig to Chicago, can I? + Thank you, Mis' Priest, + I'm better now. I only dropped in in passin'. + I'll jest be steppin' along down to French's. + No, I won't be seein' nobody in the mornin', + It's a pretty early start. + Don't you stand ther, Mis' Priest, + The wind'll blow yer lamp out, + An' I c'n see easy, I got aholt o' the gate now. + I ain't a mite tired, thank you. + Good-night. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Grocery + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Hullo, Alice!" + "Hullo, Leon!" + "Say, Alice, gi' me a couple + O' them two for five cigars, + Will yer?" + "Where's your nickel?" + "My! Ain't you close! + Can't trust a feller, can yer." + "Trust you! Why + What you owe this store + Would set you up in business. + I can't think why Father 'lows it." + "Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly + Than you be. That's a fact. + Besides, he knows I got a vote." + "A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote! + A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father + When all his bank account + Has run away in credits. + There's your cigars, + If you can relish smokin' + With all you owe us standin'." + "I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent. + You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't. + I work when anythin's doin'. + I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure. + Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring." + "Come Spring, and this December! + I've no patience with you, Leon, + Shilly-shallyin' the way you do. + Here, lift over them crates o' oranges + I wanter fix 'em in the winder." + "It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work. + You pepper up about it somethin' good. + You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite. + Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder. + Th' oranges c'n wait, + An' I don't like talkin' to yer back." + "Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what you can git. + Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon. + They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em, + Don't they? + Now hand me them bananas + An' I'll string 'em right acrost." + "What do yer mean + 'Bout me not havin' you to talk to? + Are yer springin' somethin' on me?" + "I don't know 'bout springin' + When I'm tellin' you right out. + I'm goin' away, that's all." + "Where? Why? + What yer mean—goin' away?" + "I've took a place + Down to Boston, in a candy store + For the holidays." + "Good Land, Alice, + What in the Heavens fer!" + "To earn some money, + And to git away from here, I guess." + "Ain't yer Father got enough? + Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?" + "He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him." + "He's rich I tell yer. + I never figured he'd be close with you." + "Oh, he ain't. Not close. + That ain't why. + But I must git away from here. + I must! I must!" + "You got a lot o' reason in yer + To-night. + How long d' you cal'late + You'll be gone?" + "Maybe for always." + "What ails yer, Alice? + Talkin' wild like that. + Ain't you an' me goin' to be married + Some day." + "Some day! Some day! + I guess the sun'll never rise on some day." + "So that's the trouble. + Same old story. + 'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now. + You know I love yer, + An' I'll marry yer as soon + As I c'n raise the money." + "You've said that any time these five year, + But you don't do nothin'." + "Wot could I do? + Ther ain't no work here Winters. + Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't." + "I guess you warn't born a carpenter. + Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty." + "I got a dret'ful tender throat; + Dr. Smiles he told me + I mustn't resk ice-cuttin'." + "Why haven't you gone to Boston, + And hunted up a job?" + "Have yer forgot the time I went expressin' + In the American office, down ther?" + "And come back two weeks later! + No, I ain't." + "You didn't want I should git hurted, + Did yer? + I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work. + My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas. + Ef I was like yer brother now, + I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago. + But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer. + I ain't got Arthur's luck." + "Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks, + And git locked up in jail!" + "Oh, come now, Alice, + 'Disgrace' is a mite strong. + Why, the jail was a joke. + Art's all right." + "All right! + All right to dance, and smirk, and lie + For a livin', + And then in the end + Lead a silly girl to give you + What warn't hers to give + By pretendin' you'd marry her— + And she a pupil." + "He'd ha' married her right enough, + Her folks was millionaires." + "Yes, he'd ha' married her! + Thank God, they saved her that." + "Art's a fine feller. + I wish I had his luck. + Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits, + And eatin' in rest'rants. + But somebody's got to stick to the old place, + Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop, + Hey, Alice?" + "You admire him! + You admire Arthur! + You'd be like him only you can't dance. + Oh, Shame! Shame! + And I've been like that silly girl. + Fooled with your promises, + And I give you all I had. + I knew it, oh, I knew it, + But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it. + You've shamed me through and through. + Why couldn't you hold your tongue, + And spared me seein' you + As you really are." + "What the Devil's the row? + I only said Art was lucky. + What you spitfirin' at me fer? + Ferget it, Alice. + We've had good times, ain't we? + I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer, + And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time." + "It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time. + I've good cause to love it, ain't I? + Many's the night I've hid my face in the dark + To shut out thinkin'!" + "Why, that ain't nothin'. + You ain't be'n half so kind to me + As lots o' fellers' girls. + Gi' me a kiss, Dear, + And let's make up." + "Make up! + You poor fool. + Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece + For you now. + You've killed yourself for me. + Done it out o' your own mouth. + You've took away my home, + I hate the sight o' the place. + You're all over it, + Every stick an' stone means you, + An' I hate 'em all." + "Alice, I say, + Don't go on like that. + I can't marry yer + Boardin' in one room, + But I'll see Cleve to-morrer, + I'll make him——" + "Oh, you fool! + You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go yit, + Wait a minit, + I'll see Cleve——" + "You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go. + Alice——" (Door slams) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Number 3 on the Docket + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lawyer, are you? + Well! I ain't got nothin' to say. + Nothin'! + I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'. + They know'd real well 'twas me. + Ther warn't no supposin', + Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, + An' me in my house dress. + Folks don't walk miles an' miles + In the drifted snow, + With no hat nor wrap on 'em + Ef everythin's all right, I guess. + All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! + Nothin' warn't right with me. + Never was. + Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? + Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? + Many's the time I've set up with him nights + When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'. + I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby. + I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! + Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me! + Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it. + Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! + Yes, Sir. + No, Sir. + I beg your pardon, I—I— + Oh, I'm a wicked woman! + An' I'm desolate, desolate! + Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed + Afore my hands done it. + Oh, my God, what shall I do! + No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, + An' I don't want none. + I want a bolt o' lightnin' + To strike me dead right now! + Oh, I'll tell yer. + But it won't make no diff'rence. + Nothin' will. + Yes, I killed him. + Why do yer make me say it? + It's cruel! Cruel! + I killed him because o' th' silence. + The long, long silence, + That watched all around me, + And he wouldn't break it. + I tried to make him, + Time an' agin, + But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was. + He never spoke 'cept when he had to, + An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no". + You can't even guess what that silence was. + I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, + An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, + An' al'ays comin' back. + Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes + It would ha' driven it away; + But he never would. + He didn't hear it same as I did. + You see, Sir, + Our farm was off'n the main road, + And set away back under the mountain; + And the village was seven mile off, + Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane. + We didn't have no hired man, + 'Cept in hayin' time; + An' Dane's place, + That was the nearest, + Was clear way 'tother side the mountain. + They used Marley post-office + An' ours was Benton. + Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, + An' it warn't above two mile that way, + But it warn't never broke out Winters. + I used to dread the Winters. + Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; + Winter'd come so quick after that. + You don't know what snow's like when yer with it + Day in an' day out. + Ed would be out all day loggin', + An' I set at home and look at the snow + Layin' over everythin'; + It 'ud dazzle me blind, + Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink. + Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears + Till I most went mad listenin' to it. + Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor + Jest to hear it clatter. + I was most frantic when dinner-time come + An' Ed was back from the woods. + I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak. + But he'd never say a word till I asked him + Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, + An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer. + Then he'd go out agin, + An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder. + It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him + An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him. + I got so I was scared o' th' trees. + I thought they come nearer, + Every day a little nearer, + Closin' up round the house. + I never went in t' th' woods Winters, + Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough. + It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us. + He used to go sleddin' and skatin', + An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung + An' brought him back agin. + We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, + We wanted him to have a education. + We sent him to High School, + An' then he went up to Boston to Technology. + He was a minin' engineer, + An' doin' real well, + A credit to his bringin' up. + But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine. + And I'm glad! I'm glad! + He ain't here to see me now. + Neddy! Neddy! + I'm your mother still, Neddy. + Don't turn from me like that. + I can't abear it. I can't! I can't! + What did you say? + Oh, yes, Sir. + I'm here. + I'm very sorry, + I don't know what I'm sayin'. + No, Sir, + Not till after Neddy died. + 'Twas the next Winter the silence come, + I don't remember noticin' it afore. + That was five year ago, + An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse. + I asked Ed to put in a telephone. + I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on + I could ring up some o' th' folks. + But Ed wouldn't hear of it. + He said we'd paid so much for Neddy + We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas. + An' he never understood me wantin' to talk. + Well, this year was worse'n all the others; + We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, + An' the snow lay so thick + You couldn't see the fences even. + Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, + Ther warn't a hump or a holler + Fer as you could see. + It was so quiet + The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot + Sounded like pistol shots. + Ed was out all day + Same as usual. + An' it seemed he talked less'n ever. + He didn't even say 'Good-mornin'', once or twice, + An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things. + On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton + Fer some oats. + I'd oughter ha' gone with him, + But 'twas washin' day + An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, + An' I couldn't do my dryin'. + All my life I'd done my work punctual, + An' I couldn't fix my conscience + To go junketin' on a washin'-day. + I can't tell you what that day was to me. + It dragged an' dragged, + Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle + Fer dinner. + Every time I stopped stirrin' the water + I heerd the whisperin' all about me. + I stopped oftener'n I should + To see ef 'twas still ther, + An' it al'ays was. + An' gittin' louder + It seemed ter me. + Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind. + That seemed most alive somehow. + But the woods looked so kind of menacin' + I closed it quick + An' started to mangle's hard's I could, + The squeakin' was comfortin'. + Well, Ed come home 'bout four. + I seen him down the road, + An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn + To meet him quicker. + I hollered out, 'Hullo!' + But he didn't say nothin', + He jest drove right in + An' climbed out o' th' sleigh + An' commenced unharnessin'. + I asked him a heap o' questions; + Who he'd seed + An' what he'd done. + Once in a while he'd nod or shake, + But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'. + 'Twas gittin' dark then, + An' I was in a state, + With the loneliness + An' Ed payin' no attention + Like somethin' warn't livin'. + All of a sudden it come, + I don't know what, + But I jest couldn't stand no more. + It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, + An' it didn't seem as though I was me. + I had to break a way out somehow, + Somethin' was closin' in + An' I was stiflin'. + Ed's loggin' axe was ther, + An' I took it. + Oh, my God! + I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time. + I run out inter th' woods, + Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; + An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow + I seed Ed in front of me + Where I'd laid him. + An' I see him now. + There! There! + What you holdin' me fer? + I want ter go to Ed, + He's bleedin'. + Stop holdin' me. + I got to go. + I'm comin', Ed. + I'll be ther in a minit. + Oh, I'm so tired! + (Faints) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CLOCKS TICK A CENTURY + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After a Print by George Cruikshank +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was a gusty night, + With the wind booming, and swooping, + Looping round corners, + Sliding over the cobble-stones, + Whipping and veering, + And careering over the roofs + Like a thousand clattering horses. + Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city, + Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait, + And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins + And laughed as it whistled past him. + It rolled him along the street, + With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk, + And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him. + It bumped him against area railings, + And chuckled in his ear when he said "Ouch!" + Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet + And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter. + The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking. + It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins, + And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door + It was a relief, + Although the breath was quite knocked out of him. + The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up, + And the keyhole was as big as a barn door; + The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star, + And the keyhole went out with it. + Such a stabbing, and jabbing, + And sticking, and picking, + And poking, and pushing, and prying + With that key; + And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two, + Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll. + But the door opened at last, + And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall + And slammed the door to so hard + That the knocker banged five times before it stopped. + Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle, + And all the time the moon winked at him through the window. + "Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?" + Taunted the wind. + "I can find the keyhole." + And the wind, thin as a wire, + Darted in and seized the candle flame + And knocked it over to one side + And pummelled it down—down—down—! + But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin, + And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner, + For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, "Spruggins! Spruggins!" + behind him. + The fire in his bedroom burned brightly. + The room with its crimson bed and window curtains + Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle. + It was still and warm. + There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened; + And no moon, + For the curtains were drawn. + The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear + In a wide brass dish. + Mr. Spruggins sighed with content; + He was safe at home. + The fire glowed—red and yellow roses + In the black basket of the grate— + And the bed with its crimson hangings + Seemed a great peony, + Wide open and placid. + Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler. + He slipped off his bottle-green coat + And his flowered waistcoat. + He put on a flannel dressing-gown, + And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin. + He wound his large gold watch + And placed it under his pillow. + Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. + There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds; + But behind him was his quiet candle. + There was the wind whisking along the street. + The window rattled, but it was fastened. + Did the wind say, "Spruggins"? + All Mr. Spruggins heard was "S-s-s-s-s—" + Dying away down the street. + He dropped the curtain and got into bed. + Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan; + The bed was warm, + And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers, + With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head. + Mr. Spruggins dozed. + He had forgotten to put out the candle, + But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright... + Too bright! + The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids, + They scorched him back to consciousness. + He tried to shift his position; + He could not move. + Something weighed him down, + He could not breathe. + He was gasping, + Pinned down and suffocating. + He opened his eyes. + The curtains of the window were flung back, + The fire and the candle were out, + And the room was filled with green moonlight. + And pressed against the window-pane + Was a wide, round face, + Winking—winking— + Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other. + Tick—tock—went the watch under his pillow, + Wink—wink—went the face at the window. + It was not the fire roses which had pricked him, + It was the winking eyes. + Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up; + He could not, because— + His heart flapped up into his mouth + And fell back dead. + On his chest was a fat pink pig, + On the pig a blackamoor + With a ten pound weight for a cap. + His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes, + And his eyes rolled round and round, + With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing, + And appearing again on the other side. + The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles, + And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar, + While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind. + He dug his spurs into the pig, + Which trampled and snorted, + And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins. + Then the green light on the floor began to undulate. + It heaved and hollowed, + It rose like a tide, + Sea-green, + Full of claws and scales + And wriggles. + The air above his bed began to move; + It weighed over him + In a mass of draggled feathers. + Not one lifted to stir the air. + They drooped and dripped + With a smell of port wine and brandy, + Closing down, slowly, + Trickling drops on the bed-quilt. + Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass, + And the moon burst into the room, + Sizzling—"S-s-s-s-s—Spruggins! Spruggins!" + It rolled toward him, + A green ball of flame, + With two eyes in the center, + A red eye and a yellow eye, + Dropping their lids slowly, + One after the other. + Mr. Spruggins tried to scream, + But the blackamoor + Leapt off his pig + With a cry, + Drew his scimitar, + And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth. + + Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn + And remade the fire. + Then he crept back to bed + By the light which seeped in under the window curtains, + And lay there, shivering, + While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Paper Windmill + </h2> + <p> + The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out at + the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square glistened + like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced, and shook drops of + sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water of the canal. Down + stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots piled with crimson + cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if they were roc's eggs, + blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, "Oh!" with delight, and pressed against + the window with all his might. + </p> + <p> + The golden cock on the top of the 'Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open + like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it. + "Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy. "Can't you hear me through the + window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow when you see the + eggs of your cousin, the great roc." But the golden cock stood stock + still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind. He could not understand the + little boy, for he said "Cocorico" when he said anything. But he was hung + in the air to swing, not to sing. His eyes glittered to the bright West + wind, and the crimson cheeses drifted away down the canal. + </p> + <p> + It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind + was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart + beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune: + "Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee to + drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white," and the man's + sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop! milk for your tea. Plop! trop! + drink it to-night." It was very pleasant out there, but it was lonely here + in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear. + </p> + <p> + It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. Nothing was + still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment it had changed. The + milkman had disappeared round the corner, there was only an old woman with + a basket of green stuff on her head, picking her way over the shiny + stones. But the wind pulled the leaves in the basket this way and that, + and displayed them to beautiful advantage. The sun patted them + condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed sprinkled with + silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered toys on the + floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull. The dark + wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys. + </p> + <p> + The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it, + spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square, + the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never stopped + spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. It burned like + a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked, and darted. + There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron, and quick + jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad cut diamonds. + Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, and the little boy's head + reeled with watching it. The whole square was filled with its rays, + blazing and leaping round after one another, faster and faster. The little + boy could not speak, he could only gaze, staring in amaze. + </p> + <p> + The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, a + great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, and the + little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more than the wind + which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame on his shoulder, + and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, each one + scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, and the + sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy who had + only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy. + </p> + <p> + The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed, for the + circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer came the windmill + man, and held up his big fan to the little boy in the window of the + Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass between the boy and the + windmills. They slid round before his eyes in rapidly revolving splendour. + There were wheels and wheels of colours—big, little, thick, thin—all + one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor dipped and raised them again, + and the little boy's face was glued to the window-pane. Oh! What a + glorious, wonderful plaything! Rings and rings of windy colour always + moving! How had any one ever preferred those other toys which never + stirred. "Nursie, come quickly. Look! I want a windmill. See! It is never + still. You will buy me one, won't you? I want that silver one, with the + big ring of blue." + </p> + <p> + So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue, and + smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment to + pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute he was + standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end of a + stick which he held out to the little boy. "But I wanted a windmill which + went round," cried the little boy. "That is the one you asked for, Master + Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do. "See, it is + silver, and here is the blue." "But it is only a blue streak," sobbed the + little boy. "I wanted a blue ring, and this silver doesn't sparkle." + "Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted, now run away and play with + it, for I am very busy." + </p> + <p> + The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the + floor lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick. + But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big wheel + of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling rainbow, + and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed a + maze of spattering diamonds. "Cocorico!" crowed the golden cock on the top + of the 'Stadhuis'. "That is something worth crowing for." But the little + boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled bit of paper on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought + In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought + With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold, + The slender shaft all twined about and thickly scrolled + With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling, + Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling + Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams; + Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams + Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen, + Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean. + Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players + Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers + Of music to serve every instrument, are there, + And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear. + It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights, + When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights + And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards, + Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards + Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools + Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools. + With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust + Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust + Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range, + The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change; + To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws; + To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws; + To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade + Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade. + Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy + Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy. + He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red, + He sees it split and stream, and all about his head + Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking, + Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking + The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom. + The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room. + The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door + And the sun widens out all along the floor, + Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light, + So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright. + + "O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, + and Magnify Him for ever." + + The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded fair, + Will heap it with the Works of the Lord. In the morning air, + Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled, + Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World + Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise. + The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze + An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair + Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair + To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs, + The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks + A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn, + And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn. + Only in the gloom far in the corner there + The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare, + Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread, + The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread, + Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme— + Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme! + + A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers, + Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers. + A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling, + And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing + Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry, + And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly. + Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun + Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one + Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones, + And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones, + An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown, + The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown + Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled + With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled, + Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell, + A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell + The stand will hold no more. The Boy with humming head + Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed. + + The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind + Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind. + He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy + It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free + For adoration only, for worship. Dedicate, + His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate. + The hours strike below from the clock on the stair. + The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer. + Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him + Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim, + Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven. + Like an open rose the sun will stand up even, + Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows + Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows + From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite + The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light. + Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim, + 'Viols d'amore' and 'hautbois' accorded to a hymn. + The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings + Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings. + He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes + Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise. + + The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the wall + When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual. + He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame. + He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame + The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass. + He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass + Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate + Worthy to hold them burning. Alas! He had been late + In thinking of this need, and now he could not find + Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind. + The house was not astir, and he dared not go down + Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown + And slam before the draught he made as he went out. + The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about. + A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear + Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there. + The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared, + Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared. + He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid + Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed + To light with ease, then stood a little to one side, + Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried + To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays + Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze. + Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame, + Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came. + The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced, + Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced, + A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile + Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile + Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up, + A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup. + + "O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever." + + A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled, seeming + A chalice foamed with sunrise. The Boy woke from his dreaming. + A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies, + The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries + Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue + Of gleaming, brutal fire. The Boy instantly swung + His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down. + The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown + Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed + And flung it over all, and then with aching head + He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains + Of his holy offering. The lacquer stand had stains + Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear + Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably. His dear + Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there, + Winking in the brightness. + The clock upon the stair + Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate. + The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Spring Day + </h2> + <p> + Bath + </p> + <p> + The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and + narcissus in the air. + </p> + <p> + The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water + in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the + water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light. + </p> + <p> + Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, + and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my + finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light + in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the + sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to + bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here + awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. + </p> + <p> + The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff + of tulips and narcissus in the air. + </p> + <p> + Breakfast Table + </p> + <p> + In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It + offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and + colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, + draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and + spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes + begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. + Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to + bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, + scream, flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a + stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the + sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a + thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee + steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air. + </p> + <p> + Walk + </p> + <p> + Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. + </p> + <p> + On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber and + blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys + strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass marbles spit + crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown + water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are no flowers + anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a girl with a gay + Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles + and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels + pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat. + </p> + <p> + A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and + gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over + the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and + narcissus. + </p> + <p> + The thickening branches make a pink 'grisaille' against the blue sky. + </p> + <p> + Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. + Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, + leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the + wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. + </p> + <p> + A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, + irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and + sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and + high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. + </p> + <p> + Midday and Afternoon + </p> + <p> + Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still + brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch and + withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in the + windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting + colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out of high + windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and motors. A quick + spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the jar of a + church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of + the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel + the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, + lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on + firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new + from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and + narcissus. + </p> + <p> + The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the + shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame. + </p> + <p> + Night and Sleep + </p> + <p> + The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along + the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into + patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light + at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and + over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker's + sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces + to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her + own stars, why should she heed ours? + </p> + <p> + I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and + my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it + has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom + yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. + </p> + <p> + My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant + city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I + cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I + passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a + night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring. + </p> + <p> + The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the + air. + </p> + <p> + Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into + my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of + old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble + stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is + fresh-washed and fair... I smell the stars... they are like tulips and + narcissus... I smell them in the air. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Dinner-Party + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fish + + "So..." they said, + With their wine-glasses delicately poised, + Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. + "So..." they said again, + Amused and insolent. + The silver on the table glittered, + And the red wine in the glasses + Seemed the blood I had wasted + In a foolish cause. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Game + + The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers + Sneered languidly over his quail. + Then my heart flew up and laboured, + And I burst from my own holding + And hurled myself forward. + With straight blows I beat upon him, + Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him. + But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, + And I recoiled upon myself, + Panting. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Drawing-Room + + In a dress all softness and half-tones, + Indolent and half-reclined, + She lay upon a couch, + With the firelight reflected in her jewels. + But her eyes had no reflection, + They swam in a grey smoke, + The smoke of smouldering ashes, + The smoke of her cindered heart. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Coffee + + They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups. + One dropped in a lump of sugar, + One stirred with a spoon. + I saw them as a circle of ghosts + Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, + And mildly protesting against my coarseness + In being alive. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Talk + + They took dead men's souls + And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; + Their cuff-links and tiaras + Were gems dug from a grave; + They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; + And I took a green liqueur from a servant + So that he might come near me + And give me the comfort of a living thing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Eleven O'Clock + + The front door was hard and heavy, + It shut behind me on the house of ghosts. + I flattened my feet on the pavement + To feel it solid under me; + I ran my hand along the railings + And shook them, + And pressed their pointed bars + Into my palms. + The hurt of it reassured me, + And I did it again and again + Until they were bruised. + When I woke in the night + I laughed to find them aching, + For only living flesh can suffer. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + First Movement + + Thin-voiced, nasal pipes + Drawing sound out and out + Until it is a screeching thread, + Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, + It hurts. + Whee-e-e! + Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! + There are drums here, + Banging, + And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones + Of the market-place. + Whee-e-e! + Sabots slapping the worn, old stones, + And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones; + Clumsy and hard they are, + And uneven, + Losing half a beat + Because the stones are slippery. + Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong! + The thin Spring leaves + Shake to the banging of shoes. + Shoes beat, slap, + Shuffle, rap, + And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices, + Little pigs' voices + Weaving among the dancers, + A fine white thread + Linking up the dancers. + Bang! Bump! Tong! + Petticoats, + Stockings, + Sabots, + Delirium flapping its thigh-bones; + Red, blue, yellow, + Drunkenness steaming in colours; + Red, yellow, blue, + Colours and flesh weaving together, + In and out, with the dance, + Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together. + Pigs' cries white and tenuous, + White and painful, + White and— + Bump! + Tong! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Second Movement + + Pale violin music whiffs across the moon, + A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon, + Cherry petals fall and flutter, + And the white Pierrot, + Wreathed in the smoke of the violins, + Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling, + Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth + With his finger-nails. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Third Movement + + An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church, + It wheezes and coughs. + The nave is blue with incense, + Writhing, twisting, + Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests. + 'Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine'; + The priests whine their bastard Latin + And the censers swing and click. + The priests walk endlessly + Round and round, + Droning their Latin + Off the key. + The organ crashes out in a flaring chord, + And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone. + 'Dies illa, dies irae, + Calamitatis et miseriae, + Dies magna et amara valde.' + A wind rattles the leaded windows. + The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter, + 'Dies illa, dies irae;' + The swaying smoke drifts over the altar, + 'Calamitatis et miseriae;' + The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water, + 'Dies magna et amara valde;' + And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them + Stretched upon a bier. + His ears are stone to the organ, + His eyes are flint to the candles, + His body is ice to the water. + Chant, priests, + Whine, shuffle, genuflect, + He will always be as rigid as he is now + Until he crumbles away in a dust heap. + 'Lacrymosa dies illa, + Qua resurget ex favilla + Judicandus homo reus.' + Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Towns in Colour + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Red Slippers +</pre> + <p> + Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, + windy sleet! + </p> + <p> + Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, + festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes + of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections + against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and + salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon + lights upon the tops of umbrellas. + </p> + <p> + The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds + red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and fluctuating, + a hot rain—and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly multiplied in + the mirror side of the window. + </p> + <p> + They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson + lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked in + a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared and + burnished by red rockets. + </p> + <p> + Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous + block of shops. + </p> + <p> + They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the crowd + outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. + </p> + <p> + People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down, + is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes and + reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, lolling + awkwardly in its flower chair. + </p> + <p> + One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? + </p> + <p> + The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are + only red slippers. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Thompson's Lunch Room—Grand Central Station + + Study in Whites +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wax-white— + Floor, ceiling, walls. + Ivory shadows + Over the pavement + Polished to cream surfaces + By constant sweeping. + The big room is coloured like the petals + Of a great magnolia, + And has a patina + Of flower bloom + Which makes it shine dimly + Under the electric lamps. + Chairs are ranged in rows + Like sepia seeds + Waiting fulfilment. + The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap + Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall— + Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow + Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. + Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, + Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water. + Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass + Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar + Above the lighthouse-shaped castors + Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. + Grey-white placards: "Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters": + Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. + Dropping on the white counter like horn notes + Through a web of violins, + The flat yellow lights of oranges, + The cube-red splashes of apples, + In high plated 'epergnes'. + The electric clock jerks every half-minute: + "Coming!—Past!" + "Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie," + Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. + A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. + Two rice puddings and a salmon salad + Are pushed over the counter; + The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. + A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, + And the sound throws across the room + Sharp, invisible zigzags + Of silver. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + An Opera House +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, + A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, + Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. + Gold carving edges the balconies, + Rims the boxes, + Runs up and down fluted pillars. + Little knife-stabs of gold + Shine out whenever a box door is opened. + Gold clusters + Flash in soft explosions + On the blue darkness, + Suck back to a point, + And disappear. + Hoops of gold + Circle necks, wrists, fingers, + Pierce ears, + Poise on heads + And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. + Gold! + Gold! + The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. + Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: + Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; + Gold—spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold + Of harps. + The conductor raises his baton, + The brass blares out + Crass, crude, + Parvenu, fat, powerful, + Golden. + Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. + Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, + Crash. + The orange curtain parts + And the prima-donna steps forward. + One note, + A drop: transparent, iridescent, + A gold bubble, + It floats... floats... + And bursts against the lips of a bank president + In the grand tier. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Afternoon Rain in State Street +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, + Slant lines of black rain + In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. + Below, + Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, + The street. + And over it, umbrellas, + Black polished dots + Struck to white + An instant, + Stream in two flat lines + Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. + Like a four-sided wedge + The Custom House Tower + Pokes at the low, flat sky, + Pushing it farther and farther up, + Lifting it away from the house-tops, + Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, + With the lever of its apex. + The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, + Scratching lines of black wire across it, + Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface + With the sharp precision of tools. + The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, + A chequered table of blacks and greys. + Oblong blocks of flatness + Crawl by with low-geared engines, + And pass to short upright squares + Shrinking with distance. + A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, + And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, + A narrow, level bar of steel. + Hard cubes of lemon + Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings + As the windows light up. + But the lemon cubes are edged with angles + Upon which they cannot impinge. + Up, straight, down, straight—square. + Crumpled grey-white papers + Blow along the side-walks, + Contorted, horrible, + Without curves. + A horse steps in a puddle, + And white, glaring water spurts up + In stiff, outflaring lines, + Like the rattling stems of reeds. + The city is heraldic with angles, + A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable + And countercoloured bends of rain + Hung over a four-square civilization. + When a street lamp comes out, + I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds + To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + An Aquarium +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, + Silver shiftings, + Rings veering out of rings, + Silver—gold— + Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, + With sharp white bubbles + Shooting and dancing, + Flinging quickly outward. + Nosing the bubbles, + Swallowing them, + Fish. + Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, + The light rippling over them + In steel-bright tremors. + Outspread translucent fins + Flute, fold, and relapse; + The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles + In scarcely tarnished twinklings. + Curving of spotted spines, + Slow up-shifts, + Lazy convolutions: + Then a sudden swift straightening + And darting below: + Oblique grey shadows + Athwart a pale casement. + Roped and curled, + Green man-eating eels + Slumber in undulate rhythms, + With crests laid horizontal on their backs. + Barred fish, + Striped fish, + Uneven disks of fish, + Slip, slide, whirl, turn, + And never touch. + Metallic blue fish, + With fins wide and yellow and swaying + Like Oriental fans, + Hold the sun in their bellies + And glow with light: + Blue brilliance cut by black bars. + An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, + Across it, in a tangent, + A smear of rose, black, silver. + Short twists and upstartings, + Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: + Sunshine playing between red and black flowers + On a blue and gold lawn. + Shadows and polished surfaces, + Facets of mauve and purple, + A constant modulation of values. + Shaft-shaped, + With green bead eyes; + Thick-nosed, + Heliotrope-coloured; + Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; + In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. + + Outside, + A willow-tree flickers + With little white jerks, + And long blue waves + Rise steadily beyond the outer islands. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Some Books by Amy Lowell + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poetry +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What's O'Clock + Legends + Pictures of the Floating World + Can Grande's Castle + Men, Women and Ghosts + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (already online) + A Critical Fable + + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prose + + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature + John Keats +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 841-h.htm or 841-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/841/ + +Produced by Alan Light, and 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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. 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: + + http://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. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> @@ -0,0 +1,7062 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +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: Men, Women and Ghosts + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Posting Date: July 21, 2008 [EBook #841] +Release Date: March, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Light + + + + + +MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + +by Amy Lowell + + +by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet and critic--1874-1925.] + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters are broken +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors +have been corrected.] + + + + "'... See small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth':... + So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip, + Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees, + And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly." + William Blake. "Europe. A Prophecy." + + 'Thou hast a lap full of seed, + And this is a fine country.' + William Blake. + + + + + +Preface + + +This is a book of stories. For that reason I have excluded all purely +lyrical poems. But the word "stories" has been stretched to its fullest +application. It includes both narrative poems, properly so called; +tales divided into scenes; and a few pieces of less obvious +story-telling import in which one might say that the dramatis personae +are air, clouds, trees, houses, streets, and such like things. + +It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of 'vers +libre' have not been sufficiently plumbed, that there is in them a power +of variation which has never yet been brought to the light of +experiment. I think it was the piano pieces of Debussy, with their +strange likeness to short vers libre poems, which first showed me the +close kinship of music and poetry, and there flashed into my mind the +idea of using the movement of poetry in somewhat the same way that the +musician uses the movement of music. + +It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern +of a metrical form, but the flowing, fluctuating rhythm of vers libre +seemed to open the door to such an experiment. First, however, I +considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced movements +of natural objects. If the reader will turn to the poem, "A Roxbury +Garden", he will find in the first two sections an attempt to give the +circular movement of a hoop bowling along the ground, and the up and +down, elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock. + +From these experiments, it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music. +In "The Cremona Violin", I have tried to give this flowing, changing +rhythm to the parts in which the violin is being played. The effect is +farther heightened, because the rest of the poem is written in the seven +line Chaucerian stanza; and, by deserting this ordered pattern for the +undulating line of vers libre, I hoped to produce something of the +suave, continuous tone of a violin. Again, in the violin parts +themselves, the movement constantly changes, as will be quite plain to +any one reading these passages aloud. + +In "The Cremona Violin", however, the rhythms are fairly obvious and +regular. I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the +various movements of Stravinsky's "Three Pieces 'Grotesques', for String +Quartet". Several musicians, who have seen the poem, think the movement +accurately given. + +These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for +thought and matter for study, and I hope many poets will follow me in +opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre. + +A good many of the poems in this book are written in "polyphonic prose". +A form about which I have written and spoken so much that it seems +hardly necessary to explain it here. Let me hastily add, however, that +the word "prose" in its name refers only to the typographical +arrangement, for in no sense is this a prose form. Only read it aloud, +Gentle Reader, I beg, and you will see what you will see. For a purely +dramatic form, I know none better in the whole range of poetry. It +enables the poet to give his characters the vivid, real effect they have +in a play, while at the same time writing in the 'decor'. + +One last innovation I have still to mention. It will be found in +"Spring Day", and more fully enlarged upon in the series, "Towns in +Colour". In these poems, I have endeavoured to give the colour, and +light, and shade, of certain places and hours, stressing the purely +pictorial effect, and with little or no reference to any other aspect of +the places described. It is an enchanting thing to wander through a +city looking for its unrelated beauty, the beauty by which it captivates +the sensuous sense of seeing. + +I have always loved aquariums, but for years I went to them and looked, +and looked, at those swirling, shooting, looping patterns of fish, which +always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon the "unrelated" +method. The result is in "An Aquarium". I think the first thing which +turned me in this direction was John Gould Fletcher's "London +Excursion", in "Some Imagist Poets". I here record my thanks. + +For the substance of the poems--why, the poems are here. No one +writing to-day can fail to be affected by the great war raging in Europe +at this time. We are too near it to do more than touch upon it. But, +obliquely, it is suggested in many of these poems, most notably those in +the section, "Bronze Tablets". The Napoleonic Era is an epic subject, +and waits a great epic poet. I have only been able to open a few +windows upon it here and there. But the scene from the windows is +authentic, and the watcher has used eyes, and ears, and heart, in +watching. + + Amy Lowell +July 10, 1916. + + + + +Contents + + + + Figurines in Old Saxe + + Patterns + Pickthorn Manor + The Cremona Violin + The Cross-Roads + A Roxbury Garden + 1777 + + + Bronze Tablets + + The Fruit Shop + Malmaison + The Hammers + Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + + + War Pictures + + The Allies + The Bombardment + Lead Soldiers + The Painter on Silk + A Ballad of Footmen + + + The Overgrown Pasture + + Reaping + Off the Turnpike + The Grocery + Number 3 on the Docket + + + Clocks Tick a Century + + Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + The Paper Windmill + The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + Spring Day + The Dinner-Party + Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + Towns in Colour + Red Slippers + Thompson's Lunch Room--Grand Central Station + An Opera House + Afternoon Rain in State Street + An Aquarium + + + + + +The two sea songs quoted in "The Hammers" are taken from +'Songs: Naval and Nautical, of the late Charles Dibdin', London, +John Murray, 1841. The "Hanging Johnny" refrain, in "The Cremona Violin", +is borrowed from the old, well-known chanty of that name. + + + + + +MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + + + + +FIGURINES IN OLD SAXE + + + + +Patterns + + + + I walk down the garden paths, + And all the daffodils + Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. + I walk down the patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, + I too am a rare + Pattern. As I wander down + The garden paths. + + My dress is richly figured, + And the train + Makes a pink and silver stain + On the gravel, and the thrift + Of the borders. + Just a plate of current fashion, + Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. + Not a softness anywhere about me, + Only whalebone and brocade. + And I sink on a seat in the shade + Of a lime tree. For my passion + Wars against the stiff brocade. + The daffodils and squills + Flutter in the breeze + As they please. + And I weep; + For the lime-tree is in blossom + And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + + And the plashing of waterdrops + In the marble fountain + Comes down the garden-paths. + The dripping never stops. + Underneath my stiffened gown + Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, + A basin in the midst of hedges grown + So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, + But she guesses he is near, + And the sliding of the water + Seems the stroking of a dear + Hand upon her. + What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! + I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. + All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. + + I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, + And he would stumble after, + Bewildered by my laughter. + I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles + on his shoes. + I would choose + To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, + A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, + Till he caught me in the shade, + And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, + Aching, melting, unafraid. + With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, + And the plopping of the waterdrops, + All about us in the open afternoon-- + I am very like to swoon + With the weight of this brocade, + For the sun sifts through the shade. + + Underneath the fallen blossom + In my bosom, + Is a letter I have hid. + It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. + "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell + Died in action Thursday se'nnight." + As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, + The letters squirmed like snakes. + "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. + "No," I told him. + "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. + No, no answer." + And I walked into the garden, + Up and down the patterned paths, + In my stiff, correct brocade. + The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, + Each one. + I stood upright too, + Held rigid to the pattern + By the stiffness of my gown. + Up and down I walked, + Up and down. + + In a month he would have been my husband. + In a month, here, underneath this lime, + We would have broke the pattern; + He for me, and I for him, + He as Colonel, I as Lady, + On this shady seat. + He had a whim + That sunlight carried blessing. + And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." + Now he is dead. + + In Summer and in Winter I shall walk + Up and down + The patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + The squills and daffodils + Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. + I shall go + Up and down, + In my gown. + Gorgeously arrayed, + Boned and stayed. + And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace + By each button, hook, and lace. + For the man who should loose me is dead, + Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, + In a pattern called a war. + Christ! What are patterns for? + + + + +Pickthorn Manor + + + + I + + How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! + A steely silver, underlined with blue, + And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, + Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through + And tip the edges of the waves with shifts + And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems + Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp + As wind through leafless stems. + The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts + Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts + Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp. + + + II + + Her little feet tapped softly down the path. + Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze + Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath + Of fallen petals on the grass, could please + Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside + With a swift move, and a half-angry frown. + She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, + And held them to her gown + To test the colours; put them at her side, + Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried + Some new arrangement, but it would not do. + + + III + + A lady in a Manor-house, alone, + Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke + Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown + Too apathetic even to rebuke + Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? + No woman surely, since she neither can + Be wed nor single, must not let her mind + Build thoughts upon a man + Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth + Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth, + And when she thought of him her eyes were kind. + + + IV + + Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. + Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel + Other than strange delight at her wife's doing. + Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal + Over her face, and then her lips would frame + Some little word of loving, and her eyes + Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw + Was the bright sun, slantwise + Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame + Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame + She shut her heart and bent before the law. + + + V + + He was a soldier, she was proud of that. + This was his house and she would keep it well. + His honour was in fighting, hers in what + He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell + Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying + Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about? + Were any branches broken? Had the weeds + Been duly taken out + Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying + Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying + Their leaves and satisfying all their needs? + + + VI + + She picked a stone up with a little pout, + Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders. + Where should she put it? All the paths about + Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders. + No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So + She hurried to the river. At the edge + She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue + Beyond the river sedge. + She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow + Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, "Hullo, + My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through." + + + VII + + The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray + To save herself from tumbling in the shallows + Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away + She peered down stream among the budding sallows. + A youth in leather breeches and a shirt + Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon + An overhanging bole and deftly swayed + A well-hooked fish which shone + In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt + Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt + With crimson spots and moons which waned and played. + + + VIII + + The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed + And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade + Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged + With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade + Broke up and splintered into shafts of light + Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air + And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod + Almost to snapping. Care + The young man took against the twigs, with slight, + Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight + Obedience to his will with every prod. + + + IX + + He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. + He seemed uncertain what more he should do. + He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, + Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw, + He caught it nearer to the point. At last + The fish was near enough to touch. He paused. + Eunice knew well the craft--"What's got the thing!" + She cried. "What can have caused-- + Where is his net? The moment will be past. + The fish will wriggle free." She stopped aghast. + He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling. + + + X + + The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket + Must hang from, held instead a useless arm. + "I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it." + He smiled, for she had spoke aloud. "The charm + Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced + When you must play your fish on land as well." + "How will you take him?" Eunice asked. "In truth + I really cannot tell. + 'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced + I never thought of that until he glanced + Into the branches. 'Tis a bit uncouth." + + + XI + + He watched the fish against the blowing sky, + Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line. + "The hook is fast, I might just let him die," + He mused. "But that would jar against your fine + Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would," + Cried Eunice. "Let me do it." Swift and light + She ran towards him. "It is so long now + Since I have felt a bite, + I lost all heart for everything." She stood, + Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood + Tingled her lissom body to a glow. + + + XII + + She quickly seized the fish and with a stone + Ended its flurry, then removed the hook, + Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, + She asked him where he kept his fishing-book. + He pointed to a coat flung on the ground. + She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case, + Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp + Filling the middle space. + Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round + About them gay rococo flowers wound + And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp. + + + XIII + + The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. + "G. D." the young man gravely said. "My name + Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please." + "Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame + For exploits in the field has reached my ears. + I did not know you wounded and returned." + "But just come back, Madam. A silly prick + To gain me such unearned + Holiday making. And you, it appears, + Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears + At being caught a-trespassing were quick." + + + XIV + + He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. + "You are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more, + I offer you the fishing, and am proud + That you should find it pleasant from this shore. + Nobody fishes now, my husband used + To angle daily, and I too with him. + He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace. + He even had a whim + That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused + The greater fish. And he must be excused, + Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place." + + + XV + + She sighed because it seemed so long ago, + Those days with Everard; unthinking took + The path back to the orchard. Strolling so + She walked, and he beside her. In a nook + Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs, + Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down. + She questioned him about the war, the share + Her husband had, and grown + Eager by his clear answers, straight allows + Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse + Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware. + + + XVI + + Under the orchard trees daffodils danced + And jostled, turning sideways to the wind. + A dropping cherry petal softly glanced + Over her hair, and slid away behind. + At the far end through twisted cherry-trees + The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks + Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, + Gabled, and with quaint tricks + Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these + Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze + Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song + + + XVII + + Needled its way through sound of bees and river. + The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves, + Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. + The Lady Eunice listens and believes. + Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, + His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life. + She quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness + Of being this man's wife. + Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word + Is kindly said, but to a softer chord + She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness, + + + XVIII + + "And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I fain + Would know the truth." "Quite well, dear Lady, quite." + She smiled in her content. "So many slain, + You must forgive me for a little fright." + And he forgave her, not alone for that, + But because she was fingering his heart, + Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so + Only to ease her smart + Of painful, apprehensive longing. At + Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat + An hour there. The thrush flew to and fro. + + + XIX + + The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, + As always since Sir Everard had gone, + In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array + Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone. + Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. + Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout + And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, + A peony just burst out, + With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked + Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked + It with the best, and scorned to change their name. + + + XX + + A sturdy family, and old besides, + Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe. + Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides + Among the highest born, but always so, + Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, + But never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong, + The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams, + Scorning the common throng. + Gazing upon these men, she understands + The toughness of the web wrought from such strands + And pride of Everard colours all her dreams. + + + XXI + + Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces + Flickering in the wind-blown candle's shine. + Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places, + And set out plates of fruit and jugs of wine. + The table glitters black like Winter ice. + The Dartle's rushing, and the gentle clash + Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears. + And through the casement sash + She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice + Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice + And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears. + + + XXII + + "In such a night--" she laid the book aside, + She could outnight the poet by thinking back. + In such a night she came here as a bride. + The date was graven in the almanack + Of her clasped memory. In this very room + Had Everard uncloaked her. On this seat + Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees, + How white they were and sweet + And later, coming to her, her dear groom, + Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom + Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease. + + + XXIII + + Her little taper made the room seem vast, + Caverned and empty. And her beating heart + Rapped through the silence all about her cast + Like some loud, dreadful death-watch taking part + In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest, + Put out the light and crept into her bed. + The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold. + And brimming tears she shed, + Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest, + Her weeping lips into the pillow prest, + Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold. + + + XXIV + + The morning brought her a more stoic mind, + And sunshine struck across the polished floor. + She wondered whether this day she should find + Gervase a-fishing, and so listen more, + Much more again, to all he had to tell. + And he was there, but waiting to begin + Until she came. They fished awhile, then went + To the old seat within + The cherry's shade. He pleased her very well + By his discourse. But ever he must dwell + Upon Sir Everard. Each incident + + + XXV + + Must be related and each term explained. + How troops were set in battle, how a siege + Was ordered and conducted. She complained + Because he bungled at the fall of Liege. + The curious names of parts of forts she knew, + And aired with conscious pride her ravelins, + And counterscarps, and lunes. The day drew on, + And his dead fish's fins + In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue. + At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew. + But she sat long in still oblivion. + + + XXVI + + Then he would bring her books, and read to her + The poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river + Would murmur through the reading, and a stir + Of birds and bees make the white petals shiver, + And one or two would flutter prone and lie + Spotting the smooth-clipped grass. The days went by + Threaded with talk and verses. Green leaves pushed + Through blossoms stubbornly. + Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty, + Fell into strong and watchful loving, free + He thought, since always would his lips be hushed. + + + XXVII + + But lips do not stay silent at command, + And Gervase strove in vain to order his. + Luckily Eunice did not understand + That he but read himself aloud, for this + Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him + And spoilt him like a brother. It was now + "Gervase" and "Eunice" with them, and he dined + Whenever she'd allow, + In the oak parlour, underneath the dim + Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim + Figure, so bright against the chair behind. + + + XXVIII + + Eunice was happier than she had been + For many days, and yet the hours were long. + All Gervase told to her but made her lean + More heavily upon the past. Among + Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving + Her morning orders, even when she twined + Nosegays to deck her parlours. With the thought + Of Everard, her mind + Solaced its solitude, and in her striving + To do as he would wish was all her living. + She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought. + + + XXIX + + Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun, + Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other. + Eunice was standing, panting with her run + Up to the tool-house just to get another + Basket. All those which she had brought were filled, + And still Gervase pelted her from above. + The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher + Until his shoulders strove + Quite through the top. "Eunice, your spirit's filled + This tree. White-hearts!" He shook, and cherries spilled + And spat out from the leaves like falling fire. + + + XXX + + The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself + Over the quiet garden. And they packed + Full twenty baskets with the fruit. "My shelf + Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked. + In future, none of us will drink strong ale, + But cherry-brandy." "Vastly good, I vow," + And Gervase gave the tree another shake. + The cherries seemed to flow + Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail. + Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale, + Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake. + + + XXXI + + She gave a little cry and fell quite prone + In the long grass, and lay there very still. + Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan, + And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill + Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat, + And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart. + "Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?" + His trembling fingers dart + Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove + To answer, opened wide her eyes, above + Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert. + + + XXXII + + Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight, + "My Love!" she murmured, "Dearest! Oh, my Dear!" + He took her in his arms and bore her right + And tenderly to the old seat, and "Here + I have you mine at last," she said, and swooned + Under his kisses. When she came once more + To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing + Herself laid as before + Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing + Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing + She twined him in her arms and soft festooned + + + XXXIII + + Herself about him like a flowering vine, + Drawing his lips to cling upon her own. + A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine + Where her half-opened bodice let be shown + Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress, + Half-gasping with her gladness. And her pledge + She whispers, melting with delight. A twig + Snaps in the hornbeam hedge. + A cackling laugh tears through the quietness. + Eunice starts up in terrible distress. + "My God! What's that?" Her staring eyes are big. + + + XXXIV + + Revulsed emotion set her body shaking + As though she had an ague. Gervase swore, + Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking + His face was ghastly with the look it wore. + Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man + In worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing, + Made off. But turned every few steps to gaze + At Eunice, and to fling + Vile looks and gestures back. "The ruffian! + By Christ's Death! I will split him to a span + Of hog's thongs." She grasped at his sleeve, "Gervase! + + + XXXV + + What are you doing here? Put down that sword, + That's only poor old Tony, crazed and lame. + We never notice him. With my dear Lord + I ought not to have minded that he came. + But, Gervase, it surprises me that you + Should so lack grace to stay here." With one hand + She held her gaping bodice to conceal + Her breast. "I must demand + Your instant absence. Everard, but new + Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu." + "Eunice, you're mad." His brain began to reel. + + + XXXVI + + He tried again to take her, tried to twist + Her arms about him. Truly, she had said + Nothing should ever part them. In a mist + She pushed him from her, clasped her aching head + In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud. + "Oh! Where is Everard? What does this mean? + So lately come to leave me thus alone!" + But Gervase had not seen + Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed + And sickening spirit, he told of her proud + Surrender to him. He could hear her moan. + + + XXXVII + + Then shame swept over her and held her numb, + Hiding her anguished face against the seat. + At last she rose, a woman stricken--dumb-- + And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet. + Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass + The barrier set between them. All his rare + Joy broke to fragments--worse than that, unreal. + And standing lonely there, + His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass + He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas! + The loss so great his life could never heal. + + + XXXVIII + + For days thereafter Eunice lived retired, + Waited upon by one old serving-maid. + She would not leave her chamber, and desired + Only to hide herself. She was afraid + Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing, + Of what her longing urge her then to do. + What was this dreadful illness solitude + Had tortured her into? + Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing + The thought of that one morning. And her being + Bruised itself on a happening so rude. + + + XXXIX + + It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came + Her tirewoman with a letter, printed + Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name. + With utmost gentleness, the letter hinted + His understanding and his deep regret. + But would she not permit him once again + To pay her his profound respects? No word + Of what had passed should pain + Her resolution. Only let them get + Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet + With starting tears, now truly she deplored + + + XL + + His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep + Away from him. He hardly was to blame. + 'Twas she--she shuddered and began to weep. + 'Twas her fault! Hers! Her everlasting shame + Was that she suffered him, whom not at all + She loved. Poor Boy! Yes, they must still be friends. + She owed him that to keep the balance straight. + It was such poor amends + Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall + Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical + It was, and she must leave him desolate. + + + XLI + + Hard silence he had forced upon his lips + For long and long, and would have done so still + Had not she--here she pressed her finger tips + Against her heavy eyes. Then with forced will + She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms + Of Crowe and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter + When this was done. It seemed her constant care + Might some day cease to fright her. + Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms + Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms + Would lessen when she saw him standing there, + + + XLII + + Simple and kind, a brother just returned + From journeying, and he would treat her so. + She knew his honest heart, and if there burned + A spark in it he would not let it show. + But when he really came, and stood beside + Her underneath the fruitless cherry boughs, + He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed. + He made her no more vows, + Nor did he mention one thing he had tried + To put into his letter. War supplied + Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied. + + + XLIII + + Daily they met. And gravely walked and talked. + He read her no more verses, and he stayed + Only until their conversation, balked + Of every natural channel, fled dismayed. + Again the next day she would meet him, trying + To give her tone some healthy sprightliness, + But his uneager dignity soon chilled + Her well-prepared address. + Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying + Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying + Whirred overhead for days and never stilled. + + + XLIV + + One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind, + Eunice awaited Gervase by the river. + The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined + Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver + Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank. + All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves + Blew up, and settled down, and blew again. + The cherry-trees were weaves + Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank + Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank + With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain. + + + XLV + + Eunice paced up and down. No joy she took + At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown + Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook, + And caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown + Sir Everard emerging from the mist. + His uniform was travel-stained and torn, + His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride + Jangled his spurs. A thorn + Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst + He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran--a twist + Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide. + + + XLVI + + But he had seen her as she swiftly ran, + A flash of white against the river's grey. + "Eunice," he called. "My Darling. Eunice. Can + You hear me? It is Everard. All day + I have been riding like the very devil + To reach you sooner. Are you startled, Dear?" + He broke into a run and followed her, + And caught her, faint with fear, + Cowering and trembling as though she some evil + Spirit were seeing. "What means this uncivil + Greeting, Dear Heart?" He saw her senses blur. + + + XLVII + + Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried + To speak, but only gurgled in her throat. + At last, straining to hold herself, she cried + To him for pity, and her strange words smote + A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase + To leave her, 'twas too much a second time. + Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind + Repeated like a rhyme + This name he did not know. In sad amaze + He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze, + So unremembering and so unkind. + + + XLVIII + + Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt + With what he feared her madness. By and by + He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt + Upon the seat, and took her hands: "Now try + To think a minute I am come, my Dear, + Unharmed and back on furlough. Are you glad + To have your lover home again? To me, + Pickthorn has never had + A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear + To come and sit awhile beside me here? + A stone between us surely should not be." + + + XLIX + + She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile, + Then came to him and on his shoulder laid + Her head, and they two rested there awhile, + Each taking comfort. Not a word was said. + But when he put his hand upon her breast + And felt her beating heart, and with his lips + Sought solace for her and himself. She started + As one sharp lashed with whips, + And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest + Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest, + Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted. + + + L + + Eunice was very quiet all that day, + A little dazed, and yet she seemed content. + At candle-time, he asked if she would play + Upon her harpsichord, at once she went + And tinkled airs from Lully's 'Carnival' + And 'Bacchus', newly brought away from France. + Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon + To please him with a dance + By Purcell, for he said that surely all + Good Englishmen had pride in national + Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon + + + LI + + He whispered her that if she had forgiven + His startling her that afternoon, the clock + Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven + He entered when she opened to his knock. + The hours rustled in the trailing wind + Over the chimney. Close they lay and knew + Only that they were wedded. At his touch + Anxiety she threw + Away like a shed garment, and inclined + Herself to cherish him, her happy mind + Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch. + + + LII + + Eunice lay long awake in the cool night + After her husband slept. She gazed with joy + Into the shadows, painting them with bright + Pictures of all her future life's employ. + Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel, + Each shining with the other. Soft she turned + And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed + Her happiness was earned. + Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel + To light this Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel + Affrightings would she ever be dismayed. + + + LIII + + When Everard, next day, asked her in joke + What name it was that she had called him by, + She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke + She hardly realized it was a lie. + Her vision she related, but she hid + The fondness into which she had been led. + Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear, + And quite out of her head + The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid + Himself for laziness, and off he rid + To see his men and count his farming-gear. + + + LIV + + At supper he seemed overspread with gloom, + But gave no reason why, he only asked + More questions of Gervase, and round the room + He walked with restless strides. At last he tasked + Her with a greater feeling for this man + Than she had given. Eunice quick denied + The slightest interest other than a friend + Might claim. But he replied + He thought she underrated. Then a ban + He put on talk and music. He'd a plan + To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End. + + + LV + + Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed, + Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride + Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged + All round his torment. Lady Eunice tried + To sooth him. So a week went by, and then + His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands + Striving to stem his words, he told her plain + Tony had seen them, "brands + Burning in Hell," the man had said. Again + Eunice described her vision, and how when + Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain. + + + LVI + + He could not credit it, and misery fed + Upon his spirit, day by day it grew. + To Gervase he forbade the house, and led + The Lady Eunice such a life she flew + At his approaching footsteps. Winter came + Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees. + All the roof-edges spiked with icicles + In fluted companies. + The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame + Kept herself sighing company. The flame + Of the birch fire glittered on the walls. + + + LVII + + A letter was brought to her as she sat, + Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound, + The writer's, had so well recovered that + To join his regiment he felt him bound. + But would she not wish him one short "Godspeed", + He asked no more. Her greeting would suffice. + He had resolved he never should return. + Would she this sacrifice + Make for a dying man? How could she read + The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed, + She read. Then dropped it in the fire to burn. + + + LVIII + + Gervase had set the river for their meeting + As farthest from the farms where Everard + Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating + Was quite expected, at least no dullard + Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid + Among the willows watching. Dusk had come, + And from the Manor he had long been gone. + Eunice her burdensome + Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid + Over the slippery paths, and soon amid + The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone. + + + LIX + + Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed + Into the boat. She shook her head, but he + Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed + Words told her of what peril there might be + From listeners along the river bank. + A push would take them out of earshot. Ten + Minutes was all he asked, then she should land, + He go away again, + Forever this time. Yet how could he thank + Her for so much compassion. Here she sank + Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand + + + LX + + His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved the keel + Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside + Her; took the oars, and they began to steal + Under the overhanging trees. A wide + Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade + Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting + Rigid and stark upon the after thwart. + It blazed upon their flitting + In merciless light. A moment so it stayed, + Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made + One leap, and landed just a fraction short. + + + LXI + + His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat + To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized + His wife and held her smothered to his coat. + "Everard, loose me, we shall drown--" and squeezed + Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped + "Never, by God!" The slidden boat gave way + And the black foamy water split--and met. + Bubbled up through the spray + A wailing rose and in the branches rasped, + And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped + In the blue evening, a clear moon was set. + + + LXII + + They lie entangled in the twisting roots, + Embraced forever. Their cold marriage bed + Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots + Of willows and pale birches. At the head, + White lilies, like still swans, placidly float + And sway above the pebbles. Here are waves + Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane + Gold-woven on their graves. + In perfect quietness they sleep, remote + In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote + Them to perpetual oneness who were twain. + + + + +The Cremona Violin + + + + Part First + + Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. + A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind + Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before + Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind + The distant town was black, and sharp defined + Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, + Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. + + A pasted city on a purple ground, + Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud + Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound + Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, + Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud + Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. + Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. + + She bustled round to shake by constant moving + The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, + She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving + Its careful setting, then her own attire + Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher + She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting + A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting + + This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, + Or rather plumping down upon a chair, + She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, + And watched the rain upon the window glare + In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare + Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!" + She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!" + + A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. + Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, + Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping + She stood and gazed along the street. A man + Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran + Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear, + What in the name of patience brings you here? + + Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin + I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. + This clasp is very much too worn and thin. + I'll take the other fiddle out to-night + If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite + Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I-- + Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. + + Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? + A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. + Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few + Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. + What do you say? That you were feared for me? + Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. + I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk." + + Her needles still, her hands upon her lap + Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat + And watched the rain-run window. In his nap + Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, + Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, + Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room + Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. + + But even rainy windows, silver-lit + By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give + But poor content to loneliness, and it + Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive + And down her eagerness and learn to live + In placid quiet. While her husband slept, + Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man + Gentle and unambitious, that alone + Had kept him back. He played as few men can, + Drawing out of his instrument a tone + So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone + Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, + Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. + + Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, + Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine + Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life + Was flowering out of early discipline + When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine + The belly was. The back of broadly curled + Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. + + The slanting, youthful sound-holes through + The belly of fine, vigorous pine + Mellowed each note and blew + It out again with a woody flavour + Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are + When breezes in their needles jar. + + The varnish was an orange-brown + Lustered like glass that's long laid down + Under a crumbling villa stone. + Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point + Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint + Clear, and bold, and thin. + Such was Herr Theodore's violin. + + Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone + With his best violin, the rain being stopped, + Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone + Watching the embers which the fire dropped. + The china shone upon the dresser, topped + By polished copper vessels which her skill + Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. + + An air from 'Orfeo' hummed in her head. + Herr Altgelt had been practising before + The night's performance. Charlotta had plead + With him to stay with her. Even at the door + She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore + You for this evening, Theodore," she had said. + "Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead." + + "A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her ear. + "You'd like to have our good Elector turn + Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer + Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, + My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, + And cold, and only love your work, I know. + But Theodore, for this evening, do not go." + + But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, + For she had kept him talking. Now she sat + Alone again, always alone, the trend + Of all her thinking brought her back to that + She wished to banish. What would life be? What? + For she was young, and loved, while he was moved + Only by music. Each day that was proved. + + Each day he rose and practised. While he played, + She stopped her work and listened, and her heart + Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed + And longing, she would hide from him her smart. + "Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start + She gave, and she would run to him and cry, + And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie. + + I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! + You'll hear the thing enough before I've done." + And she would draw away from him, still shaking. + Had he but guessed she was another one, + Another violin. Her strings were aching, + Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again + He played and she almost broke at the strain. + + Where was the use of thinking of it now, + Sitting alone and listening to the clock! + She'd best make haste and knit another row. + Three hours at least must pass before his knock + Would startle her. It always was a shock. + She listened--listened--for so long before, + That when it came her hearing almost tore. + + She caught herself just starting in to listen. + What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! + She wandered to the window, for the glisten + Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks + Of her two candles. Still she could not fix + To anything. The moon in a broad swath + Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. + + Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high + And black, their shadows doubling them. The night + Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh + Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight + Of insects, and the smell of aconite, + And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted + Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted + + The even flags. She let herself go dreaming + Of Theodore her husband, and the tune + From 'Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming + Changed--shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon + Showed her a passer-by, inopportune + Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. + Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. + + "The best laid plans of mice and men," alas! + The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. + Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, + Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, + Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, + Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, + And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. + + He seemed a proper fellow standing there + In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced + With silver, and he wore his own brown hair + Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced + A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased + Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position + Was hardly easy. When would his volition + + Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! + A half-a-dozen bars from 'Orfeo' + Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune + Had brought him there to stare about him so? + "Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!" + Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, + And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. + + Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, + Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. + If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes + Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, + He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig + Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose + Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose + + Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why + Do you stand there? I really must insist + Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly + To stay so long." The young man gave a twist + And turned about, and in the amethyst + Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen + From the green bushes which had been her prison. + + He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. + "Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea + I was not quite alone, and that is how + I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer + Impertinence. I thought no one was here, + And really gardens cry to be admired. + To-night especially it seemed required. + + And may I beg to introduce myself? + Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?" + Charlotta told him. And the artful elf + Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. + So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came + To conversation with him. When she went + Into the house, she found the evening spent. + + Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, + With all excitement in him burned away. + It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, + And he had played his very best to-day, + But afterwards he had been forced to stay + And practise with the stupid ones. His head + Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. + + + Part Second + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, + And the four strings of his violin + Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. + The notes rose into the wide sun-mote + Which slanted through the window, + They lay like coloured beads a-row, + They knocked together and parted, + And started to dance, + Skipping, tripping, each one slipping + Under and over the others so + That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance + Or a comet's tail, + Behind them. + Then a wail arose--crescendo-- + And dropped from off the end of the bow, + And the dancing stopped. + A scent of lilies filled the room, + Long and slow. Each large white bloom + Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, + And the hum of an organ tone, + And they waved like fans in a hall of stone + Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. + Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. + Like smoke they rose from the violin-- + Then faded as a swifter bowing + Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing + In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion + Between broad meadows to an ocean + Wide as a day and blue as a flower, + Where every hour + Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, + And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, + And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered + With spray. + And away a couple of frigates were starting + To race to Java with all sails set, + Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, + And wide moonsails; and the shining rails + Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. + All the sails went up with a run: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, + And the ship heeled over to the breeze. + He drew her into the shade of the sails, + And whispered tales + Of voyages in the China seas, + And his arm around her + Held and bound her. + She almost swooned, + With the breeze and the moon + And the slipping sea, + And he beside her, + Touching her, leaning-- + The ship careening, + With the white moon steadily shining over + Her and her lover, + Theodore, still her lover! + + Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, + And slowly floated + A single note which spread and spread + Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, + And noises shivered throughout its length, + And tried its strength. + They pulled it, and tore it, + And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. + Then a wide rent + Split the arching tent, + And balls of fire spurted through, + Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. + One by one they were quenched as they fell, + Only the blue burned steadily. + Paler and paler it grew, and--faded--away. + Herr Altgelt stopped. + + "Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? + I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. + What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. + I wonder how it happens I'm the winner + Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; + You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. + Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. + + I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. + The days are getting short, and I'm so tied + At the Court Theatre my poor little bride + Has not much junketing I fear, but soon + I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. + To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, + And when I go, why Lotta can come too. + + Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup + To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. + You know it's odd how some women can stoop! + Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, + A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover + If it's his money. But she lives alone + Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, + + Pores over books all day, and has no ear + For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; + They need appreciation. But it's queer + What messes people make of their lives, when + They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then + His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. + I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce." + + Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went + Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind + Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, + Audacious wind it was, now close behind, + Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined + The strings across her face, then from in front + Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, + + Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, + Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound + Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing + Itself upon her, so that she was wound + In draperies as clinging as those found + Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze + Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze + + The shops and houses had a quality + Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp + And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. + The city streets were twanging like a harp. + Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly + She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing + Toward what destination she was going. + + She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, + Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, + And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop + And then float up again with lightness. Browns + Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns + Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, + Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. + + A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard + Delighted her. And rings of every size + Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, + Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred + To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred + Like rockets bursting on a festal day. + Charlotta could not tear herself away. + + With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, + Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, + Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks + Of shades and lustres always darting through + Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, + Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. + She started at the words: "Am I encroaching?" + + "Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought + We were to meet at three, is it quite that?" + "No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught + The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, + I cannot go on this way. Life is what + Might best be conjured up by the word: 'Hell'. + Dearest, when will you come?" Lotta, to quell + + His effervescence, pointed to the gems + Within the window, asked him to admire + A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems + Uneasily the burning of a fire. + Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. + Little by little she wooed him to her mood + Until at last he promised to be good. + + But here he started on another tack; + To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. + She vainly urged against him all her lack + Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use + A ring or brooch her husband might accuse + Her of extravagance, and ask to see + A strict accounting, or still worse might be. + + But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why + Should he not give her what he liked? And in + He went, determined certainly to buy + A thing so beautiful that it would win + Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin + He would outscore by such a handsome jewel + That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! + + Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. + If she went in with him, the shopman might + Recognize her, give her her name; in days + To come he could denounce her. In her fright + She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite + Capable of pursuing. By and by + She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. + + It took some pains to keep him from bestowing + A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, + The setting twined to represent the growing + Tendrils and leaves, upon her. "Who supposes + I could obtain such things! It simply closes + All comfort for me." So he changed his mind + And bought as slight a gift as he could find. + + A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, + Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, + Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls + Should lie in it. And further to bedeck + His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, + The merest puff of a thin, linked chain + To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain + + From weeping as they sauntered down the street. + She did not want the locket, yet she did. + To have him love her she found very sweet, + But it is hard to keep love always hid. + Then there was something in her heart which chid + Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, + That all these meetings were a foolish whim. + + She thought of Theodore and the life they led, + So near together, but so little mingled. + The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, + And the fresh wind about her body tingled; + The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; + Charlotta held her breath for very fear, + About her in the street she seemed to hear: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + + And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, + Who held her and who whispered in her ear. + She knew her heart was telling her no lies, + Beating and hammering. He was so dear, + The touch of him would send her in a queer + Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning + For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning + + Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. + He had some aim, she had forgotten what. + Their progress was confused and very slow, + But at the last they reached a lonely spot, + A garden far above the highest shot + Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town + Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. + + Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, + Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain + About her neck. She treated it in jest, + And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. + Then suddenly she felt as though a strain + Were put upon her, collared like a slave, + Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. + + She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands + To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. + Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands + Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance + Melted within her, from remotest distance, + Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, + And giving way she knew him very dear. + + For long he held her, and they both gazed down + At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. + From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown + Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver + Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver + When, opening the locket, they were placed + Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. + + "When will you have it so with us?" He sighed. + She shook her head. He pressed her further. "No, + No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried + To free herself and rise. He held her so, + Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. + "But you love me," he whispered, with his face + Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. + + Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew + That what her husband lit this other man + Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few + Women were so discreet as she, who ran + No danger since she knew what things to ban. + She opened her house door at five o'clock, + A short half-hour before her husband's knock. + + + Part Third + + The 'Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed + With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, + That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed + With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring + Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting + Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting + From muffled tympani made a dark slatting + + Across the silver shimmering of flutes; + A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; + The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, + And mutterings of double basses trailed + Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed + Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter + They lost themselves amid the general clatter. + + Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, + Felt lifted up into another world. + Before her eyes a thousand candles shone + In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled + And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. + She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, + And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering + + All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, + The house, like rubies set in filigree, + Filliped the candlelight about, and bold + Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly + Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. + An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. + Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling + + About a play-bill he had bought and lost. + Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. + Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post + Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected + The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected + When with no glance about him or her way, + He lifted up his violin to play. + + The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, + Charlotta never saw it go. + The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing + Only came to her like the ringing + Of bells at a festa + Which swing in the air + And nobody realizes they are there. + They jingle and jangle, + And clang, and bang, + And never a soul could tell whether they rang, + For the plopping of guns and rockets + And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, + And the shuffling and clapping of feet, + And the loud flapping + Of flags, with the drums, + As the military comes. + It's a famous tune to walk to, + And I wonder where they're off to. + Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. + But the rhythm changes as though a mist + Were curling and twisting + Over the landscape. + For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog + Encompasses her. Then her senses jog + To the breath of a stately minuet. + Herr Altgelt's violin is set + In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, + To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. + Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights + When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights + Blundering insects knock, + And the 'Rathaus' clock + Booms twice, through the shrill sounds + Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. + Pressed against him in the mazy wavering + Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering + She leans upon the beating, throbbing + Music. Laughing, sobbing, + Feet gliding after sliding feet; + His--hers-- + The ballroom blurs-- + She feels the air + Lifting her hair, + And the lapping of water on the stone stair. + He is there! He is there! + Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, + That the dancers may dance, and never discover + The old stone stair leading down to the river + With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over + Her and her lover. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The evening passed like this, in a half faint, + Delirium with waking intervals + Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint + Of a large company, the constant calls + For oranges or syrops from the stalls + Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, + Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. + + She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, + The music vaunted as most excellent. + The scenery and the costumes were applauded, + The latter it was whispered had been sent + From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent + A fortune on them, so the gossips said. + Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. + + When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, + Her prodded ears were aching and confused. + The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming + Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused + Into the music, Theodore's music! Used + To hear him play, she caught his single tone. + For all she noticed they two were alone. + + + Part Fourth + + Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, + Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down + Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat + A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown + Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown + The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes + Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. + + Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, + Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman + And ordered off. However, no great harm + Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan + When Theodore, her belated guardian, + Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, + Half out of fear, half out of the assembling + + Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. + Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. + "Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!" + "Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? + Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow + Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, + A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops." + + He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, + Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say + To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact + Kept him explaining all the homeward way + How this thing had gone well, that badly. "Stay, + Theodore!" she cried at last. "You know to me + Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy." + + And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed + Herself so much, and said so. "But it's good + To be got home again." He was employed + In looking at his violin, the wood + Was old, and evening air did it no good. + But when he drew up to the table for tea + Something about his wife's vivacity + + Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. + He talked of this and that but watched her close. + Tea over, he endeavoured to extort + The cause of her excitement. She arose + And stood beside him, trying to compose + Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, + And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. + + Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, + Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. + Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp + Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, + Sobbing out all her hours of despair. + "Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. + Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved." + + Theodore went under in this tearing wave, + He yielded to it, and its headlong flow + Filled him with all the energy she gave. + He was a youth again, and this bright glow, + This living, vivid joy he had to show + Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, + She asked assurances there's no denying. + + Over and over again her questions, till + He quite convinced her, every now and then + She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. + But later when they were composed and when + She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen," + He asked, "how is it your love has withstood + My inadvertence? I was made of wood." + + She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, + That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky + To her. And even if conscience were unruly + She salved it by neat sophistries, but why + Suppose her insincere, it was no lie + She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot + As though he'd never been within earshot. + + But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing + Fumbled against the locket where it lay + Upon her neck. "What is this thing I'm pressing?" + He asked. "Let's bring it to the light of day." + He lifted up the locket. "It should stay + Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. + To keep it hidden surely is a waste." + + Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused + Out of her happiness. The locket brought + A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused + Under its icy spurting she was caught, + And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought + The clasp, but with such art was this contrived + Her fumbling fingers never once arrived + + Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, + She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring + And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, + Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing + To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string + Binding her folly to her, and those curls + Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! + + Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. + "Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged. But he + Refused, and being in a happy mood, + Twitted her with her inefficiency, + Then looking at her very seriously: + "I think, Charlotta, it is well to have + Always about one what a mother gave. + + As she has taken the great pains to send + This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be + Ingratitude if you do not intend + To carry it about you constantly. + With her fine taste you cannot disagree, + The locket is most beautifully designed." + He opened it and there the curls were, twined. + + Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. + She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. + Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, + She heard her husband asking: "What are those?" + Put out her hand quickly to interpose, + But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded + At the calm way the question was propounded. + + "A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. + Indeed I will not let you put it off. + A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!" + Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. + "Never with my connivance shall you doff + This charming gift." He kissed her on the cheek, + And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. + + When later in their room she lay awake, + Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, + She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. + She had loved Heinrich also, and the core + Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore + She vowed from now to break this double life + And see herself only as Theodore's wife. + + + Part Fifth + + It was no easy matter to convince + Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say + That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) + She still must keep the locket to allay + Suspicion in her husband. She would pay + Him from her savings bit by bit--the oath + He swore at that was startling to them both. + + Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt + Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. + She found her husband all that she had felt + His music to contain. Her days were set + In his as though she were an amulet + Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; + Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. + + Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks + Were furbished up to seem like rituals. + She baked and brewed as one who only asks + The right to serve. Her daily manuals + Of prayer were duties, and her festivals + When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said + She had a knack in making up a bed. + + So Autumn went, and all the mountains round + The city glittered white with fallen snow, + For it was Winter. Over the hard ground + Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. + On the swept flags behind the currant row + Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip + Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership + + Was first again. This evening he had got + Important news. The opera ordered from + Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, + The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come + Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot + From copying, had been tried over. Never + Had any music started such a fever. + + The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, + The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, + With such a great attraction through the course + Of Carnival time. In what utter shade + All other cities would be left! The trade + In music would all drift here naturally. + In his excitement he forgot his tea. + + Lotta was forced to take his cup and put + It in his hand. But still he rattled on, + Sipping at intervals. The new catgut + Strings he was using gave out such a tone + The "Maestro" had remarked it, and had gone + Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, + He was as happy as a little child. + + From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, + Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first + Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore + Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst + Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; + That his short interest in her was a light + Flared up an instant only in the night. + + 'Idomeneo' was the opera's name, + A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. + Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came + Home for his tea, and it was very late, + Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state + Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin + Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. + + He practised every morning and her heart + Followed his bow. But often she would sit, + While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, + Absently fingering and touching it, + The locket, which now seemed to her a bit + Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, + And through the notes he played, her dreading ears + + Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; + Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take + Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged + Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take + Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, + Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. + What harm to pass it since she should not stop! + + It matters nothing how one day she met + Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. + Nor how the following week he stood to let + Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. + How once he took her basket, and once he + Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck + Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck + + How many times their business took them each + Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, + But she would only nod, he got no speech + From her. Next time he treated it in joke, + And that so lightly that her vow she broke + And answered. So they drifted into seeing + Each other as before. There was no fleeing. + + Christmas was over and the Carnival + Was very near, and tripping from each tongue + Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall + Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, + What singers hired. Pictures of the young + "Maestro" were for sale. The town was mad. + Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. + + Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will + And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore + And him. Sometimes she wished to kill + Herself to solve her problem. For a score + Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore + Her moods with patience, and so surely urged + Himself upon her, she was slowly merged + + Into his way of thinking, and to fly + With him seemed easy. But next morning would + The Stradivarius undo her mood. + Then she would realize that she must cleave + Always to Theodore. And she would try + To convince Heinrich she should never leave, + And afterwards she would go home and grieve. + + All thought in Munich centered on the part + Of January when there would be given + 'Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. + The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even + Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven + Behind the highest gallery, were sold. + The inches of the theatre went for gold. + + Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin + With work, he hardly printed black behind + The candle. He and his old violin + Made up one person. He was not unkind, + But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, + The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded + A part of him which he had quite discarded. + + It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, + In little lights, + Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, + Here--there-- + Spurting, sputtering, + Fading and lighting, + Together, asunder-- + Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, + And the faint grey patch of the window shone + Upon her sitting there, alone. + For Theodore slept. + + The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, + 'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant + Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play + His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent + Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went + Into the kitchen, with a weary word + Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. + + Lotta heard more than his spoken word. + She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. + She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, + When the sound began, + Long as the span + Of a white road snaking about a hill. + The orchards are filled + With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. + Hawthorn buds are cracking, + And in the distance a shepherd is clacking + His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. + The notes are asleep, + Lying adrift on the air + In level lines + Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, + Strung and threaded, + All imbedded + In the blue-green of the hazy pines. + Lines--long, straight lines! + And stems, + Long, straight stems + Pushing up + To the cup of blue, blue sky. + Stems growing misty + With the many of them, + Red-green mist + Of the trees, + And these + Wood-flavoured notes. + The back is maple and the belly is pine. + The rich notes twine + As though weaving in and out of leaves, + Broad leaves + Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, + Waving and falling. + Another sound peers + Through little pine fingers, + And lingers, peeping. + Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. + There is a twittering up in the branches, + A chirp and a lilt, + And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. + Wings! Wings! + And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. + The forest bends, tumultuous + With song. + The woodpecker knocks, + And the song-sparrow trills, + Every fir, and cedar, and yew + Has a nest or a bird, + It is quite absurd + To hear them cutting across each other: + Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, + And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother + A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, + "Roo--coo--oo--oo--" + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!" + A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! + And the great trees toss + And leaves blow down, + You can almost hear them splash on the ground. + The whistle again: + It is double and loud! + The leaves are splashing, + And water is dashing + Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; + And men are running up them to furl the sails, + For there is a capful of wind to-day, + And we are already well under way. + The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. + "Theodore, please. + Oh, Dear, how you tease!" + And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, + And the men pull on the sheets: + "My name is Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; + They are swinging over + Her and her lover. + Almost swooning + Under the ballooning canvas, + She lies + Looking up in his eyes + As he bends farther over. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, + She leant against the table for support, + Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands + Burning upon his music. He stopped short. + Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands + Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, + Her fingers touched the locket with a start. + + Herr Altgelt put his violin away + Listlessly. "Lotta, I must have some rest. + The strain will be a hideous one to-day. + Don't speak to me at all. It will be best + If I am quiet till I go." And lest + She disobey, he left her. On the stairs + She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! + + He could not hear, he was not there, for she + Was married to a mummy, a machine. + Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. + Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen + Case of his violin. She saw the clean + Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge + Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. + + A heavy cart went by, a distant bell + Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. + She was alone. Her throat began to swell + With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? + The violin she had begun to hate + Lay in its case before her. Here she flung + The cover open. With the fiddle swung + + Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking + Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused + The little door in it came open, flicking + A wooden cuckoo out: "Cuckoo!" It caused + The forest dream to come again. "Cuckoo!" + Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. + + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" the clock kept striking on; + But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. + + + + +The Cross-Roads + + + +A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a +woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as +in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows, cold dawn +creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, creeping over his +cold body, creeping across his cold face. A glaze of thin yellow +sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howling through bent branches. A +wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing. The gazing eyes glitter +in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open and the eyes glitter. + + +The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching. +Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, +scattering; tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging +branches apart, drawing them together, whispering and whining among +them. A waning, lopsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream +of pebbles and earth and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, +then is rammed again into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and +horses. Squeaking of wheels. + +"Whoa! Ready, Jim?" + +"All ready." + +Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin. + +"Give us the stake, Jim. Now." + +Pound! Pound! + +"He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground." + +An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him. He +is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway, +and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet in +his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. + + +Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his +body, and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick +held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of +green. Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley +at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young +green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the +chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under +her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his +correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the +sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a +moan. The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and +over, tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves, and a +sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees. + +The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking--rocking, and all the branches +are knocking--knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate, the +branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage +is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing. The +stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms. The blue spots +widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well in the deep, black +ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground. + + +Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away; +it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the +stake is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly +jewelled with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises. +Down the road to Tilbury, silence--and the slow flapping of large +leaves. Down the road to Sutton, silence--and the darkness of +heavy-foliaged trees. Down the road to Wayfleet, silence--and the +whirring scrape of insects in the branches. Down the road to +Edgarstown, silence--and stars like stepping-stones in a pathway +overhead. It is very quiet at the cross-roads, and the sign-board +points the way down the four roads, endlessly points the way where +nobody wishes to go. + +A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide, still +leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes; +silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury +way; riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from +Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze all +of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down. +Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves +away from the sign-post. An oath--spurs--a blurring of grey mist. A +quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing down the +Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him. + +The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from +flesh, has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and +clamping them down in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged +through ribs and spine. The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but +the stake holds them still in line. The breeze goes down, and the round +stars shine, for the stake holds the fleshless bones in line. + + +Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself +away; it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. +Only flaky bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not +one bone is knit to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, +but upright still, and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a +straight line. + +Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the +trees. The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow +ways, saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust +blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do +more; it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind +comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet. The wind +reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post. Wind again, +wheels and feet louder. Wind again--again--again. A drop of rain, +flat into the dust. Drop!--Drop! Thick heavy raindrops, and a +shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their leaves. + +Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road, +comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard at +Wayfleet. Feet and wheels--feet and wheels. And among them one who +is carried. + +The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver +through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together in a +little puffing of dust. + +Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession, +now well along the Wayfleet road. + +He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like +smoke, his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the +pouring rain, he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting +down the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers +among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under, +blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke. +There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear, and after it +laughter--laughter--laughter, skirling up to the black sky. +Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap of thunder. +Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels. + + + + + +A Roxbury Garden + + + + I + + Hoops + + Blue and pink sashes, + Criss-cross shoes, + Minna and Stella run out into the garden + To play at hoop. + + Up and down the garden-paths they race, + In the yellow sunshine, + Each with a big round hoop + White as a stripped willow-wand. + + Round and round turn the hoops, + Their diamond whiteness cleaving the yellow sunshine. + The gravel crunches and squeaks beneath them, + And a large pebble springs them into the air + To go whirling for a foot or two + Before they touch the earth again + In a series of little jumps. + + Spring, Hoops! + Spit out a shower of blue and white brightness. + The little criss-cross shoes twinkle behind you, + The pink and blue sashes flutter like flags, + The hoop-sticks are ready to beat you. + Turn, turn, Hoops! In the yellow sunshine. + Turn your stripped willow whiteness + Along the smooth paths. + + Stella sings: + "Round and round, rolls my hoop, + Scarcely touching the ground, + With a swoop, + And a bound, + Round and round. + With a bumpety, crunching, scattering sound, + Down the garden it flies; + In our eyes + The sun lies. + See it spin + Out and in; + Through the paths it goes whirling, + About the beds curling. + Sway now to the loop, + Faster, faster, my hoop. + Round you come, + Up you come, + Quick and straight as before. + Run, run, my hoop, run, + Away from the sun." + + And the great hoop bounds along the path, + Leaping into the wind-bright air. + + Minna sings: + "Turn, hoop, + Burn hoop, + Twist and twine + Hoop of mine. + Flash along, + Leap along, + Right at the sun. + Run, hoop, run. + Faster and faster, + Whirl, twirl. + Wheel like fire, + And spin like glass; + Fire's no whiter + Glass is no brighter. + Dance, + Prance, + Over and over, + About and about, + With the top of you under, + And the bottom at top, + But never a stop. + Turn about, hoop, to the tap of my stick, + I follow behind you + To touch and remind you. + Burn and glitter, so white and quick, + Round and round, to the tap of a stick." + + The hoop flies along between the flower-beds, + Swaying the flowers with the wind of its passing. + + Beside the foxglove-border roll the hoops, + And the little pink and white bells shake and jingle + Up and down their tall spires; + They roll under the snow-ball bush, + And the ground behind them is strewn with white petals; + They swirl round a corner, + And jar a bee out of a Canterbury bell; + They cast their shadows for an instant + Over a bed of pansies, + Catch against the spurs of a columbine, + Jostle the quietness from a cluster of monk's-hood. + Pat! Pat! behind them come the little criss-cross shoes, + And the blue and pink sashes stream out in flappings of colour. + + Stella sings: + "Hoop, hoop, + Roll along, + Faster bowl along, + Hoop. + Slow, to the turning, + Now go!--Go! + Quick! + Here's the stick. + Rat-a-tap-tap it, + Pat it, flap it. + Fly like a bird or a yellow-backed bee, + See how soon you can reach that tree. + Here is a path that is perfectly straight. + Roll along, hoop, or we shall be late." + + Minna sings: + "Trip about, slip about, whip about + Hoop. + Wheel like a top at its quickest spin, + Then, dear hoop, we shall surely win. + First to the greenhouse and then to the wall + Circle and circle, + And let the wind push you, + Poke you, + Brush you, + And not let you fall. + Whirring you round like a wreath of mist. + Hoopety hoop, + Twist, + Twist." + + Tap! Tap! go the hoop-sticks, + And the hoops bowl along under a grape arbour. + For an instant their willow whiteness is green, + Pale white-green. + Then they are out in the sunshine, + Leaving the half-formed grape clusters + A-tremble under their big leaves. + + "I will beat you, Minna," cries Stella, + Hitting her hoop smartly with her stick. + "Stella, Stella, we are winning," calls Minna, + As her hoop curves round a bed of clove-pinks. + A humming-bird whizzes past Stella's ear, + And two or three yellow-and-black butterflies + Flutter, startled, out of a pillar rose. + Round and round race the little girls + After their great white hoops. + + Suddenly Minna stops. + Her hoop wavers an instant, + But she catches it up on her stick. + "Listen, Stella!" + Both the little girls are listening; + And the scents of the garden rise up quietly about them. + "It's the chaise! It's Father! + Perhaps he's brought us a book from Boston." + Twinkle, twinkle, the little criss-cross shoes + Up the garden path. + Blue--pink--an instant, against the syringa hedge. + But the hoops, white as stripped willow-wands, + Lie in the grass, + And the grasshoppers jump back and forth + Over them. + + + II + + Battledore and Shuttlecock + + The shuttlecock soars upward + In a parabola of whiteness, + Turns, + And sinks to a perfect arc. + Plat! the battledore strikes it, + And it rises again, + Without haste, + Winged and curving, + Tracing its white flight + Against the clipped hemlock-trees. + Plat! + Up again, + Orange and sparkling with sun, + Rounding under the blue sky, + Dropping, + Fading to grey-green + In the shadow of the coned hemlocks. + "Ninety-one." "Ninety-two." "Ninety-three." + The arms of the little girls + Come up--and up-- + Precisely, + Like mechanical toys. + The battledores beat at nothing, + And toss the dazzle of snow + Off their parchment drums. + "Ninety-four." Plat! + "Ninety-five." Plat! + Back and forth + Goes the shuttlecock, + Icicle-white, + Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds, + Overturning, + Falling, + Down, + And down, + Tinctured with pink + From the upthrusting shine + Of Oriental poppies. + + The little girls sway to the counting rhythm; + Left foot, + Right foot. + Plat! Plat! + Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores, + The parchment cracks with dryness; + But the shuttlecock + Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky, + Heaving up on the warm air + Like a foam-bubble on a wave, + With feathers slanted and sustaining. + Higher, + Until the earth turns beneath it; + Poised and swinging, + With all the garden flowing beneath it, + Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white-- + Blurred colour reflections in rippled water-- + Changing--streaming-- + For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm. + Then the shuttlecock relinquishes, + Bows, + Descends; + And the sharp blue spears of the air + Thrust it to earth. + + Again it mounts, + Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers, + Buoyed up and under by the shining heat. + Above the foxgloves, + Above the guelder-roses, + Above the greenhouse glitter, + Till the shafts of cooler air + Meet it, + Deflect it, + Reject it, + Then down, + Down, + Past the greenhouse, + Past the guelder-rose bush, + Past the foxgloves. + + "Ninety-nine," Stella's battledore springs to the impact. + Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string. + "Oh! Minna!" + The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly, + Out of orbit, + Hits the path, + And rolls over quite still. + Dead white feathers, + With a weight at the end. + + + III + + Garden Games + + The tall clock is striking twelve; + And the little girls stop in the hall to watch it, + And the big ships rocking in a half-circle + Above the dial. + Twelve o'clock! + Down the side steps + Go the little girls, + Under their big round straw hats. + Minna's has a pink ribbon, + Stella's a blue, + That is the way they know which is which. + Twelve o'clock! + An hour yet before dinner. + Mother is busy in the still-room, + And Hannah is making gingerbread. + + Slowly, with lagging steps, + They follow the garden-path, + Crushing a leaf of box for its acrid smell, + Discussing what they shall do, + And doing nothing. + + "Stella, see that grasshopper + Climbing up the bank! + What a jump! + Almost as long as my arm." + Run, children, run. + For the grasshopper is leaping away, + In half-circle curves, + Shuttlecock curves, + Over the grasses. + Hand in hand, the little girls call to him: + "Grandfather, grandfather gray, + Give me molasses, or I'll throw you away." + + The grasshopper leaps into the sunlight, + Golden-green, + And is gone. + + "Let's catch a bee." + Round whirl the little girls, + And up the garden. + Two heads are thrust among the Canterbury bells, + Listening, + And fingers clasp and unclasp behind backs + In a strain of silence. + + White bells, + Blue bells, + Hollow and reflexed. + Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness, + Cool wine-tunnels for bees. + There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head. + + "Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick!" + The wide mouth of a blossom + Is pressed together in Minna's fingers. + The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells, + And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand, + With the bee + Imprisoned in it. + Whirr! Buzz! Bump! + Bump! Whiz! Bang! + BANG!! + The blue flower tears across like paper, + And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. + + "If we could fly, we could catch him." + The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, + As she stares after the bee. + "We'll follow him in a dove chariot. + Come on, Stella." + Run, children, + Along the red gravel paths, + For a bee is hard to catch, + Even with a chariot of doves. + + Tall, still, and cowled, + Stand the monk's-hoods; + Taller than the heads of the little girls. + A blossom for Minna. + A blossom for Stella. + Off comes the cowl, + And there is a purple-painted chariot; + Off comes the forward petal, + And there are two little green doves, + With green traces tying them to the chariot. + "Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. + Fly, Doves, up in the sky, + With Minna and me, + After the bee." + + Up one path, + Down another, + Run the little girls, + Holding their dove chariots in front of them; + But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, + With his wings folded along his back. + + The dove chariots are thrown away, + And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, + Sucking the salvia tips, + And squeezing the snapdragons + To make them gape. + "I'm so hot, + Let's pick a pansy + And see the little man in his bath, + And play we're he." + A royal bath-tub, + Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. + The great purple-yellow wings + Rise up behind the little red and green man; + The purple-yellow wings fan him, + He dabbles his feet in cool green. + Off with the green sheath, + And there are two spindly legs. + "Heigho!" sighs Minna. + "Heigho!" sighs Stella. + There is not a flutter of wind, + And the sun is directly overhead. + + Along the edge of the garden + Walk the little girls. + Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, + Are dangling by the ribbons. + The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; + Buttercups and daisies streaming away + Up the hill. + The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; + The garden is hot with colours. + But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, + Cool, and long, and quiet. + The little girls pick buttercups + And hold them under each other's chins. + "You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. + You're going to be very rich, Minna." + "Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings + Just like Aunt Nancy's. + I wonder if he will. + I know. We'll tell fortunes. + That's what we'll do." + Plump down in the meadow grass, + Stella and Minna, + With their round yellow hats, + Like cheeses, + Beside them. + Drop, + Drop, + Daisy petals. + "One I love, + Two I love, + Three I love I say..." + The ground is peppered with daisy petals, + And the little girls nibble the golden centres, + And play it is cake. + + A bell rings. + Dinner-time; + And after dinner there are lessons. + + + + +1777 + + + + I + + The Trumpet-Vine Arbour + + The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, + And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight. + They bray and blare at the burning sky. + Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, + Trumpeted at the blue sky. + In long streaks of sound, molten metal, + The vine declares itself. + Clang!--from its red and yellow trumpets. + Clang!--from its long, nasal trumpets, + Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. + + I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight. + It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, + I only know that they are red and open, + And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat. + My quill is newly mended, + And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. + Down the long, white paper it makes little lines, + Just lines--up--down--criss-cross. + My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; + It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. + My hand marches to a squeaky tune, + It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. + My pen and the trumpet-flowers, + And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest. + "Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, + Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. + What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. + Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. + Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! + Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top + Through Father's spy-glass. + The red city, and the blue, bright water, + And puffs of smoke which you made. + Twenty miles away, + Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, + But the smoke was white--white! + To-day the trumpet-flowers are red--red-- + And I cannot see you fighting, + But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, + And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. + The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, + And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. + + + II + + The City of Falling Leaves + + Leaves fall, + Brown leaves, + Yellow leaves streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall again. + The brown leaves, + And the streaked yellow leaves, + Loosen on their branches + And drift slowly downwards. + One, + One, two, three, + One, two, five. + All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves-- + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + "That sonnet, Abate, + Beautiful, + I am quite exhausted by it. + Your phrases turn about my heart + And stifle me to swooning. + Open the window, I beg. + Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! + 'Tis really a shame to stop indoors. + Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. + Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! + See how straight the leaves are falling. + Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, + It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. + Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'? + You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey? + Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?" + "Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'? + A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, + And Venus herself shines less..." + "You bore me, Abate, + I vow I must change you! + A letter, Achmet? + Run and look out of the window, Abate. + I will read my letter in peace." + The little black slave with the yellow satin turban + Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. + His yellow turban and black skin + Are gorgeous--barbaric. + The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings + Lies on a chair + Beside a black mantle and a black mask. + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + The lady reads her letter, + And the leaves drift slowly + Past the long windows. + "How silly you look, my dear Abate, + With that great brown leaf in your wig. + Pluck it off, I beg you, + Or I shall die of laughing." + + A yellow wall + Aflare in the sunlight, + Chequered with shadows, + Shadows of vine leaves, + Shadows of masks. + Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, + Then passing on, + More masks always replacing them. + Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind + Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels, + The sunlight shining under their insteps. + One, + One, two, + One, two, three, + There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, + Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. + Yellow sunlight and black shadows, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + Two masks stand together, + And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, + Marking the wall where they are not. + From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, + From elbow to sword-hilt, + The leaf falls. + The shadows mingle, + Blur together, + Slide along the wall and disappear. + Gold of mosaics and candles, + And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. + Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections. + A cloak brushes aside, + And the yellow of satin + Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement. + Under the gold crucifixes + There is a meeting of hands + Reaching from black mantles. + Sighing embraces, bold investigations, + Hide in confessionals, + Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. + Gorgeous--barbaric + In its mail of jewels and gold, + Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks; + And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, + Flutter, + Fall. + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + Blue-black, the sky over Venice, + With a pricking of yellow stars. + There is no moon, + And the waves push darkly against the prow + Of the gondola, + Coming from Malamocco + And streaming toward Venice. + It is black under the gondola hood, + But the yellow of a satin dress + Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. + Yellow compassed about with darkness, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + The boatman sings, + It is Tasso that he sings; + The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, + And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. + But at Malamocco in front, + In Venice behind, + Fall the leaves, + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall. + + + + + +BRONZE TABLETS + + + + +The Fruit Shop + + + + Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, + High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; + A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown + She pluckered her little brows into + As she picked her dainty passage through + The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle, + A dirty pathway, we need rain, + My poor fruits suffer, and the shell + Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain + Here in the sun it has shrunk again. + The baker down at the corner says + We need a battle to shake the clouds; + But I am a man of peace, my ways + Don't look to the killing of men in crowds. + Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds! + Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun. + Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool + In here, for the green leaves I have run + In a curtain over the door, make a pool + Of shade. You see the pears on that stool-- + The shadow keeps them plump and fair." + Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves + Held back the sun, a greenish flare + Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves + Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves, + Shot from the golden letters, broke + And splintered to little scattered lights. + Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke + Bonnet tilted itself to rights, + And her face looked out like the moon on nights + Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I + Want gooseberries, an apple or two, + Or excellent plums, but not if they're high; + Haven't you some which a strong wind blew? + I've only a couple of francs for you." + Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands. + What could he do, the times were sad. + A couple of francs and such demands! + And asking for fruits a little bad. + Wind-blown indeed! He never had + Anything else than the very best. + He pointed to baskets of blunted pears + With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest, + All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears. + Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears. + He took up a pear with tender care, + And pressed it with his hardened thumb. + "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there + Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come + Only from having a dish at home. + And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine, + Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey. + They're only this morning off the vine, + And I paid for them down in silver money. + The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony + Brought them in at sunrise to-day. + Those oranges--Gold! They're almost red. + They seem little chips just broken away + From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead + You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay, + When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray. + Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs, + They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships + Make it a little hard for our rigs. + They must be forever giving the slips + To the cursed English, and when men clips + Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts + A bit in price. Those almonds now, + I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts + A life or two in a nigger row + With the man who grew them, it does seem how + They would come dear; and then the fight + At sea perhaps, our boats have heels + And mostly they sail along at night, + But once in a way they're caught; one feels + Ivory's not better nor finer--why peels + From an almond kernel are worth two sous. + It's hard to sell them now," he sighed. + "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose. + There's plenty of cheaper things to choose." + He picked some currants out of a wide + Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue + Almost fly out to suck them, bride + Currants they are, they were planted long + Ago for some new Marquise, among + Other great beauties, before the Chateau + Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife, + He that marched off to his death at Marengo, + Sells them to me; she keeps her life + From snuffing out, with her pruning knife. + She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade + When her man was young, and the young Marquis + Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made + All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he + Was no friend to the people, and so they laid + Some charge against him, a cavalcade + Of citizens took him away; they meant + Well, but I think there was some mistake. + He just pottered round in his garden, bent + On growing things; we were so awake + In those days for the New Republic's sake. + He's gone, and the garden is all that's left + Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots, + And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft + Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots, + Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft + Or worm among them, and as for theft, + How the old woman keeps them I cannot say, + But they're finer than any grown this way." + Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring + Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down + And shook it, two coins fell with a ding + Of striking silver, beneath her gown + One rolled, the other lay, a thing + Sparked white and sharply glistening, + In a drop of sunlight between two shades. + She jerked the purse, took its empty ends + And crumpled them toward the centre braids. + The whole collapsed to a mass of blends + Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends + We have always been. In the days before + The Great Revolution my aunt was kind + When you needed help. You need no more; + 'Tis we now who must beg at your door, + And will you refuse?" The little man + Bustled, denied, his heart was good, + But times were hard. He went to a pan + And poured upon the counter a flood + Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood. + He took a melon with rough green rind + And rubbed it well with his apron tip. + Then he hunted over the shop to find + Some walnuts cracking at the lip, + And added to these a barberry slip + Whose acrid, oval berries hung + Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round + Basket, with handles, from where it swung + Against the wall, laid it on the ground + And filled it, then he searched and found + The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall. + "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?" + She smiled, "The next time that I call, + Monsieur. You know that very well." + 'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell. + Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed. + She took her basket and stepped out. + The sunlight was so bright it flashed + Her eyes to blindness, and the rout + Of the little street was all about. + Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed. + The heavy basket was a care. + She heard a shout and almost grazed + The panels of a chaise and pair. + The postboy yelled, and an amazed + Face from the carriage window gazed. + She jumped back just in time, her heart + Beating with fear. Through whirling light + The chaise departed, but her smart + Was keen and bitter. In the white + Dust of the street she saw a bright + Streak of colours, wet and gay, + Red like blood. Crushed but fair, + Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way. + Monsieur Popain joined her there. + "Tiens, Mademoiselle, + c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!" + + + + +Malmaison + + + +I + +How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, +beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, +over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like +ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the +sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and +curving river. A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom +at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the +Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and +powdered with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! +Roses with smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves... Roses +... They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her +shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would +be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely. + + +The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles in +the sun. + + +II + +Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people, +and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, and your +children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come in a +'caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates, +you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your +master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle +and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for +joy at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman +here for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to +gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That--all green, and +red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony--that is a slave; a +bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to +cure your tongue of idle whispering. + + +A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees. + + +"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I +pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her +prophecy! My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them +away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb--Imperial, but.. +. My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, +no, Bonaparte, not that--spare me that--did we not bury that last +night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, +Dear, no, thank God, not long." + +The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting +dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely +milkily white. + +The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for +roses? Smooth, open petals--her arms. Fragrant, outcurved +petals--her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch +the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open +roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the +tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with +canvas. + + +III + +The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of +the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer +gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his +charger kicking. 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and +groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is +changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along +the roads toward Paris. + +The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely, +the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now +for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and +fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique +temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges +of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new +flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the +roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing, +trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, and +spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping of clocked and +embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth +grass-plots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide +through trees--mingle--separate--white day fireflies flashing +moon-brilliance in the shade of foliage. + +"The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos." + +"As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley and +feeding the cockatoos." + +"They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all +France." + +"And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted when the +First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?" + +Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the +trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line +bright with canvas. + +Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping. +The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. But he +picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, M. Le +Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, my +dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful +as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly, +warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than +running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests +as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose, +smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. A +rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it, resting upon +its leaves in a faintness of perfume. + + +There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women, +and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands on the +wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing the pink and +silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its smoothness into +pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame Bonaparte presses +against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed roses at her belt +melt, petal by petal, into the pink water. + + +IV + +A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress will +soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best not +consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce is not +for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are muddy. +The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart down and down, +edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage grows out of the +mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat. It is only Her Majesty's +dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. +Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose it is, but the +blinds are drawn. + +"In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the +gate without giving me a smile!" + +You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head in the +pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think about. + +Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming +to Malmaison to-night. + + +White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the +antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust. +Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth! + +Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her a +clock ticks--ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought with the +echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, but +the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come each +knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, and +cold pouring rain. + +"I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that I am +no more." + +Rain! Heavy, thudding rain! + + +V + +The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles, +geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. All the +year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, and +give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have +been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France. +There is the 'Bonapartea' from Peru; the 'Napoleone Imperiale'; the +'Josephinia Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the +calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as a +lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself +to hide the hollow within. + +The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter +reflections to the sailing sun. + +The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to console +herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, and +then patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won. +Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her +jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her +fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd +that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her +ingratitude. What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never +before. It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure? +Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes her +chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; her +grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper +who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of +shoes. She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes +masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The lady's affairs are in +sad confusion. + +And why? Why? + +Can a river flow when the spring is dry? + + +Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. The +clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old bit +of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. She is +soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing +against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress crushes +her breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds sail over +Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon. + + +Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of +soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial +harnesses, four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's +arms on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where +else under the Heavens could you see such splendour! + +They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel +of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale. +The house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire. +We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. She +draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. Her +soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her +of debts, of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she +shall see the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant. +But she is there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with +violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit +room. + +Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the +looping Seine. + + +VI + +Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks and +ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they have +forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! It +is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at +Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath +them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a +fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws back and watches. +Snatches of music--snarling, sneering music of bagpipes. They say a +Scotch regiment is besieging Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face, +or is it his eyes. His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long +for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer, +somebody else does that. There are voices, but one voice he does not +hear, and yet he hears it all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts up +his hand to screen his face. The white light of a bright cloud spears +sharply through the linden-trees. 'Vive l'Empereur!' There are troops +passing beyond the wall, troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose +is jarred off its stem and falls at the Emperor's feet. + +"Very well. I go." Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to +clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a +click. + +"Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses." + +A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of +dust. + + +VII + +Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the +sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are +broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage +and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old +recollections. + +The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the +gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you +touch it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through +a chink in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky +toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct. + + + + +The Hammers + + + + I + + Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 + + Bang! + Bang! + Tap! + Tap-a-tap! Rap! + All through the lead and silver Winter days, + All through the copper of Autumn hazes. + Tap to the red rising sun, + Tap to the purple setting sun. + Four years pass before the job is done. + Two thousand oak trees grown and felled, + Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald, + Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks + With huge boles + Round which the tape rolls + Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks. + Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir; + Planking from Dantzig. + My! What timber goes into a ship! + Tap! Tap! + Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways, + Tapping, tapping. + You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze. + Through the fog down the reaches of the river, + The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever. + The church-bells chime + Hours and hours, + Dropping days in showers. + Bang! Rap! Tap! + Go the hammers all the time. + They have planked up her timbers + And the nails are driven to the head; + They have decked her over, + And again, and again. + The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain. + Black and blue breeches, + Pigtails bound and shining: + Like ants crawling about, + The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out. + Joiners, calkers, + And they are all terrible talkers. + Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales + Of whales, and spice islands, + And pirates off the Barbary coast. + He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails. + Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice, + He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings: + "The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: + While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, + A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, + Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; + Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!" + Every Sunday + People come in crowds + (After church-time, of course) + In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, + And some have brought cold chicken and flagons + Of wine, + And beer in stoppered jugs. + "Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. + There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham." + + The third Summer's roses have started in to blow, + When the fine stern carving is begun. + Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls, + Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls. + Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place. + Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace. + The Three Town's people never saw such grace. + And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf! + Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief. + And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky + Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry. + Oh, my! Oh, my! + They have coppered up the bottom, + And the copper nails + Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails. + Bang! Clash! Bang! + "And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, + And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, + And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, + And swore there was nothing like grog." + It seems they sing, + Even though coppering is not an easy thing. + What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman, + Say the people of the Three Towns, + As they walk about the dockyard + To the sound of the evening church-bells. + And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour. + What immense taste and labour! + Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet, + Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it, + When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky; + Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky, + She explains. + Mr. Nichols says he is delighted + (He is the firm); + His work is all requited + If Miss Jessie can approve. + Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love". + The sides are yellow as marigold, + The port-lids are red when the ports are up: + Blood-red squares like an even chequer + Of yellow asters and portulaca. + There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline + And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine. + The inner bulwarks are painted red. + "Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note." + Mr. Nichols clears his throat, + And tells her the launching day is set. + He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet." + But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown + Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down. + "It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown. + + Tap! Tap! Rap! + An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind. + Three broad flags ripple out behind + Where the masts will be: + Royal Standard at the main, + Admiralty flag at the fore, + Union Jack at the mizzen. + The hammers tap harder, faster, + They must finish by noon. + The last nail is driven. + But the wind has increased to half a gale, + And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways. + The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming + In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs; + The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King"; + And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches. + The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers. + The wind hums over the ship, + And slips round the dog-shores, + Jostling them almost to falling. + There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands. + Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands. + He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below: + "Let her go!" + Bang! Bang! Pound! + The dog-shores fall to the ground, + And the ship slides down the greased planking. + A splintering of glass, + And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers. + "Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!" + And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway. + + + II + + Paris, March, 1814 + + Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor. + Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris. + Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters: + "Martin--Parfumeur", and something more. + A large gilded wooden something. + Listen! What a ringing of hammers! + Tap! + Tap! + Squeak! + Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap! + "Blaise." + "Oui, M'sieu." + "Don't touch the letters. My name stays." + "Bien, M'sieu." + "Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees." + "As M'sieu pleases." + Tap! Squeak! Tap! + The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two, + Then stops. + "He! Patron! + They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien! + What if I break them?" + "Break away, + You and Paul must have them down to-day." + "Bien." + And the hammers start again, + Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood. + Sunshine in a golden flood + Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses, + Glittering each window to a flash. + Squeak! Squeak! Tap! + The hammers beat and rap. + A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash. + From other shops, the noise of striking blows: + Pounds, thumps, and whacks; + Wooden sounds: splinters--cracks. + Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers. + "Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack + That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back + And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole. + I've just been taking a stroll. + The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees. + I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils. + Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills + Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go + Out of business if you lived in Russia. So! + We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we? + Blaise, + Be careful of the hen, + Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days. + That eagle's rather well cut, Martin. + But I'm sick of smelling Cossack, + Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack + Of orris-root and musk." + Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk + Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass, + Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass + Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold. + Gold and glass, + And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass. + The perfumer sits down and shakes his head: + "Always the same, Monsieur Antoine, + You artists are wonderful folk indeed." + But Antoine Vernet does not heed. + He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls, + Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls. + "What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique.' + I must say, mon cher, your names are chic. + But it won't do, positively it will not do. + Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another: + 'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother + Regrets. A little lubricant, too, + Might be useful. I have it, + 'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit + This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale." + "Monsieur Antoine, don't rail + At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly." + "And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely." + "Heaven forbid!" Bang! Whack! + Squeak! Squeak! Crack! + CRASH! + "Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash. + The whole street is covered with golden bees. + They look like so many yellow peas, + Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it. + 'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it + Might take with the Kings. Shall I try?" "Oh, Sir, + You distress me, you do." "Poor old Martin's purr! + But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know. + Now let us get back to the powders and patches. + Foolish man, + The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan + To change all these titles as fast as we can. + 'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink-- + 'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think? + Not the same receipt? + Now, Martin, put away your conceit. + Who will ever know? + 'Extract of Nobility'--excellent, since most of them are killed." + "But, Monsieur Antoine--" + "You are self-willed, + Martin. You need a salve + For your conscience, do you? + Very well, we'll halve + The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices; + Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses. + 'Oil of Bitter Almonds'--the Empress Josephine can have that. + 'Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat." + Rap! Rap! Bang! + "What a hideous clatter! + Blaise seems determined to batter + That poor old turkey into bits, + And pound to jelly my excellent wits. + Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk. + 'The night cometh soon'--etc. Don't jerk + Me up like that. 'Essence de la Valliere'-- + That has a charmingly Bourbon air. + And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this!-- + 'Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amiss + With that--England, Austria, Russia and Prussia! + Martin, you're a wonder, + Upheavals of continents can't keep you under." + "Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed + At such levity. What France has gone through--" + "Very true, Martin, very true, + But never forget that a man must feed." + Pound! Pound! Thump! + Pound! + "Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground." + Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well, what then?--" + Antoine, with a laugh: "I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen." + The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous, + And the lilies go up. + A man must choose! + + + III + + Paris, April, 1814 + + Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate, + Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate, + Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! Rap! Chink! + What falls to the ground like a streak of flame? + Hush! It is only a bit of bronze flashing in the sun. + What are all those soldiers? Those are not the uniforms of France. + Alas! No! The uniforms of France, Great Imperial France, are done. + They will rot away in chests and hang to dusty tatters in barn lofts. + These are other armies. And their name? + Hush, be still for shame; + Be still and imperturbable like the marble arch. + Another bright spark falls through the blue air. + Over the Place du Carrousel a wailing of despair. + Crowd your horses back upon the people, Uhlans and Hungarian Lancers, + They see too much. + Unfortunately, Gentlemen of the Invading Armies, what they do not see, + they hear. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! + Another sharp spear + Of brightness, + And a ringing of quick metal lightness + On hard stones. + Workmen are chipping off the names of Napoleon's victories + From the triumphal arch of the Place du Carrousel. + + Do they need so much force to quell the crowd? + An old Grenadier of the line groans aloud, + And each hammer tap points the sob of a woman. + Russia, Prussia, Austria, and the faded-white-lily Bourbon king + Think it well + To guard against tumult, + A mob is an undependable thing. + Ding! Ding! + Vienna is scattered all over the Place du Carrousel + In glittering, bent, and twisted letters. + Your betters have clattered over Vienna before, + Officer of his Imperial Majesty our Father-in-Law! + Tink! Tink! + A workman's chisel can strew you to the winds, + Munich. + Do they think + To pleasure Paris, used to the fall of cities, + By giving her a fall of letters! + + It is a month too late. + One month, and our lily-white Bourbon king + Has done a colossal thing; + He has curdled love, + And soured the desires of a people. + Still the letters fall, + The workmen creep up and down their ladders like lizards on a wall. + Tap! Tap! Tink! + Clink! Clink! + "Oh, merciful God, they will not touch Austerlitz! + Strike me blind, my God, my eyes can never look on that. + I would give the other leg to save it, it took one. + Curse them! Curse them! Aim at his hat. + Give me the stone. Why didn't you give it to me? + I would not have missed. Curse him! + Curse all of them! They have got the 'A'!" + Ding! Ding! + "I saw the Terror, but I never saw so horrible a thing as this. + 'Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'" + "Don't strike him, Fritz. + The mob will rise if you do. + Just run him out to the 'quai', + That will get him out of the way. + They are almost through." + Clink! Tink! Ding! + Clear as the sudden ring + Of a bell + "Z" strikes the pavement. + Farewell, Austerlitz, Tilsit, Presbourg; + Farewell, greatness departed. + Farewell, Imperial honours, knocked broadcast by the beating hammers + of ignorant workmen. + Straight, in the Spring moonlight, + Rises the deflowered arch. + In the silence, shining bright, + She stands naked and unsubdued. + Her marble coldness will endure the march + Of decades. + Rend her bronzes, hammers; + Cast down her inscriptions. + She is unconquerable, austere, + Cold as the moon that swims above her + When the nights are clear. + + + IV + + Croissy, Ile-de-France, June, 1815 + + "Whoa! Victorine. + Devil take the mare! I've never seen so vicious a beast. + She kicked Jules the last time she was here, + He's been lame ever since, poor chap." + Rap! Tap! + Tap-a-tap-a-tap! Tap! Tap! + "I'd rather be lame than dead at Waterloo, M'sieu Charles." + "Sacre Bleu! Don't mention Waterloo, and the damned grinning British. + We didn't run in the old days. + There wasn't any running at Jena. + Those were decent days, + And decent men, who stood up and fought. + We never got beaten, because we wouldn't be. + See!" + "You would have taught them, wouldn't you, Sergeant Boignet? + But to-day it's everyone for himself, + And the Emperor isn't what he was." + "How the Devil do you know that? + If he was beaten, the cause + Is the green geese in his army, led by traitors. + Oh, I say no names, Monsieur Charles, + You needn't hammer so loud. + If there are any spies lurking behind the bellows, + I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!" + The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot poker + And advances, brandishing it, into the shadows. + The rows of horses flick + Placid tails. + Victorine gives a savage kick + As the nails + Go in. Tap! Tap! + Jules draws a horseshoe from the fire + And beats it from red to peacock-blue and black, + Purpling darker at each whack. + Ding! Dang! Dong! + Ding-a-ding-dong! + It is a long time since any one spoke. + Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes, + "Well," he sighs, + "He's broke." + The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows. + "It's the green geese, I tell you, + Their hearts are all whites and yellows, + There's no red in them. Red! + That's what we want. Fouche should be fed + To the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole. + That would breed jolly fine lick-bloods + To lead his armies to victory." + "Ancient history, Sergeant. + He's done." + "Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and I'll stun + You where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist." + The Sergeant gives the poker a savage twist; + He is as purple as the cooling horseshoes. + The air from the bellows creaks through the flues. + Tap! Tap! The blacksmith shoes Victorine, + And through the doorway a fine sheen + Of leaves flutters, with the sun between. + By a spurt of fire from the forge + You can see the Sergeant, with swollen gorge, + Puffing, and gurgling, and choking; + The bellows keep on croaking. + They wheeze, + And sneeze, + Creak! Bang! Squeeze! + And the hammer strokes fall like buzzing bees + Or pattering rain, + Or faster than these, + Like the hum of a waterfall struck by a breeze. + Clank! from the bellows-chain pulled up and down. + Clank! + And sunshine twinkles on Victorine's flank, + Starting it to blue, + Dropping it to black. + Clack! Clack! + Tap-a-tap! Tap! + Lord! What galloping! Some mishap + Is making that man ride so furiously. + "Francois, you! + Victorine won't be through + For another quarter of an hour." "As you hope to die, + Work faster, man, the order has come." + "What order? Speak out. Are you dumb?" + "A chaise, without arms on the panels, at the gate + In the far side-wall, and just to wait. + We must be there in half an hour with swift cattle. + You're a stupid fool if you don't hear that rattle. + Those are German guns. Can't you guess the rest? + Nantes, Rochefort, possibly Brest." + Tap! Tap! as though the hammers were mad. + Dang! Ding! Creak! The farrier's lad + Jerks the bellows till he cracks their bones, + And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans. + The Sergeant is lying on the floor + Stone dead, and his hat with the tricolore + Cockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays back + her ears. + What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears? + + + V + + St. Helena, May, 1821 + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Through the white tropic night. + Tap! Tap! + Beat the hammers, + Unwearied, indefatigable. + They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead. + Lustreless black cloth + Which chokes the radiance of the moonlight + And puts out the little moving shadows of leaves. + Tap! Tap! + The knocking makes the candles quaver, + And the long black hangings waver + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Tap! Tap! + In the ears which do not heed. + Tap! Tap! + Above the eyelids which do not flicker. + Tap! Tap! + Over the hands which do not stir. + Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings, + Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight, + A face! + Sharp as a frozen flame, + Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver, + And still. Perfectly still. + In the next room, the men chatter + As they eat their midnight lunches. + A knife hits against a platter. + But the figure on the bed + Between the stifling black hangings + Is cold and motionless, + Played over by the moonlight from the windows + And the indistinct shadows of leaves. + + Tap! Tap! + Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown. + Tap! Tap! + Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shop + in Jamestown. + He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing, + Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring, + Working from a chart with figures, + Comparing with their rules, + Setting this and that part together with their tools. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Haste indeed! + So great is the need + That carpenters have been taken from the new church, + Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecterns + To work of greater urgency. + Coffins! + Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning. + Coffins--and all to measurement. + There is a tin coffin, + A deal coffin, + A lead coffin, + And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-table + Has been sawed up for the grand outer coffin. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Sunshine outside in the square, + But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them. + The men whistle, + And the coffins grow under their hammers + In the darkness of the shop. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + + Tramp of men. + Steady tramp of men. + Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails + Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders + March slowly along the road to Longwood. + Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road; + Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders. + Four coffins for the little dead man, + Four fine coffins, + And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table! + And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able + And of assured neutrality. + Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co. + Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow. + Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England! + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Marble likeness of an Emperor, + Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow, + The hammers drum you to your last throne + Which always you shall hold alone. + Tap! Tap! + The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire, + Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyre + In a twilit room. + Here is the emptiness of your dream + Scattered about you. + Coins of yesterday, + Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor, + Strange as those of Herculaneum-- + And you just dead! + Not one spool of thread + Will these buy in any market-place. + Lay them over him, + They are the baubles of a crown of mist + Worn in a vision and melted away at waking. + Tap! Tap! + His heart strained at kingdoms + And now it is content with a silver dish. + Strange World! Strange Wayfarer! + Strange Destiny! + Lower it gently beside him and let it lie. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + + + + +Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + + Reign of Louis Philippe + + + + A great tall column spearing at the sky + With a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why? + He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high. + + What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play, + Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away, + High-crowned hat which the brims overlay. + + Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow. + Must have a sword, I can see the light glow + Between a dark line and his leg. Vertigo + + I get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun. + A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one? + As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne. + + Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn? + Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn, + A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn? + + But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress? + I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess. + Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes-- + + I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all. + I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall. + Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small. + + What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there, + With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declare + Those spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair. + + A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feel + As though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel, + Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel. + + Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's, + Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns. + Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns. + + How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies. + That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies. + Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes! + + + + + +WAR PICTURES + + + + +The Allies + +August 14th, 1914 + + + +Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging +cry of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the +head of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching +men. Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. +The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky. + +This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a +cause? + +Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle +is red and its head is flame. + + +In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher. + +His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at +the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, +and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, +"God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new +shoots." + +His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in +the shoulder of the worm. + + +A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet. + +He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. +He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. The +sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and +rippling. They cool his heart. + +He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity, +and loveliness printed on white paper. + + +The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills. + +He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck +away his men. + +But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying +stars, and there are no more wars. + + +Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers--men, sway and +sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure +roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the +eagle and his scorching sword. + +One! Two!--One! Two!--clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles +against the sky. + +Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it +lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the +eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the +battle, stubbornly. + +This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: +PEACE! + + + + +The Bombardment + + + +Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment +on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and +trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a +gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral +square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep +about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, +again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil +from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! + + +The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the +firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of +rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the 'etagere'. Her hands are +restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will +it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration +shatters a glass on the 'etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, +with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, +blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. +The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! +Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my +father brought it--" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. +Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom! + + +It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is +shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his +ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced +with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses +itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin +he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp +in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, +bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and +higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The +fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and +flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, +the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom!--Boom!--Boom! He +stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in +fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! +Boom! + + +A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made +the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my +Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the +room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! +"Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. +The house trembles and creaks. Boom! + + +Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing +across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, +goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is +his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. +Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. +Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see +the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and +the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the +lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms +the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round +the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the +night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on +the white, wet night. + + +Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to +scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the 'etagere' is no longer there. +Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old +lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. +Boom!--Boom!--Boom! + + +The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of +silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. +The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run +the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its +gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and +lisps and chuckles along the floors. + + +The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower +flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the +ceiling beams. + + +The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning +Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter +and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly +and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple +crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes +along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom! + + + + +Lead Soldiers + + + +The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions +and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets +peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a +night of victorious wars. + +The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, +slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into +the air and nods--forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a +crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green +eyes stare into the air, and he nods--nods. + + + Tommy's soldiers march to battle, + Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle. + Bayonets flash, and sabres glance-- + How the horses snort and prance! + Cannon drawn up in a line + Glitter in the dizzy shine + Of the morning sunlight. Flags + Ripple colours in great jags. + Red blows out, then blue, then green, + Then all three--a weaving sheen + Of prismed patriotism. March + Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch, + Boldly stepping to the rattle + Of the drums, they go to battle. + + +Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts +his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their +instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers, +and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from +the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The +song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet. +Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a +squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool. + + +The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods--nods. The fire +makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold +song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle. + +Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney. + + + Tommy's army's off to war-- + Not a soldier knows what for. + But he knows about his rifle, + How to shoot it, and a trifle + Of the proper thing to do + When it's he who is shot through. + Like a cleverly trained flea, + He can follow instantly + Orders, and some quick commands + Really make severe demands + On a mind that's none too rapid, + Leaden brains tend to the vapid. + But how beautifully dressed + Is this army! How impressed + Tommy is when at his heel + All his baggage wagons wheel + About the patterned carpet, and + Moving up his heavy guns + He sees them glow with diamond suns + Flashing all along each barrel. + And the gold and blue apparel + Of his gunners is a joy. + Tommy is a lucky boy. + Boom! Boom! Ta-ra! + +The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand +shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and +shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles. + + +Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must +pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the +wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading +the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has +flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie +overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks +glistening to the fire's shine. + +The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its +sparkles. + +The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and +steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the +hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song +jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still +upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers +all bright and new? + + + Tommy's leaden soldiers we, + Glittering with efficiency. + Not a button's out of place, + Tons and tons of golden lace + Wind about our officers. + Every manly bosom stirs + At the thought of killing--killing! + Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling. + We are gaudy, savage, strong, + And our loins so ripe we long + First to kill, then procreate, + Doubling so the laws of Fate. + On their women we have sworn + To graft our sons. And overborne + They'll rear us younger soldiers, so + Shall our race endure and grow, + Waxing greater in the wombs + Borrowed of them, while damp tombs + Rot their men. O Glorious War! + Goad us with your points, Great Star! + + + +The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and +back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles, +thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured +snakes. + +The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old +man nods. + + +Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new, +gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud +and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the +door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees +to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his +soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky +boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy. + + +Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the +pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The +pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its +lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is +not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a +spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, +new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, +lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the +painted uniforms. + + +The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose +is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers +under his purple umbrella, and nods--forward and back, staring into +the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a +rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to +the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and +grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from +the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly +forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream +of blood. + + +The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the +chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars. + + + + +The Painter on Silk + + + + There was a man + Who made his living + By painting roses + Upon silk. + + He sat in an upper chamber + And painted, + And the noises of the street + Meant nothing to him. + + When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, + He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses + Bursting in the sunshine, + And smiled as he worked. + + He thought only of roses, + And silk. + When he could get no more silk + He stopped painting + And only thought + Of roses. + + The day the conquerors + Entered the city, + The old man + Lay dying. + He heard the bugles and drums, + And wished he could paint the roses + Bursting into sound. + + + + +A Ballad of Footmen + + + + Now what in the name of the sun and the stars + Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars? + + Do men find life so full of humour and joy + That for want of excitement they smash up the toy? + + Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses + All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" + + Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears, + And nine nations of women choking with tears. + + It is folly to think that the will of a king + Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing + + They value, and life is, at least one supposes, + Of some little interest, even if roses + + Have not grown up between one foot and the other. + What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smother + + Such quite elementary feelings, and tag + A man with a number, and set him to wag + + His legs and his arms at the word of command + Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned, + + Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace + And an upturned moustache can set him to face + + Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, + Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases. + + If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, + With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day," + + Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? + A king and his minions are really so few. + + Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! + But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or + + The dire results which could not be inflicted. + With no one to execute sentence, convicted + + Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. + What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows! + + To be killing each other, unmercifully, + At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea." + + Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws + They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws + + So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking + More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking. + + I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows, + And, as to men--what are men, when their marrows + + Are running with blood they have gulped; it is plain + Such excellent sport does not recollect pain. + + Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mast + The flags which meant order, for order is past. + + Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head, + The civilization we've worked for is dead. + + Squeeze into this archway, the head of the line + Has just swung round the corner to 'Die Wacht am Rhein'. + + + + + +THE OVERGROWN PASTURE + + + + +Reaping + + + + You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer? + My! ain't men blinder'n moles? + It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that. + Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed + Me changin' under your very nose, + Each day a little diff'rent. + But you never see nothin', you don't. + Don't touch me, Jake, + Don't you dars't to touch me, + I ain't in no humour. + That's what's come over me; + Jest a change clear through. + You lay still, an' I'll tell yer, + I've had it on my mind to tell yer + Fer some time. + It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night, + An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now. + An' don't make any mistake about one thing, + When I married yer I loved yer. + Why, your voice 'ud make + Me go hot and cold all over, + An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'. + Lord! I was a silly fool. + But that's the way 'twas. + Well, I married yer + An' thought Heav'n was comin' + To set on the door-step. + Heav'n didn't do no settin', + Though the first year warn't so bad. + The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess, + An' then I took her death real hard, + An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man. + I ain't blamin' yer exactly. + But that's how 'twas. + Do lay quiet, + I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought. + There come a time when I got to be + More wife agin than mother. + The mother part was sort of a waste + When we didn't have no other child. + But you'd got used ter lots o' things, + An' you was all took up with the farm. + Many's the time I've laid awake + Watchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree, + Out o' sight. + I'd foller yer around like a dog, + An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in, + Jest to feel its arms around me, + So long's I didn't have yours. + It preyed on me, I guess, + Longin' and longin' + While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night. + Yes, I know you're wide awake now, + But now ain't then, + An' I guess you'll think diff'rent + When I'm done. + Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock? + I didn't want to stay home for reasons, + But you said someone 'd have to be here + 'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone. + An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer, + Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes, + Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'. + But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin', + An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter! + 'Twas a lovely mornin'. + The apple-trees was jest elegant + With their blossoms all flared out, + An' there warn't a cloud in the sky. + You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said, + An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile, + The air was so still. + Then Elmer come. + It's no use your frettin', Jake, + I'll tell you all about it. + I know what I'm doin', + An' what's worse, I know what I done. + Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits, + An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go, + An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either, + I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer, + An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin' + An' gittin' no comfort. + I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things. + He stayed to dinner, + An' he helped me do the dishes, + An' he said a home was a fine thing, + An' I said dishes warn't a home + Nor yet the room they're in. + He said a lot o' things, + An' I fended him off at first, + But he got talkin' all around me, + Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin', + What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake, + You know. + He got all he wanted, + An' I give it to him, + An' what's more, I'm glad! + I ain't dead, anyway, + An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'. + Keep away, Jake, + You can kill me to-morrer if you want to, + But I'm goin' to have my say. + Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man. + Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months. + I don't want to pretend nothin', + Mebbe if he'd be'n lately + I shouldn't have told yer. + I'll go away in the mornin', o' course. + What you want the light fer? + I don't look no diff'rent. + Ain't the moon bright enough + To look at a woman that's deceived yer by? + Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now! + It ain't a question of forgiveness. + Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute; + It ain't decent. + Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way! + + + + +Off the Turnpike + + + + Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest. + I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye. + Yes, it's all over. + All my things is packed + An' every last one o' them boxes + Is on Bradley's team + Bein' hauled over to th' depot. + No, I ain't goin' back agin. + I'm stoppin' over to French's fer to-night, + And goin' down first train in th' mornin'. + Yes, it do seem kinder queer + Not to be goin' to see Cherry's Orchard no more, + But Land Sakes! When a change's comin', + Why, I al'ays say it can't come too quick. + Now, that's real kind o' you, + Your doughnuts is always so tasty. + Yes, I'm goin' to Chicago, + To my niece, + She's married to a fine man, hardware business, + An' doin' real well, she tells me. + Lizzie's be'n at me to go out ther for the longest while. + She ain't got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you know + She's rented me a real nice little flat, + Same house as hers, + An' I'm goin' to try that city livin' folks say's so pleasant. + Oh, yes, he was real generous, + Paid me a sight o' money fer the Orchard; + I told him 'twouldn't yield nothin' but stones, + But he ain't farmin' it. + Lor', no, Mis' Priest, + He's jest took it to set and look at the view. + Mebbe he wouldn't be so stuck on the view + Ef he'd seed it every mornin' and night for forty year + Same's as I have. + I dessay it's pretty enough, + But it's so pressed into me + I c'n see't with my eyes shut. + No. I ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + Don't shut th' door. + I'll be all right in a minit. + But I ain't a mite sorry to leave that view. + Well, mebbe 'tis queer to feel so, + An' mebbe 'taint. + My! But that tea's revivin'. + Old things ain't always pleasant things, Mis' Priest. + No, no, I don't cal'late on comin' back, + That's why I'd ruther be to Chicago, + Boston's too near. + It ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + It's jest my thoughts. + I ain't sick, only-- + Mis' Priest, ef you've nothin' ter take yer time, + An' have a mind to listen, + Ther's somethin' I'd like ter speak about + I ain't never mentioned it, + But I'd like to tell yer 'fore I go. + Would you mind lowerin' them shades, + Fall twilight's awful grey, + An' that fire's real cosy with the shades drawed. + Well, I guess folks about here think I've be'n dret'ful onsociable. + You needn't say 'taint so, 'cause I know diff'rent. + An' what's more, it's true. + Well, the reason is I've be'n scared out o' my life. + Scared ev'ry minit o' th' time, fer eight year. + Eight mortal year 'tis, come next June. + 'Twas on the eighteenth o' June, + Six months after I'd buried my husband, + That somethin' happened ter me. + Mebbe you'll mind that afore that + I was a cheery body. + Hiram was too, + Al'ays liked to ask a neighbor in, + An' ev'n when he died, + Barrin' low sperrits, I warn't averse to seein' nobody. + But that eighteenth o' June changed ev'rythin'. + I was doin' most o' th' farmwork myself, + With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, 'twas, + Comin' in fer an hour or two. + Well, that eighteenth o' June + I was goin' round, + Lockin' up and seein' to things 'fore I went to bed. + I was jest steppin' out t' th' barn, + Goin' round outside 'stead o' through the shed, + 'Cause there was such a sight o' moonlight + Somehow or another I thought 'twould be pretty outdoors. + I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess. + I ain't stuck on 'em no more. + Well, them laylock bushes side o' th' house + Was real lovely. + Glitt'rin' and shakin' in the moonlight, + An' the smell o' them rose right up + An' most took my breath away. + The colour o' the spikes was all faded out, + They never keep their colour when the moon's on 'em, + But the smell fair 'toxicated me. + I was al'ays partial to a sweet scent, + An' I went close up t' th' bushes + So's to put my face right into a flower. + Mis' Priest, jest's I got breathin' in that laylock bloom + I saw, layin' right at my feet, + A man's hand! + It was as white's the side o' th' house, + And sparklin' like that lum'nous paint they put on gate-posts. + I screamed right out, + I couldn't help it, + An' I could hear my scream + Goin' over an' over + In that echo be'ind th' barn. + Hearin' it agin an' agin like that + Scared me so, I dar'sn't scream any more. + I jest stood ther, + And looked at that hand. + I thought the echo'd begin to hammer like my heart, + But it didn't. + There was only th' wind, + Sighin' through the laylock leaves, + An' slappin' 'em up agin the house. + Well, I guess I looked at that hand + Most ten minits, + An' it never moved, + Jest lay there white as white. + After a while I got to thinkin' that o' course + 'Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield. + That calmed me some, + An' I commenced to think I'd better git him out + From under them laylocks. + I planned to drag him in t' th' barn + An' lock him in ther till Clarence come in th' mornin'. + I got so mad thinkin' o' that all-fired brazen tramp + Asleep in my laylocks, + I jest stooped down and grabbed th' hand and give it an awful pull. + Then I bumped right down settin' on the ground. + Mis' Priest, ther warn't no body come with the hand. + No, it ain't cold, it's jest that I can't abear thinkin' of it, + Ev'n now. + I'll take a sip o' tea. + Thank you, Mis' Priest, that's better. + I'd ruther finish now I've begun. + Thank you, jest the same. + I dropped the hand's ef it'd be'n red hot + 'Stead o' ice cold. + Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grass + Pantin'. + Then I up and run to them laylocks + An' pulled 'em every which way. + True es I'm settin' here, Mis' Priest, + Ther warn't nothin' ther. + I peeked an' pryed all about 'em, + But ther warn't no man ther + Neither livin' nor dead. + But the hand was ther all right, + Upside down, the way I'd dropped it, + And glist'nin' fit to dazzle yer. + I don't know how I done it, + An' I don't know why I done it, + But I wanted to git that dret'ful hand out o' sight + I got in t' th' barn, somehow, + An' felt roun' till I got a spade. + I couldn't stop fer a lantern, + Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience. + Then I scooped that awful thing up in th' spade. + I had a sight o' trouble doin' it. + It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn't bear + Ev'n to touch it with my foot to prop it, + But I done it somehow. + Then I carried it off be'ind the barn, + Clost to an old apple-tree + Where you couldn't see from the house, + An' I buried it, + Good an' deep. + + I don't rec'lect nothin' more o' that night. + Clarence woke me up in th' mornin', + Hollerin' fer me to come down and set th' milk. + When he'd gone, + I stole roun' to the apple-tree + And seed the earth all new turned + Where I left it in my hurry. + I did a heap o' gardenin' + That mornin'. + I couldn't cut no big sods + Fear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted 'em fer, + So I got teeny bits o' turf here and ther, + And no one couldn't tell ther'd be'n any diggin' + When I got through. + They was awful days after that, Mis' Priest, + I used ter go every mornin' and poke about them bushes, + An' up and down the fence, + Ter find the body that hand come off of. + But I couldn't never find nothin'. + I'd lay awake nights + Hearin' them laylocks blowin' and whiskin'. + At last I had Clarence cut 'em down + An' make a big bonfire of 'em. + I told him the smell made me sick, + An' that warn't no lie, + I can't abear the smell on 'em now; + An' no wonder, es you say. + I fretted somethin' awful 'bout that hand + I wondered, could it be Hiram's, + But folks don't rob graveyards hereabouts. + Besides, Hiram's hands warn't that awful, starin' white. + I give up seein' people, + I was afeared I'd say somethin'. + You know what folks thought o' me + Better'n I do, I dessay, + But mebbe now you'll see I couldn't do nothin' diff'rent. + But I stuck it out, + I warn't goin' to be downed + By no loose hand, no matter how it come ther + But that ain't the worst, Mis' Priest, + Not by a long ways. + Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry's Orchard. + Well, I'd got used to th' thought o' bein' sort o' blighted, + An' I warn't scared no more. + Lived down my fear, I guess. + I'd kinder got used to th' thought o' that awful night, + And I didn't mope much about it. + Only I never went out o' doors by moonlight; + That stuck. + Well, when Mr. Densmore's offer come, + I started thinkin' 'bout the place + An' all the things that had gone on ther. + Thinks I, I guess I'll go and see where I put the hand. + I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by. + I know'd the place real well, + Fer I'd put it right in between two o' the apple roots. + I don't know what possessed me, Mis' Priest, + But I kinder wanted to know + That the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway. + It had sorter bothered me, thinkin' I might ha' imagined it. + I took a mornin' when the sun was real pleasant and warm; + I guessed I wouldn't jump for a few old bones. + But I did jump, somethin' wicked. + Ther warn't no bones! + Ther warn't nothin'! + Not ev'n the gold ring I'd minded bein' on the little finger. + I don't know ef ther ever was anythin'. + I've worried myself sick over it. + I be'n diggin' and diggin' day in and day out + Till Clarence ketched me at it. + Oh, I know'd real well what you all thought, + An' I ain't sayin' you're not right, + But I ain't goin' to end in no county 'sylum + If I c'n help it. + The shiv'rin' fits come on me sudden like. + I know 'em, don't you trouble. + I've fretted considerable about the 'sylum, + I guess I be'n frettin' all the time I ain't be'n diggin'. + But anyhow I can't dig to Chicago, can I? + Thank you, Mis' Priest, + I'm better now. I only dropped in in passin'. + I'll jest be steppin' along down to French's. + No, I won't be seein' nobody in the mornin', + It's a pretty early start. + Don't you stand ther, Mis' Priest, + The wind'll blow yer lamp out, + An' I c'n see easy, I got aholt o' the gate now. + I ain't a mite tired, thank you. + Good-night. + + + + +The Grocery + + + + "Hullo, Alice!" + "Hullo, Leon!" + "Say, Alice, gi' me a couple + O' them two for five cigars, + Will yer?" + "Where's your nickel?" + "My! Ain't you close! + Can't trust a feller, can yer." + "Trust you! Why + What you owe this store + Would set you up in business. + I can't think why Father 'lows it." + "Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly + Than you be. That's a fact. + Besides, he knows I got a vote." + "A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote! + A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father + When all his bank account + Has run away in credits. + There's your cigars, + If you can relish smokin' + With all you owe us standin'." + "I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent. + You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't. + I work when anythin's doin'. + I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure. + Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring." + "Come Spring, and this December! + I've no patience with you, Leon, + Shilly-shallyin' the way you do. + Here, lift over them crates o' oranges + I wanter fix 'em in the winder." + "It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work. + You pepper up about it somethin' good. + You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite. + Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder. + Th' oranges c'n wait, + An' I don't like talkin' to yer back." + "Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what you can git. + Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon. + They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em, + Don't they? + Now hand me them bananas + An' I'll string 'em right acrost." + "What do yer mean + 'Bout me not havin' you to talk to? + Are yer springin' somethin' on me?" + "I don't know 'bout springin' + When I'm tellin' you right out. + I'm goin' away, that's all." + "Where? Why? + What yer mean--goin' away?" + "I've took a place + Down to Boston, in a candy store + For the holidays." + "Good Land, Alice, + What in the Heavens fer!" + "To earn some money, + And to git away from here, I guess." + "Ain't yer Father got enough? + Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?" + "He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him." + "He's rich I tell yer. + I never figured he'd be close with you." + "Oh, he ain't. Not close. + That ain't why. + But I must git away from here. + I must! I must!" + "You got a lot o' reason in yer + To-night. + How long d' you cal'late + You'll be gone?" + "Maybe for always." + "What ails yer, Alice? + Talkin' wild like that. + Ain't you an' me goin' to be married + Some day." + "Some day! Some day! + I guess the sun'll never rise on some day." + "So that's the trouble. + Same old story. + 'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now. + You know I love yer, + An' I'll marry yer as soon + As I c'n raise the money." + "You've said that any time these five year, + But you don't do nothin'." + "Wot could I do? + Ther ain't no work here Winters. + Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't." + "I guess you warn't born a carpenter. + Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty." + "I got a dret'ful tender throat; + Dr. Smiles he told me + I mustn't resk ice-cuttin'." + "Why haven't you gone to Boston, + And hunted up a job?" + "Have yer forgot the time I went expressin' + In the American office, down ther?" + "And come back two weeks later! + No, I ain't." + "You didn't want I should git hurted, + Did yer? + I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work. + My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas. + Ef I was like yer brother now, + I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago. + But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer. + I ain't got Arthur's luck." + "Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks, + And git locked up in jail!" + "Oh, come now, Alice, + 'Disgrace' is a mite strong. + Why, the jail was a joke. + Art's all right." + "All right! + All right to dance, and smirk, and lie + For a livin', + And then in the end + Lead a silly girl to give you + What warn't hers to give + By pretendin' you'd marry her-- + And she a pupil." + "He'd ha' married her right enough, + Her folks was millionaires." + "Yes, he'd ha' married her! + Thank God, they saved her that." + "Art's a fine feller. + I wish I had his luck. + Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits, + And eatin' in rest'rants. + But somebody's got to stick to the old place, + Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop, + Hey, Alice?" + "You admire him! + You admire Arthur! + You'd be like him only you can't dance. + Oh, Shame! Shame! + And I've been like that silly girl. + Fooled with your promises, + And I give you all I had. + I knew it, oh, I knew it, + But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it. + You've shamed me through and through. + Why couldn't you hold your tongue, + And spared me seein' you + As you really are." + "What the Devil's the row? + I only said Art was lucky. + What you spitfirin' at me fer? + Ferget it, Alice. + We've had good times, ain't we? + I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer, + And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time." + "It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time. + I've good cause to love it, ain't I? + Many's the night I've hid my face in the dark + To shut out thinkin'!" + "Why, that ain't nothin'. + You ain't be'n half so kind to me + As lots o' fellers' girls. + Gi' me a kiss, Dear, + And let's make up." + "Make up! + You poor fool. + Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece + For you now. + You've killed yourself for me. + Done it out o' your own mouth. + You've took away my home, + I hate the sight o' the place. + You're all over it, + Every stick an' stone means you, + An' I hate 'em all." + "Alice, I say, + Don't go on like that. + I can't marry yer + Boardin' in one room, + But I'll see Cleve to-morrer, + I'll make him----" + "Oh, you fool! + You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go yit, + Wait a minit, + I'll see Cleve----" + "You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go. + Alice----" (Door slams) + + + + +Number 3 on the Docket + + + + The lawyer, are you? + Well! I ain't got nothin' to say. + Nothin'! + I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'. + They know'd real well 'twas me. + Ther warn't no supposin', + Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, + An' me in my house dress. + Folks don't walk miles an' miles + In the drifted snow, + With no hat nor wrap on 'em + Ef everythin's all right, I guess. + All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! + Nothin' warn't right with me. + Never was. + Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? + Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? + Many's the time I've set up with him nights + When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'. + I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby. + I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! + Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me! + Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it. + Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! + Yes, Sir. + No, Sir. + I beg your pardon, I--I-- + Oh, I'm a wicked woman! + An' I'm desolate, desolate! + Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed + Afore my hands done it. + Oh, my God, what shall I do! + No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, + An' I don't want none. + I want a bolt o' lightnin' + To strike me dead right now! + Oh, I'll tell yer. + But it won't make no diff'rence. + Nothin' will. + Yes, I killed him. + Why do yer make me say it? + It's cruel! Cruel! + I killed him because o' th' silence. + The long, long silence, + That watched all around me, + And he wouldn't break it. + I tried to make him, + Time an' agin, + But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was. + He never spoke 'cept when he had to, + An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no". + You can't even guess what that silence was. + I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, + An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, + An' al'ays comin' back. + Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes + It would ha' driven it away; + But he never would. + He didn't hear it same as I did. + You see, Sir, + Our farm was off'n the main road, + And set away back under the mountain; + And the village was seven mile off, + Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane. + We didn't have no hired man, + 'Cept in hayin' time; + An' Dane's place, + That was the nearest, + Was clear way 'tother side the mountain. + They used Marley post-office + An' ours was Benton. + Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, + An' it warn't above two mile that way, + But it warn't never broke out Winters. + I used to dread the Winters. + Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; + Winter'd come so quick after that. + You don't know what snow's like when yer with it + Day in an' day out. + Ed would be out all day loggin', + An' I set at home and look at the snow + Layin' over everythin'; + It 'ud dazzle me blind, + Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink. + Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears + Till I most went mad listenin' to it. + Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor + Jest to hear it clatter. + I was most frantic when dinner-time come + An' Ed was back from the woods. + I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak. + But he'd never say a word till I asked him + Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, + An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer. + Then he'd go out agin, + An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder. + It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him + An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him. + I got so I was scared o' th' trees. + I thought they come nearer, + Every day a little nearer, + Closin' up round the house. + I never went in t' th' woods Winters, + Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough. + It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us. + He used to go sleddin' and skatin', + An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung + An' brought him back agin. + We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, + We wanted him to have a education. + We sent him to High School, + An' then he went up to Boston to Technology. + He was a minin' engineer, + An' doin' real well, + A credit to his bringin' up. + But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine. + And I'm glad! I'm glad! + He ain't here to see me now. + Neddy! Neddy! + I'm your mother still, Neddy. + Don't turn from me like that. + I can't abear it. I can't! I can't! + What did you say? + Oh, yes, Sir. + I'm here. + I'm very sorry, + I don't know what I'm sayin'. + No, Sir, + Not till after Neddy died. + 'Twas the next Winter the silence come, + I don't remember noticin' it afore. + That was five year ago, + An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse. + I asked Ed to put in a telephone. + I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on + I could ring up some o' th' folks. + But Ed wouldn't hear of it. + He said we'd paid so much for Neddy + We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas. + An' he never understood me wantin' to talk. + Well, this year was worse'n all the others; + We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, + An' the snow lay so thick + You couldn't see the fences even. + Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, + Ther warn't a hump or a holler + Fer as you could see. + It was so quiet + The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot + Sounded like pistol shots. + Ed was out all day + Same as usual. + An' it seemed he talked less'n ever. + He didn't even say 'Good-mornin'', once or twice, + An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things. + On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton + Fer some oats. + I'd oughter ha' gone with him, + But 'twas washin' day + An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, + An' I couldn't do my dryin'. + All my life I'd done my work punctual, + An' I couldn't fix my conscience + To go junketin' on a washin'-day. + I can't tell you what that day was to me. + It dragged an' dragged, + Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle + Fer dinner. + Every time I stopped stirrin' the water + I heerd the whisperin' all about me. + I stopped oftener'n I should + To see ef 'twas still ther, + An' it al'ays was. + An' gittin' louder + It seemed ter me. + Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind. + That seemed most alive somehow. + But the woods looked so kind of menacin' + I closed it quick + An' started to mangle's hard's I could, + The squeakin' was comfortin'. + Well, Ed come home 'bout four. + I seen him down the road, + An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn + To meet him quicker. + I hollered out, 'Hullo!' + But he didn't say nothin', + He jest drove right in + An' climbed out o' th' sleigh + An' commenced unharnessin'. + I asked him a heap o' questions; + Who he'd seed + An' what he'd done. + Once in a while he'd nod or shake, + But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'. + 'Twas gittin' dark then, + An' I was in a state, + With the loneliness + An' Ed payin' no attention + Like somethin' warn't livin'. + All of a sudden it come, + I don't know what, + But I jest couldn't stand no more. + It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, + An' it didn't seem as though I was me. + I had to break a way out somehow, + Somethin' was closin' in + An' I was stiflin'. + Ed's loggin' axe was ther, + An' I took it. + Oh, my God! + I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time. + I run out inter th' woods, + Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; + An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow + I seed Ed in front of me + Where I'd laid him. + An' I see him now. + There! There! + What you holdin' me fer? + I want ter go to Ed, + He's bleedin'. + Stop holdin' me. + I got to go. + I'm comin', Ed. + I'll be ther in a minit. + Oh, I'm so tired! + (Faints) + + + + + +CLOCKS TICK A CENTURY + + + + +Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + + After a Print by George Cruikshank + + + + It was a gusty night, + With the wind booming, and swooping, + Looping round corners, + Sliding over the cobble-stones, + Whipping and veering, + And careering over the roofs + Like a thousand clattering horses. + Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city, + Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait, + And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins + And laughed as it whistled past him. + It rolled him along the street, + With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk, + And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him. + It bumped him against area railings, + And chuckled in his ear when he said "Ouch!" + Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet + And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter. + The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking. + It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins, + And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door + It was a relief, + Although the breath was quite knocked out of him. + The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up, + And the keyhole was as big as a barn door; + The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star, + And the keyhole went out with it. + Such a stabbing, and jabbing, + And sticking, and picking, + And poking, and pushing, and prying + With that key; + And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two, + Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll. + But the door opened at last, + And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall + And slammed the door to so hard + That the knocker banged five times before it stopped. + Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle, + And all the time the moon winked at him through the window. + "Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?" + Taunted the wind. + "I can find the keyhole." + And the wind, thin as a wire, + Darted in and seized the candle flame + And knocked it over to one side + And pummelled it down--down--down--! + But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin, + And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner, + For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, "Spruggins! Spruggins!" + behind him. + The fire in his bedroom burned brightly. + The room with its crimson bed and window curtains + Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle. + It was still and warm. + There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened; + And no moon, + For the curtains were drawn. + The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear + In a wide brass dish. + Mr. Spruggins sighed with content; + He was safe at home. + The fire glowed--red and yellow roses + In the black basket of the grate-- + And the bed with its crimson hangings + Seemed a great peony, + Wide open and placid. + Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler. + He slipped off his bottle-green coat + And his flowered waistcoat. + He put on a flannel dressing-gown, + And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin. + He wound his large gold watch + And placed it under his pillow. + Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. + There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds; + But behind him was his quiet candle. + There was the wind whisking along the street. + The window rattled, but it was fastened. + Did the wind say, "Spruggins"? + All Mr. Spruggins heard was "S-s-s-s-s--" + Dying away down the street. + He dropped the curtain and got into bed. + Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan; + The bed was warm, + And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers, + With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head. + Mr. Spruggins dozed. + He had forgotten to put out the candle, + But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright... + Too bright! + The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids, + They scorched him back to consciousness. + He tried to shift his position; + He could not move. + Something weighed him down, + He could not breathe. + He was gasping, + Pinned down and suffocating. + He opened his eyes. + The curtains of the window were flung back, + The fire and the candle were out, + And the room was filled with green moonlight. + And pressed against the window-pane + Was a wide, round face, + Winking--winking-- + Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other. + Tick--tock--went the watch under his pillow, + Wink--wink--went the face at the window. + It was not the fire roses which had pricked him, + It was the winking eyes. + Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up; + He could not, because-- + His heart flapped up into his mouth + And fell back dead. + On his chest was a fat pink pig, + On the pig a blackamoor + With a ten pound weight for a cap. + His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes, + And his eyes rolled round and round, + With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing, + And appearing again on the other side. + The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles, + And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar, + While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind. + He dug his spurs into the pig, + Which trampled and snorted, + And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins. + Then the green light on the floor began to undulate. + It heaved and hollowed, + It rose like a tide, + Sea-green, + Full of claws and scales + And wriggles. + The air above his bed began to move; + It weighed over him + In a mass of draggled feathers. + Not one lifted to stir the air. + They drooped and dripped + With a smell of port wine and brandy, + Closing down, slowly, + Trickling drops on the bed-quilt. + Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass, + And the moon burst into the room, + Sizzling--"S-s-s-s-s--Spruggins! Spruggins!" + It rolled toward him, + A green ball of flame, + With two eyes in the center, + A red eye and a yellow eye, + Dropping their lids slowly, + One after the other. + Mr. Spruggins tried to scream, + But the blackamoor + Leapt off his pig + With a cry, + Drew his scimitar, + And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth. + + Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn + And remade the fire. + Then he crept back to bed + By the light which seeped in under the window curtains, + And lay there, shivering, + While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven. + + + + +The Paper Windmill + + + +The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out +at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square +glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced, and +shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water +of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots +piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if +they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, "Oh!" with +delight, and pressed against the window with all his might. + + +The golden cock on the top of the 'Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open +like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it. +"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy. "Can't you hear me through +the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow when you see +the eggs of your cousin, the great roc." But the golden cock stood +stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind. He could not +understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico" when he said anything. +But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing. His eyes glittered to +the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses drifted away down the +canal. + + +It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind +was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart +beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune: +"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee +to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white," and the +man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop! milk for your tea. +Plop! trop! drink it to-night." It was very pleasant out there, but it +was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear. + + +It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. Nothing +was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment it had +changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner, there was only +an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head, picking her way +over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves in the basket +this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage. The sun +patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed +sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his +disordered toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours +were dull. The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left +for toys. + + +The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it, +spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the +square, the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never +stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. It +burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked, +and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of +saffron, and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a +myriad cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, and +the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square was +filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another, +faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze, +staring in amaze. + + +The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, a +great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, and the +little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more than the wind +which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame on his +shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, each +one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, and +the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy who +had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy. + + +The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed, for +the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer came the +windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy in the window of +the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass between the boy and the +windmills. They slid round before his eyes in rapidly revolving +splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours--big, little, +thick, thin--all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor dipped +and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued to the +window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything! Rings and rings +of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred those +other toys which never stirred. "Nursie, come quickly. Look! I want a +windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you? I +want that silver one, with the big ring of blue." + + +So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue, and +smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment to +pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute he was +standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end of a +stick which he held out to the little boy. "But I wanted a windmill +which went round," cried the little boy. "That is the one you asked +for, Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do. +"See, it is silver, and here is the blue." "But it is only a blue +streak," sobbed the little boy. "I wanted a blue ring, and this silver +doesn't sparkle." "Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted, now +run away and play with it, for I am very busy." + + +The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the +floor lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick. +But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big +wheel of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling +rainbow, and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it +seemed a maze of spattering diamonds. "Cocorico!" crowed the golden +cock on the top of the 'Stadhuis'. "That is something worth crowing +for." But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the +crumpled bit of paper on the floor. + + + + +The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + + + + A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought + In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought + With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold, + The slender shaft all twined about and thickly scrolled + With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling, + Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling + Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams; + Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams + Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen, + Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean. + Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players + Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers + Of music to serve every instrument, are there, + And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear. + It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights, + When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights + And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards, + Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards + Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools + Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools. + With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust + Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust + Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range, + The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change; + To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws; + To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws; + To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade + Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade. + Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy + Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy. + He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red, + He sees it split and stream, and all about his head + Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking, + Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking + The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom. + The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room. + The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door + And the sun widens out all along the floor, + Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light, + So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright. + + "O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, + and Magnify Him for ever." + + The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded fair, + Will heap it with the Works of the Lord. In the morning air, + Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled, + Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World + Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise. + The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze + An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair + Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair + To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs, + The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks + A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn, + And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn. + Only in the gloom far in the corner there + The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare, + Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread, + The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread, + Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme-- + Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme! + + A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers, + Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers. + A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling, + And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing + Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry, + And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly. + Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun + Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one + Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones, + And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones, + An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown, + The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown + Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled + With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled, + Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell, + A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell + The stand will hold no more. The Boy with humming head + Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed. + + The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind + Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind. + He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy + It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free + For adoration only, for worship. Dedicate, + His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate. + The hours strike below from the clock on the stair. + The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer. + Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him + Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim, + Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven. + Like an open rose the sun will stand up even, + Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows + Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows + From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite + The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light. + Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim, + 'Viols d'amore' and 'hautbois' accorded to a hymn. + The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings + Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings. + He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes + Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise. + + The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the wall + When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual. + He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame. + He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame + The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass. + He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass + Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate + Worthy to hold them burning. Alas! He had been late + In thinking of this need, and now he could not find + Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind. + The house was not astir, and he dared not go down + Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown + And slam before the draught he made as he went out. + The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about. + A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear + Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there. + The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared, + Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared. + He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid + Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed + To light with ease, then stood a little to one side, + Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried + To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays + Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze. + Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame, + Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came. + The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced, + Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced, + A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile + Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile + Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up, + A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup. + + "O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever." + + A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled, seeming + A chalice foamed with sunrise. The Boy woke from his dreaming. + A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies, + The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries + Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue + Of gleaming, brutal fire. The Boy instantly swung + His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down. + The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown + Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed + And flung it over all, and then with aching head + He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains + Of his holy offering. The lacquer stand had stains + Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear + Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably. His dear + Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there, + Winking in the brightness. + The clock upon the stair + Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate. + The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late. + + + + +Spring Day + + +Bath + +The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and +narcissus in the air. + +The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the +water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It +cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright +light. + +Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, +dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir +of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes +of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the +green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is +almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright +day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. + +The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a +whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. + + +Breakfast Table + +In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. +It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and +colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its +side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver +coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and +twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels +prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread +themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout +orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! +Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service +with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, +suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue +sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and +fair with good smells in the air. + + +Walk + +Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. + +On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber +and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. +The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass +marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under +rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there +are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a +girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind +flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. +Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among +the flowers on her hat. + +A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green +and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water +over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and +narcissus. + +The thickening branches make a pink 'grisaille' against the blue sky. + +Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. +Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white +dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead +of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. + +A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, +irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and +sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet +and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. + + +Midday and Afternoon + +Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still +brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch +and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in +the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, +darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings +out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and +motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the +jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a +piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. +Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, +skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and +advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them +clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent +as tulips and narcissus. + +The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the +shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame. + + +Night and Sleep + +The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out +along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and +blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in +spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a +new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver +of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug +of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky +is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours? + +I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees +and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and +clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers +in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. + +My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the +distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no +stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants +and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, +glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing +for the Spring. + +The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in +the air. + +Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams +into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer +tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses +down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the +sky when it is fresh-washed and fair... I smell the stars... they +are like tulips and narcissus... I smell them in the air. + + + + +The Dinner-Party + + + + Fish + + "So..." they said, + With their wine-glasses delicately poised, + Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. + "So..." they said again, + Amused and insolent. + The silver on the table glittered, + And the red wine in the glasses + Seemed the blood I had wasted + In a foolish cause. + + + Game + + The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers + Sneered languidly over his quail. + Then my heart flew up and laboured, + And I burst from my own holding + And hurled myself forward. + With straight blows I beat upon him, + Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him. + But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, + And I recoiled upon myself, + Panting. + + + Drawing-Room + + In a dress all softness and half-tones, + Indolent and half-reclined, + She lay upon a couch, + With the firelight reflected in her jewels. + But her eyes had no reflection, + They swam in a grey smoke, + The smoke of smouldering ashes, + The smoke of her cindered heart. + + + Coffee + + They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups. + One dropped in a lump of sugar, + One stirred with a spoon. + I saw them as a circle of ghosts + Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, + And mildly protesting against my coarseness + In being alive. + + + Talk + + They took dead men's souls + And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; + Their cuff-links and tiaras + Were gems dug from a grave; + They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; + And I took a green liqueur from a servant + So that he might come near me + And give me the comfort of a living thing. + + + Eleven O'Clock + + The front door was hard and heavy, + It shut behind me on the house of ghosts. + I flattened my feet on the pavement + To feel it solid under me; + I ran my hand along the railings + And shook them, + And pressed their pointed bars + Into my palms. + The hurt of it reassured me, + And I did it again and again + Until they were bruised. + When I woke in the night + I laughed to find them aching, + For only living flesh can suffer. + + + + +Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + + + + First Movement + + Thin-voiced, nasal pipes + Drawing sound out and out + Until it is a screeching thread, + Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, + It hurts. + Whee-e-e! + Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! + There are drums here, + Banging, + And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones + Of the market-place. + Whee-e-e! + Sabots slapping the worn, old stones, + And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones; + Clumsy and hard they are, + And uneven, + Losing half a beat + Because the stones are slippery. + Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong! + The thin Spring leaves + Shake to the banging of shoes. + Shoes beat, slap, + Shuffle, rap, + And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices, + Little pigs' voices + Weaving among the dancers, + A fine white thread + Linking up the dancers. + Bang! Bump! Tong! + Petticoats, + Stockings, + Sabots, + Delirium flapping its thigh-bones; + Red, blue, yellow, + Drunkenness steaming in colours; + Red, yellow, blue, + Colours and flesh weaving together, + In and out, with the dance, + Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together. + Pigs' cries white and tenuous, + White and painful, + White and-- + Bump! + Tong! + + + Second Movement + + Pale violin music whiffs across the moon, + A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon, + Cherry petals fall and flutter, + And the white Pierrot, + Wreathed in the smoke of the violins, + Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling, + Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth + With his finger-nails. + + + Third Movement + + An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church, + It wheezes and coughs. + The nave is blue with incense, + Writhing, twisting, + Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests. + 'Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine'; + The priests whine their bastard Latin + And the censers swing and click. + The priests walk endlessly + Round and round, + Droning their Latin + Off the key. + The organ crashes out in a flaring chord, + And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone. + 'Dies illa, dies irae, + Calamitatis et miseriae, + Dies magna et amara valde.' + A wind rattles the leaded windows. + The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter, + 'Dies illa, dies irae;' + The swaying smoke drifts over the altar, + 'Calamitatis et miseriae;' + The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water, + 'Dies magna et amara valde;' + And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them + Stretched upon a bier. + His ears are stone to the organ, + His eyes are flint to the candles, + His body is ice to the water. + Chant, priests, + Whine, shuffle, genuflect, + He will always be as rigid as he is now + Until he crumbles away in a dust heap. + 'Lacrymosa dies illa, + Qua resurget ex favilla + Judicandus homo reus.' + Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness. + + + + +Towns in Colour + + + + I + + Red Slippers + +Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, +windy sleet! + + +Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, +festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes +of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections +against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and +salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon +lights upon the tops of umbrellas. + +The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, it +bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and +fluctuating, a hot rain--and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly +multiplied in the mirror side of the window. + + +They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson +lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked +in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared +and burnished by red rockets. + +Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous +block of shops. + +They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the +crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. + + +People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther +down, is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few +minutes and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, +lolling awkwardly in its flower chair. + +One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? + + +The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are +only red slippers. + + + + II + + Thompson's Lunch Room--Grand Central Station + + Study in Whites + + + Wax-white-- + Floor, ceiling, walls. + Ivory shadows + Over the pavement + Polished to cream surfaces + By constant sweeping. + The big room is coloured like the petals + Of a great magnolia, + And has a patina + Of flower bloom + Which makes it shine dimly + Under the electric lamps. + Chairs are ranged in rows + Like sepia seeds + Waiting fulfilment. + The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap + Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall-- + Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow + Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. + Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, + Ice-green carboys, shifting--greener, bluer--with the jar of moving water. + Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass + Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar + Above the lighthouse-shaped castors + Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. + Grey-white placards: "Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters": + Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. + Dropping on the white counter like horn notes + Through a web of violins, + The flat yellow lights of oranges, + The cube-red splashes of apples, + In high plated 'epergnes'. + The electric clock jerks every half-minute: + "Coming!--Past!" + "Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie," + Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. + A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. + Two rice puddings and a salmon salad + Are pushed over the counter; + The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. + A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, + And the sound throws across the room + Sharp, invisible zigzags + Of silver. + + + + III + + An Opera House + + + Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, + A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, + Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. + Gold carving edges the balconies, + Rims the boxes, + Runs up and down fluted pillars. + Little knife-stabs of gold + Shine out whenever a box door is opened. + Gold clusters + Flash in soft explosions + On the blue darkness, + Suck back to a point, + And disappear. + Hoops of gold + Circle necks, wrists, fingers, + Pierce ears, + Poise on heads + And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. + Gold! + Gold! + The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. + Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: + Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; + Gold--spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold + Of harps. + The conductor raises his baton, + The brass blares out + Crass, crude, + Parvenu, fat, powerful, + Golden. + Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. + Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, + Crash. + The orange curtain parts + And the prima-donna steps forward. + One note, + A drop: transparent, iridescent, + A gold bubble, + It floats... floats... + And bursts against the lips of a bank president + In the grand tier. + + + + IV + + Afternoon Rain in State Street + + + Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, + Slant lines of black rain + In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. + Below, + Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, + The street. + And over it, umbrellas, + Black polished dots + Struck to white + An instant, + Stream in two flat lines + Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. + Like a four-sided wedge + The Custom House Tower + Pokes at the low, flat sky, + Pushing it farther and farther up, + Lifting it away from the house-tops, + Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, + With the lever of its apex. + The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, + Scratching lines of black wire across it, + Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface + With the sharp precision of tools. + The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, + A chequered table of blacks and greys. + Oblong blocks of flatness + Crawl by with low-geared engines, + And pass to short upright squares + Shrinking with distance. + A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, + And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, + A narrow, level bar of steel. + Hard cubes of lemon + Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings + As the windows light up. + But the lemon cubes are edged with angles + Upon which they cannot impinge. + Up, straight, down, straight--square. + Crumpled grey-white papers + Blow along the side-walks, + Contorted, horrible, + Without curves. + A horse steps in a puddle, + And white, glaring water spurts up + In stiff, outflaring lines, + Like the rattling stems of reeds. + The city is heraldic with angles, + A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable + And countercoloured bends of rain + Hung over a four-square civilization. + When a street lamp comes out, + I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds + To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. + + + + V + + An Aquarium + + + Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, + Silver shiftings, + Rings veering out of rings, + Silver--gold-- + Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, + With sharp white bubbles + Shooting and dancing, + Flinging quickly outward. + Nosing the bubbles, + Swallowing them, + Fish. + Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, + The light rippling over them + In steel-bright tremors. + Outspread translucent fins + Flute, fold, and relapse; + The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles + In scarcely tarnished twinklings. + Curving of spotted spines, + Slow up-shifts, + Lazy convolutions: + Then a sudden swift straightening + And darting below: + Oblique grey shadows + Athwart a pale casement. + Roped and curled, + Green man-eating eels + Slumber in undulate rhythms, + With crests laid horizontal on their backs. + Barred fish, + Striped fish, + Uneven disks of fish, + Slip, slide, whirl, turn, + And never touch. + Metallic blue fish, + With fins wide and yellow and swaying + Like Oriental fans, + Hold the sun in their bellies + And glow with light: + Blue brilliance cut by black bars. + An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, + Across it, in a tangent, + A smear of rose, black, silver. + Short twists and upstartings, + Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: + Sunshine playing between red and black flowers + On a blue and gold lawn. + Shadows and polished surfaces, + Facets of mauve and purple, + A constant modulation of values. + Shaft-shaped, + With green bead eyes; + Thick-nosed, + Heliotrope-coloured; + Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; + In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. + + Outside, + A willow-tree flickers + With little white jerks, + And long blue waves + Rise steadily beyond the outer islands. + + + + + +Some Books by Amy Lowell + + + + Poetry + + + What's O'Clock + Legends + Pictures of the Floating World + Can Grande's Castle + Men, Women and Ghosts + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (already online) + A Critical Fable + + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + + + Prose + + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature + John Keats + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 841.txt or 841.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/841/ + +Produced by Alan Light + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. 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: + + http://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. Binary files differdiff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1464d37 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #841 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/841) diff --git a/old/almwg10.txt b/old/almwg10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f4c880 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/almwg10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6947 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Men, Women and Ghosts by Amy Lowell +#2 in our series by Amy Lowell + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Men, Women and Ghosts + +by Amy Lowell + +March, 1997 [Etext #841] + + +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Men, Women and Ghosts by Amy Lowell +******This file should be named almwg10.txt or almwg10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, almwg11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, almwg10a.txt. + + +This etext was created by carefully entering the original text twice, +and electronically comparing the two copies to weed out any errors. +Text entry and comparison by Alan Light, alight@mercury.interpath.net + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month: or 400 more Etexts in 1996 for a total of 800. +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach 80 billion Etexts. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Men, Women and Ghosts +by Amy Lowell + + + + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters are broken +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors +have been corrected.] + + + + + +Men, Women and Ghosts + +by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet and critic -- 1874-1925.] + + + + + + +"`. . . See small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth': . . . . +So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip, +Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees, +And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly." + William Blake. "Europe. A Prophecy." + + `Thou hast a lap full of seed, + And this is a fine country.' + William Blake. + + + + + + +Preface + + + +This is a book of stories. For that reason I have excluded +all purely lyrical poems. But the word "stories" has been stretched +to its fullest application. It includes both narrative poems, +properly so called; tales divided into scenes; and a few pieces +of less obvious story-telling import in which one might say +that the dramatis personae are air, clouds, trees, houses, streets, +and such like things. + +It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of `vers libre' +have not been sufficiently plumbed, that there is in them a power of variation +which has never yet been brought to the light of experiment. +I think it was the piano pieces of Debussy, with their strange likeness +to short vers libre poems, which first showed me the close kinship +of music and poetry, and there flashed into my mind the idea of using +the movement of poetry in somewhat the same way that the musician uses +the movement of music. + +It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern +of a metrical form, but the flowing, fluctuating rhythm of vers libre +seemed to open the door to such an experiment. First, however, +I considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced +movements of natural objects. If the reader will turn to the poem, +"A Roxbury Garden", he will find in the first two sections +an attempt to give the circular movement of a hoop bowling along the ground, +and the up and down, elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock. + +From these experiments, it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music. +In "The Cremona Violin", I have tried to give this flowing, changing rhythm +to the parts in which the violin is being played. The effect +is farther heightened, because the rest of the poem is written +in the seven line Chaucerian stanza; and, by deserting this ordered pattern +for the undulating line of vers libre, I hoped to produce +something of the suave, continuous tone of a violin. Again, +in the violin parts themselves, the movement constantly changes, +as will be quite plain to any one reading these passages aloud. + +In "The Cremona Violin", however, the rhythms are fairly obvious and regular. +I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the various movements +of Stravinsky's "Three Pieces `Grotesques', for String Quartet". +Several musicians, who have seen the poem, think the movement +accurately given. + +These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for thought +and matter for study, and I hope many poets will follow me +in opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre. + +A good many of the poems in this book are written in "polyphonic prose". +A form about which I have written and spoken so much +that it seems hardly necessary to explain it here. Let me hastily add, +however, that the word "prose" in its name refers only +to the typographical arrangement, for in no sense is this a prose form. +Only read it aloud, Gentle Reader, I beg, and you will see what you will see. +For a purely dramatic form, I know none better in the whole range of poetry. +It enables the poet to give his characters the vivid, real effect +they have in a play, while at the same time writing in the `decor'. + +One last innovation I have still to mention. It will be found +in "Spring Day", and more fully enlarged upon in the series, +"Towns in Colour". In these poems, I have endeavoured to give +the colour, and light, and shade, of certain places and hours, +stressing the purely pictorial effect, and with little or no reference +to any other aspect of the places described. It is an enchanting thing +to wander through a city looking for its unrelated beauty, +the beauty by which it captivates the sensuous sense of seeing. + +I have always loved aquariums, but for years I went to them and looked, +and looked, at those swirling, shooting, looping patterns of fish, +which always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon +the "unrelated" method. The result is in "An Aquarium". +I think the first thing which turned me in this direction +was John Gould Fletcher's "London Excursion", in "Some Imagist Poets". +I here record my thanks. + +For the substance of the poems -- why, the poems are here. +No one writing to-day can fail to be affected by the great war +raging in Europe at this time. We are too near it to do more +than touch upon it. But, obliquely, it is suggested in many of these poems, +most notably those in the section, "Bronze Tablets". The Napoleonic Era +is an epic subject, and waits a great epic poet. I have only been able +to open a few windows upon it here and there. But the scene from the windows +is authentic, and the watcher has used eyes, and ears, and heart, in watching. + + Amy Lowell +July 10, 1916. + + + + + + +Contents + + + + Figurines in Old Saxe + +Patterns +Pickthorn Manor +The Cremona Violin +The Cross-Roads +A Roxbury Garden +1777 + + + Bronze Tablets + +The Fruit Shop +Malmaison +The Hammers +Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + + + War Pictures + +The Allies +The Bombardment +Lead Soldiers +The Painter on Silk +A Ballad of Footmen + + + The Overgrown Pasture + +Reaping +Off the Turnpike +The Grocery +Number 3 on the Docket + + + Clocks Tick a Century + +Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening +The Paper Windmill +The Red Lacquer Music-Stand +Spring Day +The Dinner-Party +Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet +Towns in Colour + Red Slippers + Thompson's Lunch Room -- Grand Central Station + An Opera House + Afternoon Rain in State Street + An Aquarium + + + + + +The two sea songs quoted in "The Hammers" are taken from +`Songs: Naval and Nautical, of the late Charles Dibdin', London, +John Murray, 1841. The "Hanging Johnny" refrain, in "The Cremona Violin", +is borrowed from the old, well-known chanty of that name. + + + + + + --------------------- + Men, Women and Ghosts + --------------------- + + + + + + Figurines in Old Saxe + + + + + +Patterns + + + +I walk down the garden paths, +And all the daffodils +Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. +I walk down the patterned garden-paths +In my stiff, brocaded gown. +With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, +I too am a rare +Pattern. As I wander down +The garden paths. + +My dress is richly figured, +And the train +Makes a pink and silver stain +On the gravel, and the thrift +Of the borders. +Just a plate of current fashion, +Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. +Not a softness anywhere about me, +Only whalebone and brocade. +And I sink on a seat in the shade +Of a lime tree. For my passion +Wars against the stiff brocade. +The daffodils and squills +Flutter in the breeze +As they please. +And I weep; +For the lime-tree is in blossom +And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + +And the plashing of waterdrops +In the marble fountain +Comes down the garden-paths. +The dripping never stops. +Underneath my stiffened gown +Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, +A basin in the midst of hedges grown +So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, +But she guesses he is near, +And the sliding of the water +Seems the stroking of a dear +Hand upon her. +What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! +I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. +All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. + +I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, +And he would stumble after, +Bewildered by my laughter. +I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles + on his shoes. +I would choose +To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, +A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, +Till he caught me in the shade, +And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, +Aching, melting, unafraid. +With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, +And the plopping of the waterdrops, +All about us in the open afternoon -- +I am very like to swoon +With the weight of this brocade, +For the sun sifts through the shade. + +Underneath the fallen blossom +In my bosom, +Is a letter I have hid. +It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. +"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell +Died in action Thursday se'nnight." +As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, +The letters squirmed like snakes. +"Any answer, Madam," said my footman. +"No," I told him. +"See that the messenger takes some refreshment. +No, no answer." +And I walked into the garden, +Up and down the patterned paths, +In my stiff, correct brocade. +The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, +Each one. +I stood upright too, +Held rigid to the pattern +By the stiffness of my gown. +Up and down I walked, +Up and down. + +In a month he would have been my husband. +In a month, here, underneath this lime, +We would have broke the pattern; +He for me, and I for him, +He as Colonel, I as Lady, +On this shady seat. +He had a whim +That sunlight carried blessing. +And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." +Now he is dead. + +In Summer and in Winter I shall walk +Up and down +The patterned garden-paths +In my stiff, brocaded gown. +The squills and daffodils +Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. +I shall go +Up and down, +In my gown. +Gorgeously arrayed, +Boned and stayed. +And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace +By each button, hook, and lace. +For the man who should loose me is dead, +Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, +In a pattern called a war. +Christ! What are patterns for? + + + + +Pickthorn Manor + + + + I + +How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! + A steely silver, underlined with blue, +And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, + Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through +And tip the edges of the waves with shifts + And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems + Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp + As wind through leafless stems. +The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts +Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts + Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp. + + + II + +Her little feet tapped softly down the path. + Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze +Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath + Of fallen petals on the grass, could please +Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside + With a swift move, and a half-angry frown. + She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, + And held them to her gown +To test the colours; put them at her side, +Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried + Some new arrangement, but it would not do. + + + III + +A lady in a Manor-house, alone, + Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke +Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown + Too apathetic even to rebuke +Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? + No woman surely, since she neither can + Be wed nor single, must not let her mind + Build thoughts upon a man +Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth +Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth, + And when she thought of him her eyes were kind. + + + IV + +Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. + Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel +Other than strange delight at her wife's doing. + Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal +Over her face, and then her lips would frame + Some little word of loving, and her eyes + Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw + Was the bright sun, slantwise +Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame +Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame + She shut her heart and bent before the law. + + + V + +He was a soldier, she was proud of that. + This was his house and she would keep it well. +His honour was in fighting, hers in what + He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell +Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying + Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about? + Were any branches broken? Had the weeds + Been duly taken out +Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying +Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying + Their leaves and satisfying all their needs? + + + VI + +She picked a stone up with a little pout, + Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders. +Where should she put it? All the paths about + Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders. +No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So + She hurried to the river. At the edge + She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue + Beyond the river sedge. +She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow +Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, "Hullo, + My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through." + + + VII + +The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray + To save herself from tumbling in the shallows +Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away + She peered down stream among the budding sallows. +A youth in leather breeches and a shirt + Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon + An overhanging bole and deftly swayed + A well-hooked fish which shone +In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt +Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt + With crimson spots and moons which waned and played. + + + VIII + +The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed + And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade +Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged + With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade +Broke up and splintered into shafts of light + Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air + And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod + Almost to snapping. Care +The young man took against the twigs, with slight, +Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight + Obedience to his will with every prod. + + + IX + +He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. + He seemed uncertain what more he should do. +He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, + Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw, +He caught it nearer to the point. At last + The fish was near enough to touch. He paused. + Eunice knew well the craft -- "What's got the thing!" + She cried. "What can have caused -- +Where is his net? The moment will be past. +The fish will wriggle free." She stopped aghast. + He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling. + + + X + +The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket + Must hang from, held instead a useless arm. +"I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it." + He smiled, for she had spoke aloud. "The charm +Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced + When you must play your fish on land as well." + "How will you take him?" Eunice asked. "In truth + I really cannot tell. +'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced +I never thought of that until he glanced + Into the branches. 'Tis a bit uncouth." + + + XI + +He watched the fish against the blowing sky, + Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line. +"The hook is fast, I might just let him die," + He mused. "But that would jar against your fine +Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would," + Cried Eunice. "Let me do it." Swift and light + She ran towards him. "It is so long now + Since I have felt a bite, +I lost all heart for everything." She stood, +Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood + Tingled her lissom body to a glow. + + + XII + +She quickly seized the fish and with a stone + Ended its flurry, then removed the hook, +Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, + She asked him where he kept his fishing-book. +He pointed to a coat flung on the ground. + She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case, + Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp + Filling the middle space. +Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round +About them gay rococo flowers wound + And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp. + + + XIII + +The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. + "G. D." the young man gravely said. "My name +Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please." + "Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame +For exploits in the field has reached my ears. + I did not know you wounded and returned." + "But just come back, Madam. A silly prick + To gain me such unearned +Holiday making. And you, it appears, +Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears + At being caught a-trespassing were quick." + + + XIV + +He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. + "You are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more, +I offer you the fishing, and am proud + That you should find it pleasant from this shore. +Nobody fishes now, my husband used + To angle daily, and I too with him. + He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace. + He even had a whim +That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused +The greater fish. And he must be excused, + Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place." + + + XV + +She sighed because it seemed so long ago, + Those days with Everard; unthinking took +The path back to the orchard. Strolling so + She walked, and he beside her. In a nook +Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs, + Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down. + She questioned him about the war, the share + Her husband had, and grown +Eager by his clear answers, straight allows +Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse + Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware. + + + XVI + +Under the orchard trees daffodils danced + And jostled, turning sideways to the wind. +A dropping cherry petal softly glanced + Over her hair, and slid away behind. +At the far end through twisted cherry-trees + The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks + Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, + Gabled, and with quaint tricks +Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these +Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze + Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song + + + XVII + +Needled its way through sound of bees and river. + The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves, +Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. + The Lady Eunice listens and believes. +Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, + His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life. + She quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness + Of being this man's wife. +Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word +Is kindly said, but to a softer chord + She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness, + + + XVIII + +"And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I fain + Would know the truth." "Quite well, dear Lady, quite." +She smiled in her content. "So many slain, + You must forgive me for a little fright." +And he forgave her, not alone for that, + But because she was fingering his heart, + Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so + Only to ease her smart +Of painful, apprehensive longing. At +Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat + An hour there. The thrush flew to and fro. + + + XIX + +The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, + As always since Sir Everard had gone, +In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array + Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone. +Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. + Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout + And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, + A peony just burst out, +With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked +Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked + It with the best, and scorned to change their name. + + + XX + +A sturdy family, and old besides, + Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe. +Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides + Among the highest born, but always so, +Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, + But never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong, + The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams, + Scorning the common throng. +Gazing upon these men, she understands +The toughness of the web wrought from such strands + And pride of Everard colours all her dreams. + + + XXI + +Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces + Flickering in the wind-blown candle's shine. +Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places, + And set out plates of fruit and jugs of wine. +The table glitters black like Winter ice. + The Dartle's rushing, and the gentle clash + Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears. + And through the casement sash +She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice +Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice + And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears. + + + XXII + +"In such a night --" she laid the book aside, + She could outnight the poet by thinking back. +In such a night she came here as a bride. + The date was graven in the almanack +Of her clasped memory. In this very room + Had Everard uncloaked her. On this seat + Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees, + How white they were and sweet +And later, coming to her, her dear groom, +Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom + Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease. + + + XXIII + +Her little taper made the room seem vast, + Caverned and empty. And her beating heart +Rapped through the silence all about her cast + Like some loud, dreadful death-watch taking part +In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest, + Put out the light and crept into her bed. + The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold. + And brimming tears she shed, +Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest, +Her weeping lips into the pillow prest, + Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold. + + + XXIV + +The morning brought her a more stoic mind, + And sunshine struck across the polished floor. +She wondered whether this day she should find + Gervase a-fishing, and so listen more, +Much more again, to all he had to tell. + And he was there, but waiting to begin + Until she came. They fished awhile, then went + To the old seat within +The cherry's shade. He pleased her very well +By his discourse. But ever he must dwell + Upon Sir Everard. Each incident + + + XXV + +Must be related and each term explained. + How troops were set in battle, how a siege +Was ordered and conducted. She complained + Because he bungled at the fall of Liege. +The curious names of parts of forts she knew, + And aired with conscious pride her ravelins, + And counterscarps, and lunes. The day drew on, + And his dead fish's fins +In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue. +At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew. + But she sat long in still oblivion. + + + XXVI + +Then he would bring her books, and read to her + The poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river +Would murmur through the reading, and a stir + Of birds and bees make the white petals shiver, +And one or two would flutter prone and lie + Spotting the smooth-clipped grass. The days went by + Threaded with talk and verses. Green leaves pushed + Through blossoms stubbornly. +Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty, +Fell into strong and watchful loving, free + He thought, since always would his lips be hushed. + + + XXVII + +But lips do not stay silent at command, + And Gervase strove in vain to order his. +Luckily Eunice did not understand + That he but read himself aloud, for this +Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him + And spoilt him like a brother. It was now + "Gervase" and "Eunice" with them, and he dined + Whenever she'd allow, +In the oak parlour, underneath the dim +Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim + Figure, so bright against the chair behind. + + + XXVIII + +Eunice was happier than she had been + For many days, and yet the hours were long. +All Gervase told to her but made her lean + More heavily upon the past. Among +Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving + Her morning orders, even when she twined + Nosegays to deck her parlours. With the thought + Of Everard, her mind +Solaced its solitude, and in her striving +To do as he would wish was all her living. + She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought. + + + XXIX + +Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun, + Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other. +Eunice was standing, panting with her run + Up to the tool-house just to get another +Basket. All those which she had brought were filled, + And still Gervase pelted her from above. + The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher + Until his shoulders strove +Quite through the top. "Eunice, your spirit's filled +This tree. White-hearts!" He shook, and cherries spilled + And spat out from the leaves like falling fire. + + + XXX + +The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself + Over the quiet garden. And they packed +Full twenty baskets with the fruit. "My shelf + Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked. +In future, none of us will drink strong ale, + But cherry-brandy." "Vastly good, I vow," + And Gervase gave the tree another shake. + The cherries seemed to flow +Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail. +Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale, + Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake. + + + XXXI + +She gave a little cry and fell quite prone + In the long grass, and lay there very still. +Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan, + And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill +Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat, + And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart. + "Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?" + His trembling fingers dart +Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove +To answer, opened wide her eyes, above + Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert. + + + XXXII + +Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight, + "My Love!" she murmured, "Dearest! Oh, my Dear!" +He took her in his arms and bore her right + And tenderly to the old seat, and "Here +I have you mine at last," she said, and swooned + Under his kisses. When she came once more + To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing + Herself laid as before +Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing +Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing + She twined him in her arms and soft festooned + + + XXXIII + +Herself about him like a flowering vine, + Drawing his lips to cling upon her own. +A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine + Where her half-opened bodice let be shown +Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress, + Half-gasping with her gladness. And her pledge + She whispers, melting with delight. A twig + Snaps in the hornbeam hedge. +A cackling laugh tears through the quietness. +Eunice starts up in terrible distress. + "My God! What's that?" Her staring eyes are big. + + + XXXIV + +Revulsed emotion set her body shaking + As though she had an ague. Gervase swore, +Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking + His face was ghastly with the look it wore. +Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man + In worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing, + Made off. But turned every few steps to gaze + At Eunice, and to fling +Vile looks and gestures back. "The ruffian! +By Christ's Death! I will split him to a span + Of hog's thongs." She grasped at his sleeve, "Gervase! + + + XXXV + +What are you doing here? Put down that sword, + That's only poor old Tony, crazed and lame. +We never notice him. With my dear Lord + I ought not to have minded that he came. +But, Gervase, it surprises me that you + Should so lack grace to stay here." With one hand + She held her gaping bodice to conceal + Her breast. "I must demand +Your instant absence. Everard, but new +Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu." + "Eunice, you're mad." His brain began to reel. + + + XXXVI + +He tried again to take her, tried to twist + Her arms about him. Truly, she had said +Nothing should ever part them. In a mist + She pushed him from her, clasped her aching head +In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud. + "Oh! Where is Everard? What does this mean? + So lately come to leave me thus alone!" + But Gervase had not seen +Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed +And sickening spirit, he told of her proud + Surrender to him. He could hear her moan. + + + XXXVII + +Then shame swept over her and held her numb, + Hiding her anguished face against the seat. +At last she rose, a woman stricken -- dumb -- + And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet. +Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass + The barrier set between them. All his rare + Joy broke to fragments -- worse than that, unreal. + And standing lonely there, +His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass +He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas! + The loss so great his life could never heal. + + + XXXVIII + +For days thereafter Eunice lived retired, + Waited upon by one old serving-maid. +She would not leave her chamber, and desired + Only to hide herself. She was afraid +Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing, + Of what her longing urge her then to do. + What was this dreadful illness solitude + Had tortured her into? +Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing +The thought of that one morning. And her being + Bruised itself on a happening so rude. + + + XXXIX + +It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came + Her tirewoman with a letter, printed +Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name. + With utmost gentleness, the letter hinted +His understanding and his deep regret. + But would she not permit him once again + To pay her his profound respects? No word + Of what had passed should pain +Her resolution. Only let them get +Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet + With starting tears, now truly she deplored + + + XL + +His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep + Away from him. He hardly was to blame. +'Twas she -- she shuddered and began to weep. + 'Twas her fault! Hers! Her everlasting shame +Was that she suffered him, whom not at all + She loved. Poor Boy! Yes, they must still be friends. + She owed him that to keep the balance straight. + It was such poor amends +Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall +Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical + It was, and she must leave him desolate. + + + XLI + +Hard silence he had forced upon his lips + For long and long, and would have done so still +Had not she -- here she pressed her finger tips + Against her heavy eyes. Then with forced will +She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms + Of Crowe and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter + When this was done. It seemed her constant care + Might some day cease to fright her. +Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms +Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms + Would lessen when she saw him standing there, + + + XLII + +Simple and kind, a brother just returned + From journeying, and he would treat her so. +She knew his honest heart, and if there burned + A spark in it he would not let it show. +But when he really came, and stood beside + Her underneath the fruitless cherry boughs, + He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed. + He made her no more vows, +Nor did he mention one thing he had tried +To put into his letter. War supplied + Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied. + + + XLIII + +Daily they met. And gravely walked and talked. + He read her no more verses, and he stayed +Only until their conversation, balked + Of every natural channel, fled dismayed. +Again the next day she would meet him, trying + To give her tone some healthy sprightliness, + But his uneager dignity soon chilled + Her well-prepared address. +Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying +Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying + Whirred overhead for days and never stilled. + + + XLIV + +One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind, + Eunice awaited Gervase by the river. +The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined + Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver +Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank. + All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves + Blew up, and settled down, and blew again. + The cherry-trees were weaves +Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank +Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank + With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain. + + + XLV + +Eunice paced up and down. No joy she took + At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown +Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook, + And caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown +Sir Everard emerging from the mist. + His uniform was travel-stained and torn, + His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride + Jangled his spurs. A thorn +Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst +He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran -- a twist + Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide. + + + XLVI + +But he had seen her as she swiftly ran, + A flash of white against the river's grey. +"Eunice," he called. "My Darling. Eunice. Can + You hear me? It is Everard. All day +I have been riding like the very devil + To reach you sooner. Are you startled, Dear?" + He broke into a run and followed her, + And caught her, faint with fear, +Cowering and trembling as though she some evil +Spirit were seeing. "What means this uncivil + Greeting, Dear Heart?" He saw her senses blur. + + + XLVII + +Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried + To speak, but only gurgled in her throat. +At last, straining to hold herself, she cried + To him for pity, and her strange words smote +A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase + To leave her, 'twas too much a second time. + Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind + Repeated like a rhyme +This name he did not know. In sad amaze +He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze, + So unremembering and so unkind. + + + XLVIII + +Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt + With what he feared her madness. By and by +He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt + Upon the seat, and took her hands: "Now try +To think a minute I am come, my Dear, + Unharmed and back on furlough. Are you glad + To have your lover home again? To me, + Pickthorn has never had +A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear +To come and sit awhile beside me here? + A stone between us surely should not be." + + + XLIX + +She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile, + Then came to him and on his shoulder laid +Her head, and they two rested there awhile, + Each taking comfort. Not a word was said. +But when he put his hand upon her breast + And felt her beating heart, and with his lips + Sought solace for her and himself. She started + As one sharp lashed with whips, +And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest +Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest, + Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted. + + + L + +Eunice was very quiet all that day, + A little dazed, and yet she seemed content. +At candle-time, he asked if she would play + Upon her harpsichord, at once she went +And tinkled airs from Lully's `Carnival' + And `Bacchus', newly brought away from France. + Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon + To please him with a dance +By Purcell, for he said that surely all +Good Englishmen had pride in national + Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon + + + LI + +He whispered her that if she had forgiven + His startling her that afternoon, the clock +Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven + He entered when she opened to his knock. +The hours rustled in the trailing wind + Over the chimney. Close they lay and knew + Only that they were wedded. At his touch + Anxiety she threw +Away like a shed garment, and inclined +Herself to cherish him, her happy mind + Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch. + + + LII + +Eunice lay long awake in the cool night + After her husband slept. She gazed with joy +Into the shadows, painting them with bright + Pictures of all her future life's employ. +Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel, + Each shining with the other. Soft she turned + And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed + Her happiness was earned. +Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel +To light this Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel + Affrightings would she ever be dismayed. + + + LIII + +When Everard, next day, asked her in joke + What name it was that she had called him by, +She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke + She hardly realized it was a lie. +Her vision she related, but she hid + The fondness into which she had been led. + Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear, + And quite out of her head +The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid +Himself for laziness, and off he rid + To see his men and count his farming-gear. + + + LIV + +At supper he seemed overspread with gloom, + But gave no reason why, he only asked +More questions of Gervase, and round the room + He walked with restless strides. At last he tasked +Her with a greater feeling for this man + Than she had given. Eunice quick denied + The slightest interest other than a friend + Might claim. But he replied +He thought she underrated. Then a ban +He put on talk and music. He'd a plan + To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End. + + + LV + +Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed, + Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride +Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged + All round his torment. Lady Eunice tried +To sooth him. So a week went by, and then + His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands + Striving to stem his words, he told her plain + Tony had seen them, "brands +Burning in Hell," the man had said. Again +Eunice described her vision, and how when + Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain. + + + LVI + +He could not credit it, and misery fed + Upon his spirit, day by day it grew. +To Gervase he forbade the house, and led + The Lady Eunice such a life she flew +At his approaching footsteps. Winter came + Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees. + All the roof-edges spiked with icicles + In fluted companies. +The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame +Kept herself sighing company. The flame + Of the birch fire glittered on the walls. + + + LVII + +A letter was brought to her as she sat, + Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound, +The writer's, had so well recovered that + To join his regiment he felt him bound. +But would she not wish him one short "Godspeed", + He asked no more. Her greeting would suffice. + He had resolved he never should return. + Would she this sacrifice +Make for a dying man? How could she read +The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed, + She read. Then dropped it in the fire to burn. + + + LVIII + +Gervase had set the river for their meeting + As farthest from the farms where Everard +Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating + Was quite expected, at least no dullard +Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid + Among the willows watching. Dusk had come, + And from the Manor he had long been gone. + Eunice her burdensome +Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid +Over the slippery paths, and soon amid + The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone. + + + LIX + +Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed + Into the boat. She shook her head, but he +Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed + Words told her of what peril there might be +From listeners along the river bank. + A push would take them out of earshot. Ten + Minutes was all he asked, then she should land, + He go away again, +Forever this time. Yet how could he thank +Her for so much compassion. Here she sank + Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand + + + LX + +His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved the keel + Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside +Her; took the oars, and they began to steal + Under the overhanging trees. A wide +Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade + Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting + Rigid and stark upon the after thwart. + It blazed upon their flitting +In merciless light. A moment so it stayed, +Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made + One leap, and landed just a fraction short. + + + LXI + +His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat + To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized +His wife and held her smothered to his coat. + "Everard, loose me, we shall drown --" and squeezed +Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped + "Never, by God!" The slidden boat gave way + And the black foamy water split -- and met. + Bubbled up through the spray +A wailing rose and in the branches rasped, +And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped + In the blue evening, a clear moon was set. + + + LXII + +They lie entangled in the twisting roots, + Embraced forever. Their cold marriage bed +Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots + Of willows and pale birches. At the head, +White lilies, like still swans, placidly float + And sway above the pebbles. Here are waves + Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane + Gold-woven on their graves. +In perfect quietness they sleep, remote +In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote + Them to perpetual oneness who were twain. + + + + +The Cremona Violin + + + + Part First + +Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. +A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind +Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before +Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind +The distant town was black, and sharp defined +Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, +Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. + +A pasted city on a purple ground, +Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud +Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound +Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, +Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud +Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. +Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. + +She bustled round to shake by constant moving +The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, +She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving +Its careful setting, then her own attire +Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher +She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting +A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting + +This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, +Or rather plumping down upon a chair, +She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, +And watched the rain upon the window glare +In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare +Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!" +She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!" + +A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. +Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, +Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping +She stood and gazed along the street. A man +Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran +Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear, +What in the name of patience brings you here? + +Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin +I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. +This clasp is very much too worn and thin. +I'll take the other fiddle out to-night +If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite +Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I -- +Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. + +Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? +A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. +Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few +Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. +What do you say? That you were feared for me? +Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. +I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk." + +Her needles still, her hands upon her lap +Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat +And watched the rain-run window. In his nap +Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, +Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, +Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room +Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. + +But even rainy windows, silver-lit +By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give +But poor content to loneliness, and it +Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive +And down her eagerness and learn to live +In placid quiet. While her husband slept, +Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. + +Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man +Gentle and unambitious, that alone +Had kept him back. He played as few men can, +Drawing out of his instrument a tone +So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone +Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, +Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. + +Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, +Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine +Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life +Was flowering out of early discipline +When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine +The belly was. The back of broadly curled +Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. + + The slanting, youthful sound-holes through + The belly of fine, vigorous pine + Mellowed each note and blew + It out again with a woody flavour + Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are + When breezes in their needles jar. + + The varnish was an orange-brown + Lustered like glass that's long laid down + Under a crumbling villa stone. + Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point + Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint + Clear, and bold, and thin. + Such was Herr Theodore's violin. + +Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone +With his best violin, the rain being stopped, +Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone +Watching the embers which the fire dropped. +The china shone upon the dresser, topped +By polished copper vessels which her skill +Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. + +An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head. +Herr Altgelt had been practising before +The night's performance. Charlotta had plead +With him to stay with her. Even at the door +She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore +You for this evening, Theodore," she had said. +"Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead." + +"A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her ear. +"You'd like to have our good Elector turn +Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer +Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, +My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, +And cold, and only love your work, I know. +But Theodore, for this evening, do not go." + +But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, +For she had kept him talking. Now she sat +Alone again, always alone, the trend +Of all her thinking brought her back to that +She wished to banish. What would life be? What? +For she was young, and loved, while he was moved +Only by music. Each day that was proved. + +Each day he rose and practised. While he played, +She stopped her work and listened, and her heart +Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed +And longing, she would hide from him her smart. +"Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start +She gave, and she would run to him and cry, +And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie. + +I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! +You'll hear the thing enough before I've done." +And she would draw away from him, still shaking. +Had he but guessed she was another one, +Another violin. Her strings were aching, +Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again +He played and she almost broke at the strain. + +Where was the use of thinking of it now, +Sitting alone and listening to the clock! +She'd best make haste and knit another row. +Three hours at least must pass before his knock +Would startle her. It always was a shock. +She listened -- listened -- for so long before, +That when it came her hearing almost tore. + +She caught herself just starting in to listen. +What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! +She wandered to the window, for the glisten +Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks +Of her two candles. Still she could not fix +To anything. The moon in a broad swath +Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. + +Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high +And black, their shadows doubling them. The night +Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh +Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight +Of insects, and the smell of aconite, +And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted +Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted + +The even flags. She let herself go dreaming +Of Theodore her husband, and the tune +From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming +Changed -- shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon +Showed her a passer-by, inopportune +Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. +Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. + +"The best laid plans of mice and men," alas! +The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. +Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, +Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, +Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, +Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, +And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. + +He seemed a proper fellow standing there +In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced +With silver, and he wore his own brown hair +Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced +A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased +Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position +Was hardly easy. When would his volition + +Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! +A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo' +Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune +Had brought him there to stare about him so? +"Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!" +Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, +And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. + +Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, +Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. +If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes +Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, +He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig +Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose +Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose + +Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why +Do you stand there? I really must insist +Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly +To stay so long." The young man gave a twist +And turned about, and in the amethyst +Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen +From the green bushes which had been her prison. + +He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. +"Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea +I was not quite alone, and that is how +I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer +Impertinence. I thought no one was here, +And really gardens cry to be admired. +To-night especially it seemed required. + +And may I beg to introduce myself? +Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?" +Charlotta told him. And the artful elf +Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. +So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came +To conversation with him. When she went +Into the house, she found the evening spent. + +Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, +With all excitement in him burned away. +It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, +And he had played his very best to-day, +But afterwards he had been forced to stay +And practise with the stupid ones. His head +Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. + + + Part Second + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, + And the four strings of his violin + Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. + The notes rose into the wide sun-mote + Which slanted through the window, + They lay like coloured beads a-row, + They knocked together and parted, + And started to dance, + Skipping, tripping, each one slipping + Under and over the others so + That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance + Or a comet's tail, + Behind them. + Then a wail arose -- crescendo -- + And dropped from off the end of the bow, + And the dancing stopped. + A scent of lilies filled the room, + Long and slow. Each large white bloom + Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, + And the hum of an organ tone, + And they waved like fans in a hall of stone + Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. + Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. + Like smoke they rose from the violin -- + Then faded as a swifter bowing + Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing + In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion + Between broad meadows to an ocean + Wide as a day and blue as a flower, + Where every hour + Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, + And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, + And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered + With spray. + And away a couple of frigates were starting + To race to Java with all sails set, + Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, + And wide moonsails; and the shining rails + Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. + All the sails went up with a run: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, + And the ship heeled over to the breeze. + He drew her into the shade of the sails, + And whispered tales + Of voyages in the China seas, + And his arm around her + Held and bound her. + She almost swooned, + With the breeze and the moon + And the slipping sea, + And he beside her, + Touching her, leaning -- + The ship careening, + With the white moon steadily shining over + Her and her lover, + Theodore, still her lover! + + Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, + And slowly floated + A single note which spread and spread + Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, + And noises shivered throughout its length, + And tried its strength. + They pulled it, and tore it, + And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. + Then a wide rent + Split the arching tent, + And balls of fire spurted through, + Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. + One by one they were quenched as they fell, + Only the blue burned steadily. + Paler and paler it grew, and -- faded -- away. + Herr Altgelt stopped. + +"Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? +I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. +What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. +I wonder how it happens I'm the winner +Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; +You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. +Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. + +I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. +The days are getting short, and I'm so tied +At the Court Theatre my poor little bride +Has not much junketing I fear, but soon +I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. +To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, +And when I go, why Lotta can come too. + +Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup +To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. +You know it's odd how some women can stoop! +Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, +A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover +If it's his money. But she lives alone +Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, + +Pores over books all day, and has no ear +For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; +They need appreciation. But it's queer +What messes people make of their lives, when +They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then +His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. +I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce." + +Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went +Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind +Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, +Audacious wind it was, now close behind, +Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined +The strings across her face, then from in front +Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, + +Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, +Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound +Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing +Itself upon her, so that she was wound +In draperies as clinging as those found +Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze +Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze + +The shops and houses had a quality +Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp +And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. +The city streets were twanging like a harp. +Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly +She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing +Toward what destination she was going. + +She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, +Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, +And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop +And then float up again with lightness. Browns +Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns +Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, +Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. + +A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard +Delighted her. And rings of every size +Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, +Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred +To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred +Like rockets bursting on a festal day. +Charlotta could not tear herself away. + +With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, +Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, +Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks +Of shades and lustres always darting through +Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, +Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. +She started at the words: "Am I encroaching?" + +"Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought +We were to meet at three, is it quite that?" +"No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught +The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, +I cannot go on this way. Life is what +Might best be conjured up by the word: `Hell'. +Dearest, when will you come?" Lotta, to quell + +His effervescence, pointed to the gems +Within the window, asked him to admire +A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems +Uneasily the burning of a fire. +Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. +Little by little she wooed him to her mood +Until at last he promised to be good. + +But here he started on another tack; +To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. +She vainly urged against him all her lack +Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use +A ring or brooch her husband might accuse +Her of extravagance, and ask to see +A strict accounting, or still worse might be. + +But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why +Should he not give her what he liked? And in +He went, determined certainly to buy +A thing so beautiful that it would win +Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin +He would outscore by such a handsome jewel +That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! + +Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. +If she went in with him, the shopman might +Recognize her, give her her name; in days +To come he could denounce her. In her fright +She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite +Capable of pursuing. By and by +She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. + +It took some pains to keep him from bestowing +A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, +The setting twined to represent the growing +Tendrils and leaves, upon her. "Who supposes +I could obtain such things! It simply closes +All comfort for me." So he changed his mind +And bought as slight a gift as he could find. + +A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, +Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, +Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls +Should lie in it. And further to bedeck +His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, +The merest puff of a thin, linked chain +To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain + +From weeping as they sauntered down the street. +She did not want the locket, yet she did. +To have him love her she found very sweet, +But it is hard to keep love always hid. +Then there was something in her heart which chid +Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, +That all these meetings were a foolish whim. + +She thought of Theodore and the life they led, +So near together, but so little mingled. +The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, +And the fresh wind about her body tingled; +The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; +Charlotta held her breath for very fear, +About her in the street she seemed to hear: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + +And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, +Who held her and who whispered in her ear. +She knew her heart was telling her no lies, +Beating and hammering. He was so dear, +The touch of him would send her in a queer +Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning +For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning + +Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. +He had some aim, she had forgotten what. +Their progress was confused and very slow, +But at the last they reached a lonely spot, +A garden far above the highest shot +Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town +Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. + +Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, +Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain +About her neck. She treated it in jest, +And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. +Then suddenly she felt as though a strain +Were put upon her, collared like a slave, +Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. + +She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands +To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. +Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands +Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance +Melted within her, from remotest distance, +Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, +And giving way she knew him very dear. + +For long he held her, and they both gazed down +At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. +From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown +Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver +Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver +When, opening the locket, they were placed +Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. + +"When will you have it so with us?" He sighed. +She shook her head. He pressed her further. "No, +No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried +To free herself and rise. He held her so, +Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. +"But you love me," he whispered, with his face +Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. + +Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew +That what her husband lit this other man +Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few +Women were so discreet as she, who ran +No danger since she knew what things to ban. +She opened her house door at five o'clock, +A short half-hour before her husband's knock. + + + Part Third + +The `Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed +With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, +That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed +With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring +Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting +Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting +From muffled tympani made a dark slatting + +Across the silver shimmering of flutes; +A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; +The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, +And mutterings of double basses trailed +Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed +Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter +They lost themselves amid the general clatter. + +Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, +Felt lifted up into another world. +Before her eyes a thousand candles shone +In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled +And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. +She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, +And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering + +All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, +The house, like rubies set in filigree, +Filliped the candlelight about, and bold +Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly +Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. +An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. +Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling + +About a play-bill he had bought and lost. +Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. +Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post +Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected +The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected +When with no glance about him or her way, +He lifted up his violin to play. + + The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, + Charlotta never saw it go. + The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing + Only came to her like the ringing + Of bells at a festa + Which swing in the air + And nobody realizes they are there. + They jingle and jangle, + And clang, and bang, + And never a soul could tell whether they rang, + For the plopping of guns and rockets + And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, + And the shuffling and clapping of feet, + And the loud flapping + Of flags, with the drums, + As the military comes. + It's a famous tune to walk to, + And I wonder where they're off to. + Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. + But the rhythm changes as though a mist + Were curling and twisting + Over the landscape. + For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog + Encompasses her. Then her senses jog + To the breath of a stately minuet. + Herr Altgelt's violin is set + In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, + To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. + Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights + When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights + Blundering insects knock, + And the `Rathaus' clock + Booms twice, through the shrill sounds + Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. + Pressed against him in the mazy wavering + Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering + She leans upon the beating, throbbing + Music. Laughing, sobbing, + Feet gliding after sliding feet; + His -- hers -- + The ballroom blurs -- + She feels the air + Lifting her hair, + And the lapping of water on the stone stair. + He is there! He is there! + Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, + That the dancers may dance, and never discover + The old stone stair leading down to the river + With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over + Her and her lover. + Theodore, still her lover! + +The evening passed like this, in a half faint, +Delirium with waking intervals +Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint +Of a large company, the constant calls +For oranges or syrops from the stalls +Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, +Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. + +She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, +The music vaunted as most excellent. +The scenery and the costumes were applauded, +The latter it was whispered had been sent +From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent +A fortune on them, so the gossips said. +Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. + +When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, +Her prodded ears were aching and confused. +The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming +Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused +Into the music, Theodore's music! Used +To hear him play, she caught his single tone. +For all she noticed they two were alone. + + + Part Fourth + +Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, +Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down +Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat +A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown +Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown +The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes +Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. + +Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, +Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman +And ordered off. However, no great harm +Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan +When Theodore, her belated guardian, +Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, +Half out of fear, half out of the assembling + +Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. +Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. +"Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!" +"Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? +Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow +Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, +A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops." + +He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, +Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say +To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact +Kept him explaining all the homeward way +How this thing had gone well, that badly. "Stay, +Theodore!" she cried at last. "You know to me +Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy." + +And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed +Herself so much, and said so. "But it's good +To be got home again." He was employed +In looking at his violin, the wood +Was old, and evening air did it no good. +But when he drew up to the table for tea +Something about his wife's vivacity + +Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. +He talked of this and that but watched her close. +Tea over, he endeavoured to extort +The cause of her excitement. She arose +And stood beside him, trying to compose +Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, +And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. + +Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, +Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. +Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp +Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, +Sobbing out all her hours of despair. +"Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. +Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved." + +Theodore went under in this tearing wave, +He yielded to it, and its headlong flow +Filled him with all the energy she gave. +He was a youth again, and this bright glow, +This living, vivid joy he had to show +Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, +She asked assurances there's no denying. + +Over and over again her questions, till +He quite convinced her, every now and then +She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. +But later when they were composed and when +She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen," +He asked, "how is it your love has withstood +My inadvertence? I was made of wood." + +She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, +That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky +To her. And even if conscience were unruly +She salved it by neat sophistries, but why +Suppose her insincere, it was no lie +She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot +As though he'd never been within earshot. + +But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing +Fumbled against the locket where it lay +Upon her neck. "What is this thing I'm pressing?" +He asked. "Let's bring it to the light of day." +He lifted up the locket. "It should stay +Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. +To keep it hidden surely is a waste." + +Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused +Out of her happiness. The locket brought +A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused +Under its icy spurting she was caught, +And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought +The clasp, but with such art was this contrived +Her fumbling fingers never once arrived + +Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, +She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring +And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, +Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing +To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string +Binding her folly to her, and those curls +Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! + +Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. +"Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged. But he +Refused, and being in a happy mood, +Twitted her with her inefficiency, +Then looking at her very seriously: +"I think, Charlotta, it is well to have +Always about one what a mother gave. + +As she has taken the great pains to send +This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be +Ingratitude if you do not intend +To carry it about you constantly. +With her fine taste you cannot disagree, +The locket is most beautifully designed." +He opened it and there the curls were, twined. + +Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. +She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. +Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, +She heard her husband asking: "What are those?" +Put out her hand quickly to interpose, +But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded +At the calm way the question was propounded. + +"A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. +Indeed I will not let you put it off. +A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!" +Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. +"Never with my connivance shall you doff +This charming gift." He kissed her on the cheek, +And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. + +When later in their room she lay awake, +Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, +She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. +She had loved Heinrich also, and the core +Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore +She vowed from now to break this double life +And see herself only as Theodore's wife. + + + Part Fifth + +It was no easy matter to convince +Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say +That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) +She still must keep the locket to allay +Suspicion in her husband. She would pay +Him from her savings bit by bit -- the oath +He swore at that was startling to them both. + +Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt +Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. +She found her husband all that she had felt +His music to contain. Her days were set +In his as though she were an amulet +Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; +Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. + +Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks +Were furbished up to seem like rituals. +She baked and brewed as one who only asks +The right to serve. Her daily manuals +Of prayer were duties, and her festivals +When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said +She had a knack in making up a bed. + +So Autumn went, and all the mountains round +The city glittered white with fallen snow, +For it was Winter. Over the hard ground +Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. +On the swept flags behind the currant row +Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip +Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership + +Was first again. This evening he had got +Important news. The opera ordered from +Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, +The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come +Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot +From copying, had been tried over. Never +Had any music started such a fever. + +The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, +The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, +With such a great attraction through the course +Of Carnival time. In what utter shade +All other cities would be left! The trade +In music would all drift here naturally. +In his excitement he forgot his tea. + +Lotta was forced to take his cup and put +It in his hand. But still he rattled on, +Sipping at intervals. The new catgut +Strings he was using gave out such a tone +The "Maestro" had remarked it, and had gone +Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, +He was as happy as a little child. + +From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, +Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first +Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore +Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst +Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; +That his short interest in her was a light +Flared up an instant only in the night. + +`Idomeneo' was the opera's name, +A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. +Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came +Home for his tea, and it was very late, +Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state +Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin +Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. + +He practised every morning and her heart +Followed his bow. But often she would sit, +While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, +Absently fingering and touching it, +The locket, which now seemed to her a bit +Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, +And through the notes he played, her dreading ears + +Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; +Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take +Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged +Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take +Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, +Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. +What harm to pass it since she should not stop! + +It matters nothing how one day she met +Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. +Nor how the following week he stood to let +Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. +How once he took her basket, and once he +Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck +Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck + +How many times their business took them each +Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, +But she would only nod, he got no speech +From her. Next time he treated it in joke, +And that so lightly that her vow she broke +And answered. So they drifted into seeing +Each other as before. There was no fleeing. + +Christmas was over and the Carnival +Was very near, and tripping from each tongue +Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall +Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, +What singers hired. Pictures of the young +"Maestro" were for sale. The town was mad. +Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. + +Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will +And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore +And him. Sometimes she wished to kill +Herself to solve her problem. For a score +Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore +Her moods with patience, and so surely urged +Himself upon her, she was slowly merged + +Into his way of thinking, and to fly +With him seemed easy. But next morning would +The Stradivarius undo her mood. +Then she would realize that she must cleave +Always to Theodore. And she would try +To convince Heinrich she should never leave, +And afterwards she would go home and grieve. + +All thought in Munich centered on the part +Of January when there would be given +`Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. +The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even +Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven +Behind the highest gallery, were sold. +The inches of the theatre went for gold. + +Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin +With work, he hardly printed black behind +The candle. He and his old violin +Made up one person. He was not unkind, +But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, +The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded +A part of him which he had quite discarded. + + It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, + In little lights, + Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, + Here -- there -- + Spurting, sputtering, + Fading and lighting, + Together, asunder -- + Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, + And the faint grey patch of the window shone + Upon her sitting there, alone. + For Theodore slept. + +The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, +'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant +Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play +His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent +Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went +Into the kitchen, with a weary word +Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. + + Lotta heard more than his spoken word. + She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. + She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, + When the sound began, + Long as the span + Of a white road snaking about a hill. + The orchards are filled + With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. + Hawthorn buds are cracking, + And in the distance a shepherd is clacking + His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. + The notes are asleep, + Lying adrift on the air + In level lines + Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, + Strung and threaded, + All imbedded + In the blue-green of the hazy pines. + Lines -- long, straight lines! + And stems, + Long, straight stems + Pushing up + To the cup of blue, blue sky. + Stems growing misty + With the many of them, + Red-green mist + Of the trees, + And these + Wood-flavoured notes. + The back is maple and the belly is pine. + The rich notes twine + As though weaving in and out of leaves, + Broad leaves + Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, + Waving and falling. + Another sound peers + Through little pine fingers, + And lingers, peeping. + Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. + There is a twittering up in the branches, + A chirp and a lilt, + And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. + Wings! Wings! + And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. + The forest bends, tumultuous + With song. + The woodpecker knocks, + And the song-sparrow trills, + Every fir, and cedar, and yew + Has a nest or a bird, + It is quite absurd + To hear them cutting across each other: + Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, + And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother + A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, + "Roo -- coo -- oo -- oo --" + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!" + A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! + And the great trees toss + And leaves blow down, + You can almost hear them splash on the ground. + The whistle again: + It is double and loud! + The leaves are splashing, + And water is dashing + Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; + And men are running up them to furl the sails, + For there is a capful of wind to-day, + And we are already well under way. + The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. + "Theodore, please. + Oh, Dear, how you tease!" + And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, + And the men pull on the sheets: + "My name is Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; + They are swinging over + Her and her lover. + Almost swooning + Under the ballooning canvas, + She lies + Looking up in his eyes + As he bends farther over. + Theodore, still her lover! + +The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, +She leant against the table for support, +Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands +Burning upon his music. He stopped short. +Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands +Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, +Her fingers touched the locket with a start. + +Herr Altgelt put his violin away +Listlessly. "Lotta, I must have some rest. +The strain will be a hideous one to-day. +Don't speak to me at all. It will be best +If I am quiet till I go." And lest +She disobey, he left her. On the stairs +She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! + +He could not hear, he was not there, for she +Was married to a mummy, a machine. +Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. +Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen +Case of his violin. She saw the clean +Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge +Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. + +A heavy cart went by, a distant bell +Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. +She was alone. Her throat began to swell +With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? +The violin she had begun to hate +Lay in its case before her. Here she flung +The cover open. With the fiddle swung + +Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking +Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused +The little door in it came open, flicking +A wooden cuckoo out: "Cuckoo!" It caused +The forest dream to come again. "Cuckoo!" +Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. + +"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" the clock kept striking on; +But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. + + + + +The Cross-Roads + + + +A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed +with a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house, +and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows, +cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, +creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face. +A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howling +through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing. +The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open +and the eyes glitter. + + +The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching. +Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering; +tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart, +drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning, +lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles and earth +and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again +into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses. +Squeaking of wheels. + +"Whoa! Ready, Jim?" + +"All ready." + +Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin. + +"Give us the stake, Jim. Now." + +Pound! Pound! + +"He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground." + +An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him. +He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway, +and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet +in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. + + +Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body, +and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick +held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green. +Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley +at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young +green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise +scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, +under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within +his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun? +The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan. +The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over, +tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves, +and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees. + +The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking, and all the branches +are knocking -- knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate, +the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage +is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing. +The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms. +The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well +in the deep, black ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground. + + +Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away; +it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the stake +is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly jewelled +with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises. +Down the road to Tilbury, silence -- and the slow flapping of large leaves. +Down the road to Sutton, silence -- and the darkness of heavy-foliaged trees. +Down the road to Wayfleet, silence -- and the whirring scrape of insects +in the branches. Down the road to Edgarstown, silence -- and stars like +stepping-stones in a pathway overhead. It is very quiet at the cross-roads, +and the sign-board points the way down the four roads, endlessly points +the way where nobody wishes to go. + +A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide, +still leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes; +silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury way; +riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from +Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze +all of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down. +Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves away +from the sign-post. An oath -- spurs -- a blurring of grey mist. +A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing +down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him. + +The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from flesh, +has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and clamping them down +in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and spine. +The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them still +in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine, for the stake +holds the fleshless bones in line. + + +Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself away; +it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. Only flaky +bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone is knit +to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but upright still, +and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line. + +Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the trees. +The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow ways, +saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust +blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do more; +it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind +comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet. +The wind reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post. +Wind again, wheels and feet louder. Wind again -- again -- again. +A drop of rain, flat into the dust. Drop! -- Drop! Thick heavy raindrops, +and a shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their leaves. + +Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road, +comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard +at Wayfleet. Feet and wheels -- feet and wheels. And among them +one who is carried. + +The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver +through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together +in a little puffing of dust. + +Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession, +now well along the Wayfleet road. + +He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like smoke, +his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the pouring rain, +he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down +the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers +among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under, +blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke. +There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear, +and after it laughter -- laughter -- laughter, skirling up to the black sky. +Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap of thunder. +Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels. + + + + +A Roxbury Garden + + + + I + + Hoops + +Blue and pink sashes, +Criss-cross shoes, +Minna and Stella run out into the garden +To play at hoop. + +Up and down the garden-paths they race, +In the yellow sunshine, +Each with a big round hoop +White as a stripped willow-wand. + +Round and round turn the hoops, +Their diamond whiteness cleaving the yellow sunshine. +The gravel crunches and squeaks beneath them, +And a large pebble springs them into the air +To go whirling for a foot or two +Before they touch the earth again +In a series of little jumps. + +Spring, Hoops! +Spit out a shower of blue and white brightness. +The little criss-cross shoes twinkle behind you, +The pink and blue sashes flutter like flags, +The hoop-sticks are ready to beat you. +Turn, turn, Hoops! In the yellow sunshine. +Turn your stripped willow whiteness +Along the smooth paths. + +Stella sings: + "Round and round, rolls my hoop, + Scarcely touching the ground, + With a swoop, + And a bound, + Round and round. + With a bumpety, crunching, scattering sound, + Down the garden it flies; + In our eyes + The sun lies. + See it spin + Out and in; + Through the paths it goes whirling, + About the beds curling. + Sway now to the loop, + Faster, faster, my hoop. + Round you come, + Up you come, + Quick and straight as before. + Run, run, my hoop, run, + Away from the sun." + +And the great hoop bounds along the path, +Leaping into the wind-bright air. + +Minna sings: + "Turn, hoop, + Burn hoop, + Twist and twine + Hoop of mine. + Flash along, + Leap along, + Right at the sun. + Run, hoop, run. + Faster and faster, + Whirl, twirl. + Wheel like fire, + And spin like glass; + Fire's no whiter + Glass is no brighter. + Dance, + Prance, + Over and over, + About and about, + With the top of you under, + And the bottom at top, + But never a stop. + Turn about, hoop, to the tap of my stick, + I follow behind you + To touch and remind you. + Burn and glitter, so white and quick, + Round and round, to the tap of a stick." + +The hoop flies along between the flower-beds, +Swaying the flowers with the wind of its passing. + +Beside the foxglove-border roll the hoops, +And the little pink and white bells shake and jingle +Up and down their tall spires; +They roll under the snow-ball bush, +And the ground behind them is strewn with white petals; +They swirl round a corner, +And jar a bee out of a Canterbury bell; +They cast their shadows for an instant +Over a bed of pansies, +Catch against the spurs of a columbine, +Jostle the quietness from a cluster of monk's-hood. +Pat! Pat! behind them come the little criss-cross shoes, +And the blue and pink sashes stream out in flappings of colour. + +Stella sings: + "Hoop, hoop, + Roll along, + Faster bowl along, + Hoop. + Slow, to the turning, + Now go! -- Go! + Quick! + Here's the stick. + Rat-a-tap-tap it, + Pat it, flap it. + Fly like a bird or a yellow-backed bee, + See how soon you can reach that tree. + Here is a path that is perfectly straight. + Roll along, hoop, or we shall be late." + +Minna sings: + "Trip about, slip about, whip about + Hoop. + Wheel like a top at its quickest spin, + Then, dear hoop, we shall surely win. + First to the greenhouse and then to the wall + Circle and circle, + And let the wind push you, + Poke you, + Brush you, + And not let you fall. + Whirring you round like a wreath of mist. + Hoopety hoop, + Twist, + Twist." + +Tap! Tap! go the hoop-sticks, +And the hoops bowl along under a grape arbour. +For an instant their willow whiteness is green, +Pale white-green. +Then they are out in the sunshine, +Leaving the half-formed grape clusters +A-tremble under their big leaves. + +"I will beat you, Minna," cries Stella, +Hitting her hoop smartly with her stick. +"Stella, Stella, we are winning," calls Minna, +As her hoop curves round a bed of clove-pinks. +A humming-bird whizzes past Stella's ear, +And two or three yellow-and-black butterflies +Flutter, startled, out of a pillar rose. +Round and round race the little girls +After their great white hoops. + +Suddenly Minna stops. +Her hoop wavers an instant, +But she catches it up on her stick. +"Listen, Stella!" +Both the little girls are listening; +And the scents of the garden rise up quietly about them. +"It's the chaise! It's Father! +Perhaps he's brought us a book from Boston." +Twinkle, twinkle, the little criss-cross shoes +Up the garden path. +Blue -- pink -- an instant, against the syringa hedge. +But the hoops, white as stripped willow-wands, +Lie in the grass, +And the grasshoppers jump back and forth +Over them. + + + II + + Battledore and Shuttlecock + +The shuttlecock soars upward +In a parabola of whiteness, +Turns, +And sinks to a perfect arc. +Plat! the battledore strikes it, +And it rises again, +Without haste, +Winged and curving, +Tracing its white flight +Against the clipped hemlock-trees. +Plat! +Up again, +Orange and sparkling with sun, +Rounding under the blue sky, +Dropping, +Fading to grey-green +In the shadow of the coned hemlocks. +"Ninety-one." "Ninety-two." "Ninety-three." +The arms of the little girls +Come up -- and up -- +Precisely, +Like mechanical toys. +The battledores beat at nothing, +And toss the dazzle of snow +Off their parchment drums. +"Ninety-four." Plat! +"Ninety-five." Plat! +Back and forth +Goes the shuttlecock, +Icicle-white, +Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds, +Overturning, +Falling, +Down, +And down, +Tinctured with pink +From the upthrusting shine +Of Oriental poppies. + +The little girls sway to the counting rhythm; +Left foot, +Right foot. +Plat! Plat! +Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores, +The parchment cracks with dryness; +But the shuttlecock +Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky, +Heaving up on the warm air +Like a foam-bubble on a wave, +With feathers slanted and sustaining. +Higher, +Until the earth turns beneath it; +Poised and swinging, +With all the garden flowing beneath it, +Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white -- +Blurred colour reflections in rippled water -- +Changing -- streaming -- +For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm. +Then the shuttlecock relinquishes, +Bows, +Descends; +And the sharp blue spears of the air +Thrust it to earth. + +Again it mounts, +Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers, +Buoyed up and under by the shining heat. +Above the foxgloves, +Above the guelder-roses, +Above the greenhouse glitter, +Till the shafts of cooler air +Meet it, +Deflect it, +Reject it, +Then down, +Down, +Past the greenhouse, +Past the guelder-rose bush, +Past the foxgloves. + +"Ninety-nine," Stella's battledore springs to the impact. +Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string. +"Oh! Minna!" +The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly, +Out of orbit, +Hits the path, +And rolls over quite still. +Dead white feathers, +With a weight at the end. + + + III + + Garden Games + +The tall clock is striking twelve; +And the little girls stop in the hall to watch it, +And the big ships rocking in a half-circle +Above the dial. +Twelve o'clock! +Down the side steps +Go the little girls, +Under their big round straw hats. +Minna's has a pink ribbon, +Stella's a blue, +That is the way they know which is which. +Twelve o'clock! +An hour yet before dinner. +Mother is busy in the still-room, +And Hannah is making gingerbread. + +Slowly, with lagging steps, +They follow the garden-path, +Crushing a leaf of box for its acrid smell, +Discussing what they shall do, +And doing nothing. + +"Stella, see that grasshopper +Climbing up the bank! +What a jump! +Almost as long as my arm." +Run, children, run. +For the grasshopper is leaping away, +In half-circle curves, +Shuttlecock curves, +Over the grasses. +Hand in hand, the little girls call to him: + "Grandfather, grandfather gray, + Give me molasses, or I'll throw you away." + +The grasshopper leaps into the sunlight, +Golden-green, +And is gone. + +"Let's catch a bee." +Round whirl the little girls, +And up the garden. +Two heads are thrust among the Canterbury bells, +Listening, +And fingers clasp and unclasp behind backs +In a strain of silence. + +White bells, +Blue bells, +Hollow and reflexed. +Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness, +Cool wine-tunnels for bees. +There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head. + +"Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick!" +The wide mouth of a blossom +Is pressed together in Minna's fingers. +The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells, +And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand, +With the bee +Imprisoned in it. +Whirr! Buzz! Bump! +Bump! Whiz! Bang! +BANG!! +The blue flower tears across like paper, +And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. + +"If we could fly, we could catch him." +The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, +As she stares after the bee. +"We'll follow him in a dove chariot. +Come on, Stella." +Run, children, +Along the red gravel paths, +For a bee is hard to catch, +Even with a chariot of doves. + +Tall, still, and cowled, +Stand the monk's-hoods; +Taller than the heads of the little girls. +A blossom for Minna. +A blossom for Stella. +Off comes the cowl, +And there is a purple-painted chariot; +Off comes the forward petal, +And there are two little green doves, +With green traces tying them to the chariot. +"Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. + Fly, Doves, up in the sky, + With Minna and me, + After the bee." + +Up one path, +Down another, +Run the little girls, +Holding their dove chariots in front of them; +But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, +With his wings folded along his back. + +The dove chariots are thrown away, +And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, +Sucking the salvia tips, +And squeezing the snapdragons +To make them gape. +"I'm so hot, +Let's pick a pansy +And see the little man in his bath, +And play we're he." +A royal bath-tub, +Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. +The great purple-yellow wings +Rise up behind the little red and green man; +The purple-yellow wings fan him, +He dabbles his feet in cool green. +Off with the green sheath, +And there are two spindly legs. +"Heigho!" sighs Minna. +"Heigho!" sighs Stella. +There is not a flutter of wind, +And the sun is directly overhead. + +Along the edge of the garden +Walk the little girls. +Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, +Are dangling by the ribbons. +The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; +Buttercups and daisies streaming away +Up the hill. +The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; +The garden is hot with colours. +But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, +Cool, and long, and quiet. +The little girls pick buttercups +And hold them under each other's chins. +"You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. +You're going to be very rich, Minna." +"Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings +Just like Aunt Nancy's. +I wonder if he will. +I know. We'll tell fortunes. +That's what we'll do." +Plump down in the meadow grass, +Stella and Minna, +With their round yellow hats, +Like cheeses, +Beside them. +Drop, +Drop, +Daisy petals. + "One I love, + Two I love, + Three I love I say . . ." +The ground is peppered with daisy petals, +And the little girls nibble the golden centres, +And play it is cake. + +A bell rings. +Dinner-time; +And after dinner there are lessons. + + + + +1777 + + + + I + + The Trumpet-Vine Arbour + +The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, +And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight. +They bray and blare at the burning sky. +Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, +Trumpeted at the blue sky. +In long streaks of sound, molten metal, +The vine declares itself. +Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets. +Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets, +Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. + +I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight. +It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, +I only know that they are red and open, +And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat. +My quill is newly mended, +And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. +Down the long, white paper it makes little lines, +Just lines -- up -- down -- criss-cross. +My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; +It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. +My hand marches to a squeaky tune, +It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. +My pen and the trumpet-flowers, +And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest. +"Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, +Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. +What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. +Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. +Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! +Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top +Through Father's spy-glass. +The red city, and the blue, bright water, +And puffs of smoke which you made. +Twenty miles away, +Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, +But the smoke was white -- white! +To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red -- +And I cannot see you fighting, +But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, +And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. +The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, +And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. + + + II + + The City of Falling Leaves + +Leaves fall, +Brown leaves, +Yellow leaves streaked with brown. +They fall, +Flutter, +Fall again. +The brown leaves, +And the streaked yellow leaves, +Loosen on their branches +And drift slowly downwards. +One, +One, two, three, +One, two, five. +All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves -- +Brown, +And yellow streaked with brown. + +"That sonnet, Abate, +Beautiful, +I am quite exhausted by it. +Your phrases turn about my heart +And stifle me to swooning. +Open the window, I beg. +Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! +'Tis really a shame to stop indoors. +Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. +Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! +See how straight the leaves are falling. +Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, +It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. +Am I well painted to-day, `caro Abate mio'? +You will be proud of me at the `Ridotto', hey? +Proud of being `Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?" +"Can you doubt it, `Bellissima Contessa'? +A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, +And Venus herself shines less . . ." +"You bore me, Abate, +I vow I must change you! +A letter, Achmet? +Run and look out of the window, Abate. +I will read my letter in peace." +The little black slave with the yellow satin turban +Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. +His yellow turban and black skin +Are gorgeous -- barbaric. +The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings +Lies on a chair +Beside a black mantle and a black mask. +Yellow and black, +Gorgeous -- barbaric. +The lady reads her letter, +And the leaves drift slowly +Past the long windows. +"How silly you look, my dear Abate, +With that great brown leaf in your wig. +Pluck it off, I beg you, +Or I shall die of laughing." + +A yellow wall +Aflare in the sunlight, +Chequered with shadows, +Shadows of vine leaves, +Shadows of masks. +Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, +Then passing on, +More masks always replacing them. +Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind +Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels, +The sunlight shining under their insteps. +One, +One, two, +One, two, three, +There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, +Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. +Yellow sunlight and black shadows, +Yellow and black, +Gorgeous -- barbaric. +Two masks stand together, +And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, +Marking the wall where they are not. +From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, +From elbow to sword-hilt, +The leaf falls. +The shadows mingle, +Blur together, +Slide along the wall and disappear. +Gold of mosaics and candles, +And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. +Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections. +A cloak brushes aside, +And the yellow of satin +Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement. +Under the gold crucifixes +There is a meeting of hands +Reaching from black mantles. +Sighing embraces, bold investigations, +Hide in confessionals, +Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. +Gorgeous -- barbaric +In its mail of jewels and gold, +Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks; +And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, +Flutter, +Fall. +Brown, +And yellow streaked with brown. + +Blue-black, the sky over Venice, +With a pricking of yellow stars. +There is no moon, +And the waves push darkly against the prow +Of the gondola, +Coming from Malamocco +And streaming toward Venice. +It is black under the gondola hood, +But the yellow of a satin dress +Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. +Yellow compassed about with darkness, +Yellow and black, +Gorgeous -- barbaric. +The boatman sings, +It is Tasso that he sings; +The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, +And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. +But at Malamocco in front, +In Venice behind, +Fall the leaves, +Brown, +And yellow streaked with brown. +They fall, +Flutter, +Fall. + + + + + + Bronze Tablets + + + + + +The Fruit Shop + + + +Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, +High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; +A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown +She pluckered her little brows into +As she picked her dainty passage through +The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle, +A dirty pathway, we need rain, +My poor fruits suffer, and the shell +Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain +Here in the sun it has shrunk again. +The baker down at the corner says +We need a battle to shake the clouds; +But I am a man of peace, my ways +Don't look to the killing of men in crowds. +Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds! +Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun. +Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool +In here, for the green leaves I have run +In a curtain over the door, make a pool +Of shade. You see the pears on that stool -- +The shadow keeps them plump and fair." +Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves +Held back the sun, a greenish flare +Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves +Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves, +Shot from the golden letters, broke +And splintered to little scattered lights. +Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke +Bonnet tilted itself to rights, +And her face looked out like the moon on nights +Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I +Want gooseberries, an apple or two, +Or excellent plums, but not if they're high; +Haven't you some which a strong wind blew? +I've only a couple of francs for you." +Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands. +What could he do, the times were sad. +A couple of francs and such demands! +And asking for fruits a little bad. +Wind-blown indeed! He never had +Anything else than the very best. +He pointed to baskets of blunted pears +With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest, +All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears. +Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears. +He took up a pear with tender care, +And pressed it with his hardened thumb. +"Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there +Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come +Only from having a dish at home. +And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine, +Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey. +They're only this morning off the vine, +And I paid for them down in silver money. +The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony +Brought them in at sunrise to-day. +Those oranges -- Gold! They're almost red. +They seem little chips just broken away +From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead +You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay, +When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray. +Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs, +They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships +Make it a little hard for our rigs. +They must be forever giving the slips +To the cursed English, and when men clips +Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts +A bit in price. Those almonds now, +I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts +A life or two in a nigger row +With the man who grew them, it does seem how +They would come dear; and then the fight +At sea perhaps, our boats have heels +And mostly they sail along at night, +But once in a way they're caught; one feels +Ivory's not better nor finer -- why peels +From an almond kernel are worth two sous. +It's hard to sell them now," he sighed. +"Purses are tight, but I shall not lose. +There's plenty of cheaper things to choose." +He picked some currants out of a wide +Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue +Almost fly out to suck them, bride +Currants they are, they were planted long +Ago for some new Marquise, among +Other great beauties, before the Chateau +Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife, +He that marched off to his death at Marengo, +Sells them to me; she keeps her life +From snuffing out, with her pruning knife. +She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade +When her man was young, and the young Marquis +Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made +All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he +Was no friend to the people, and so they laid +Some charge against him, a cavalcade +Of citizens took him away; they meant +Well, but I think there was some mistake. +He just pottered round in his garden, bent +On growing things; we were so awake +In those days for the New Republic's sake. +He's gone, and the garden is all that's left +Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots, +And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft +Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots, +Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft +Or worm among them, and as for theft, +How the old woman keeps them I cannot say, +But they're finer than any grown this way." +Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring +Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down +And shook it, two coins fell with a ding +Of striking silver, beneath her gown +One rolled, the other lay, a thing +Sparked white and sharply glistening, +In a drop of sunlight between two shades. +She jerked the purse, took its empty ends +And crumpled them toward the centre braids. +The whole collapsed to a mass of blends +Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends +We have always been. In the days before +The Great Revolution my aunt was kind +When you needed help. You need no more; +'Tis we now who must beg at your door, +And will you refuse?" The little man +Bustled, denied, his heart was good, +But times were hard. He went to a pan +And poured upon the counter a flood +Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood. +He took a melon with rough green rind +And rubbed it well with his apron tip. +Then he hunted over the shop to find +Some walnuts cracking at the lip, +And added to these a barberry slip +Whose acrid, oval berries hung +Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round +Basket, with handles, from where it swung +Against the wall, laid it on the ground +And filled it, then he searched and found +The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall. +"You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?" +She smiled, "The next time that I call, +Monsieur. You know that very well." +'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell. +Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed. +She took her basket and stepped out. +The sunlight was so bright it flashed +Her eyes to blindness, and the rout +Of the little street was all about. +Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed. +The heavy basket was a care. +She heard a shout and almost grazed +The panels of a chaise and pair. +The postboy yelled, and an amazed +Face from the carriage window gazed. +She jumped back just in time, her heart +Beating with fear. Through whirling light +The chaise departed, but her smart +Was keen and bitter. In the white +Dust of the street she saw a bright +Streak of colours, wet and gay, +Red like blood. Crushed but fair, +Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way. +Monsieur Popain joined her there. +"Tiens, Mademoiselle, + c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!" + + + + +Malmaison + + + + I + +How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, +beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, +over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships +of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky, +over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river. +A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison. +Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais +wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust, +she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with +smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses . . . +They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders +and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back +in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely. + + +The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles +in the sun. + + + II + +Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people, +and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, +and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come +in a `caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates, +you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your master, +the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle +and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for joy +at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman here +for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to gossiping. +Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That -- all green, and red, +and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony -- that is a slave; a bloodthirsty, +stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to cure your tongue +of idle whispering. + + +A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees. + + +"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I pinned +to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her prophecy! +My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away, +and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb -- Imperial, but . . . +My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, no, +Bonaparte, not that -- spare me that -- did we not bury that last night! +You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, Dear, +no, thank God, not long." + +The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting dark. +Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely milkily white. + +The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for roses? +Smooth, open petals -- her arms. Fragrant, outcurved petals -- her breasts. +He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch the petals, press them wider. +Eagles. Bees. What are they to open roses! A little shivering breeze +runs through the linden-trees, and the tiered clouds blow across the sky +like ships of the line, stately with canvas. + + + III + +The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel +of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. +An officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down +with his charger kicking. `Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, +and groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is changing, +and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along the roads +toward Paris. + +The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely, +the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx +now for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. +New rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing +antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, +bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, +new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, +the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing, +trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, +and spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping of clocked +and embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth grass-plots. +India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide through trees -- +mingle -- separate -- white day fireflies flashing moon-brilliance +in the shade of foliage. + +"The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos." + +"As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley +and feeding the cockatoos." + +"They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all France." + +"And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted +when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?" + +Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the trees +the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line +bright with canvas. + +Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping. +The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. +But he picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, +M. Le Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, +my dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful +as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly, warily, +bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than running, +never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests +as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose, +smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. +A rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it, +resting upon its leaves in a faintness of perfume. + + +There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women, +and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands +on the wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan +pushing the pink and silver water in front of him as he swims, +crinkling its smoothness into pleats of changing colour with his breast. +Madame Bonaparte presses against the parapet of the bridge, +and the crushed roses at her belt melt, petal by petal, into the pink water. + + + IV + +A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress +will soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, +but best not consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. +Divorce is not for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, +the roads are muddy. The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. +They dart down and down, edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! +A carriage grows out of the mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat. +It is only Her Majesty's dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! +The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, +I suppose it is, but the blinds are drawn. + +"In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the gate +without giving me a smile!" + +You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head +in the pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own +to think about. + +Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming +to Malmaison to-night. + + +White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the antechamber. +Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust. Ashes of roses, +ashes of youth. Empress forsooth! + +Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her +a clock ticks -- ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought +with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, +but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come +each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, +and cold pouring rain. + +"I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have +is that I am no more." + +Rain! Heavy, thudding rain! + + + V + +The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles, +geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. +All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, +and give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have +been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France. +There is the `Bonapartea' from Peru; the `Napoleone Imperiale'; +the `Josephinia Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, +the calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers +as a lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself +to hide the hollow within. + +The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter reflections +to the sailing sun. + +The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something +to console herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, +and then patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won. +Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her jewels, +her laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her fichus, +her veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd that she +cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her ingratitude. +What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never before. +It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure? +Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes +her chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; +her grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper +who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of shoes. +She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes +masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The lady's affairs +are in sad confusion. + +And why? Why? + +Can a river flow when the spring is dry? + + +Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. +The clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like +an old bit of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. +She is soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by +brushing against her, shearing off another and another petal. +The Empress crushes her breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds +sail over Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon. + + +Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of soldiers +sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial harnesses, +four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's arms on the panels. +Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where else under the Heavens +could you see such splendour! + +They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel +of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale. +The house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire. +We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. +She draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. +Her soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her +of debts, of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she +shall see the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant. +But she is there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with violet, +pungent to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit room. + +Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away +across the looping Seine. + + + VI + +Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks +and ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; +they have forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! +It is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at Malmaison. +Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath them. +Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a fallen Emperor! +The General in charge of him draws back and watches. Snatches of music -- +snarling, sneering music of bagpipes. They say a Scotch regiment +is besieging Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face, or is it his eyes. +His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long for. Josephine! +Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer, somebody else does that. +There are voices, but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears it +all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts up his hand to screen his face. +The white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden-trees. +`Vive l'Empereur!' There are troops passing beyond the wall, +troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose is jarred off its stem +and falls at the Emperor's feet. + +"Very well. I go." Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to clatter. +Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a click. + +"Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses." + +A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of dust. + + + VII + +Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the sky. +The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are broken. +Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage and misery, +and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old recollections. + +The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the gallery +there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you touch it, +the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through a chink +in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky +toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct. + + + + +The Hammers + + + + I + + Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 + +Bang! +Bang! +Tap! +Tap-a-tap! Rap! +All through the lead and silver Winter days, +All through the copper of Autumn hazes. +Tap to the red rising sun, +Tap to the purple setting sun. +Four years pass before the job is done. +Two thousand oak trees grown and felled, +Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald, +Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks +With huge boles +Round which the tape rolls +Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks. +Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir; +Planking from Dantzig. +My! What timber goes into a ship! +Tap! Tap! +Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways, +Tapping, tapping. +You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze. +Through the fog down the reaches of the river, +The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever. +The church-bells chime +Hours and hours, +Dropping days in showers. +Bang! Rap! Tap! +Go the hammers all the time. +They have planked up her timbers +And the nails are driven to the head; +They have decked her over, +And again, and again. +The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain. +Black and blue breeches, +Pigtails bound and shining: +Like ants crawling about, +The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out. +Joiners, calkers, +And they are all terrible talkers. +Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales +Of whales, and spice islands, +And pirates off the Barbary coast. +He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails. +Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice, +He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings: + "The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: + While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, + A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, + Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; + Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!" +Every Sunday +People come in crowds +(After church-time, of course) +In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, +And some have brought cold chicken and flagons +Of wine, +And beer in stoppered jugs. +"Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. +There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham." + +The third Summer's roses have started in to blow, +When the fine stern carving is begun. +Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls, +Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls. +Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place. +Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace. +The Three Town's people never saw such grace. +And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf! +Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief. +And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky +Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry. +Oh, my! Oh, my! +They have coppered up the bottom, +And the copper nails +Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails. +Bang! Clash! Bang! + "And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, + And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, + And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, + And swore there was nothing like grog." +It seems they sing, +Even though coppering is not an easy thing. +What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman, +Say the people of the Three Towns, +As they walk about the dockyard +To the sound of the evening church-bells. +And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour. +What immense taste and labour! +Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet, +Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it, +When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky; +Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky, +She explains. +Mr. Nichols says he is delighted +(He is the firm); +His work is all requited +If Miss Jessie can approve. +Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love". +The sides are yellow as marigold, +The port-lids are red when the ports are up: +Blood-red squares like an even chequer +Of yellow asters and portulaca. +There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline +And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine. +The inner bulwarks are painted red. +"Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note." +Mr. Nichols clears his throat, +And tells her the launching day is set. +He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet." +But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown +Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down. +"It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown. + +Tap! Tap! Rap! +An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind. +Three broad flags ripple out behind +Where the masts will be: +Royal Standard at the main, +Admiralty flag at the fore, +Union Jack at the mizzen. +The hammers tap harder, faster, +They must finish by noon. +The last nail is driven. +But the wind has increased to half a gale, +And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways. +The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming +In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs; +The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King"; +And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches. +The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers. +The wind hums over the ship, +And slips round the dog-shores, +Jostling them almost to falling. +There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands. +Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands. +He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below: +"Let her go!" +Bang! Bang! Pound! +The dog-shores fall to the ground, +And the ship slides down the greased planking. +A splintering of glass, +And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers. +"Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!" +And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway. + + + II + + Paris, March, 1814 + +Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor. +Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris. +Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters: +"Martin -- Parfumeur", and something more. +A large gilded wooden something. +Listen! What a ringing of hammers! +Tap! +Tap! +Squeak! +Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap! +"Blaise." +"Oui, M'sieu." +"Don't touch the letters. My name stays." +"Bien, M'sieu." +"Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees." +"As M'sieu pleases." +Tap! Squeak! Tap! +The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two, +Then stops. +"He! Patron! +They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien! +What if I break them?" +"Break away, +You and Paul must have them down to-day." +"Bien." +And the hammers start again, +Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood. +Sunshine in a golden flood +Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses, +Glittering each window to a flash. +Squeak! Squeak! Tap! +The hammers beat and rap. +A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash. +From other shops, the noise of striking blows: +Pounds, thumps, and whacks; +Wooden sounds: splinters -- cracks. +Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers. +"Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack +That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back +And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole. +I've just been taking a stroll. +The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees. +I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils. +Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills +Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go +Out of business if you lived in Russia. So! +We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we? +Blaise, +Be careful of the hen, +Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days. +That eagle's rather well cut, Martin. +But I'm sick of smelling Cossack, +Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack +Of orris-root and musk." +Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk +Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass, +Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass +Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold. +Gold and glass, +And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass. +The perfumer sits down and shakes his head: +"Always the same, Monsieur Antoine, +You artists are wonderful folk indeed." +But Antoine Vernet does not heed. +He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls, +Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls. +"What have we here? `Eau Imperial Odontalgique.' +I must say, mon cher, your names are chic. +But it won't do, positively it will not do. +Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another: +`Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother +Regrets. A little lubricant, too, +Might be useful. I have it, +`Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit +This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale." +"Monsieur Antoine, don't rail +At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly." +"And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely." +"Heaven forbid!" Bang! Whack! +Squeak! Squeak! Crack! +CRASH! +"Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash. +The whole street is covered with golden bees. +They look like so many yellow peas, +Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it. +`Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it +Might take with the Kings. Shall I try?" "Oh, Sir, +You distress me, you do." "Poor old Martin's purr! +But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know. +Now let us get back to the powders and patches. +Foolish man, +The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan +To change all these titles as fast as we can. +`Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink -- +`Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think? +Not the same receipt? +Now, Martin, put away your conceit. +Who will ever know? +`Extract of Nobility' -- excellent, since most of them are killed." +"But, Monsieur Antoine --" +"You are self-willed, +Martin. You need a salve +For your conscience, do you? +Very well, we'll halve +The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices; +Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses. +`Oil of Bitter Almonds' -- the Empress Josephine can have that. +`Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat." +Rap! Rap! Bang! +"What a hideous clatter! +Blaise seems determined to batter +That poor old turkey into bits, +And pound to jelly my excellent wits. +Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk. +`The night cometh soon' -- etc. Don't jerk +Me up like that. `Essence de la Valliere' -- +That has a charmingly Bourbon air. +And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this! -- +`Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amiss +With that -- England, Austria, Russia and Prussia! +Martin, you're a wonder, +Upheavals of continents can't keep you under." +"Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed +At such levity. What France has gone through --" +"Very true, Martin, very true, +But never forget that a man must feed." +Pound! Pound! Thump! +Pound! +"Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground." +Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well, what then? --" +Antoine, with a laugh: "I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen." +The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous, +And the lilies go up. + A man must choose! + + + III + + Paris, April, 1814 + +Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. +Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. +Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate, +Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate, +Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. +Tap! Clink-a-tink! +Tap! Rap! Chink! +What falls to the ground like a streak of flame? +Hush! It is only a bit of bronze flashing in the sun. +What are all those soldiers? Those are not the uniforms of France. +Alas! No! The uniforms of France, Great Imperial France, are done. +They will rot away in chests and hang to dusty tatters in barn lofts. +These are other armies. And their name? +Hush, be still for shame; +Be still and imperturbable like the marble arch. +Another bright spark falls through the blue air. +Over the Place du Carrousel a wailing of despair. +Crowd your horses back upon the people, Uhlans and Hungarian Lancers, +They see too much. +Unfortunately, Gentlemen of the Invading Armies, what they do not see, + they hear. +Tap! Clink-a-tink! +Tap! +Another sharp spear +Of brightness, +And a ringing of quick metal lightness +On hard stones. +Workmen are chipping off the names of Napoleon's victories +From the triumphal arch of the Place du Carrousel. + +Do they need so much force to quell the crowd? +An old Grenadier of the line groans aloud, +And each hammer tap points the sob of a woman. +Russia, Prussia, Austria, and the faded-white-lily Bourbon king +Think it well +To guard against tumult, +A mob is an undependable thing. +Ding! Ding! +Vienna is scattered all over the Place du Carrousel +In glittering, bent, and twisted letters. +Your betters have clattered over Vienna before, +Officer of his Imperial Majesty our Father-in-Law! +Tink! Tink! +A workman's chisel can strew you to the winds, +Munich. +Do they think +To pleasure Paris, used to the fall of cities, +By giving her a fall of letters! + +It is a month too late. +One month, and our lily-white Bourbon king +Has done a colossal thing; +He has curdled love, +And soured the desires of a people. +Still the letters fall, +The workmen creep up and down their ladders like lizards on a wall. +Tap! Tap! Tink! +Clink! Clink! +"Oh, merciful God, they will not touch Austerlitz! +Strike me blind, my God, my eyes can never look on that. +I would give the other leg to save it, it took one. +Curse them! Curse them! Aim at his hat. +Give me the stone. Why didn't you give it to me? +I would not have missed. Curse him! +Curse all of them! They have got the `A'!" +Ding! Ding! +"I saw the Terror, but I never saw so horrible a thing as this. +`Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'" +"Don't strike him, Fritz. +The mob will rise if you do. +Just run him out to the `quai', +That will get him out of the way. +They are almost through." +Clink! Tink! Ding! +Clear as the sudden ring +Of a bell +"Z" strikes the pavement. +Farewell, Austerlitz, Tilsit, Presbourg; +Farewell, greatness departed. +Farewell, Imperial honours, knocked broadcast by the beating hammers + of ignorant workmen. +Straight, in the Spring moonlight, +Rises the deflowered arch. +In the silence, shining bright, +She stands naked and unsubdued. +Her marble coldness will endure the march +Of decades. +Rend her bronzes, hammers; +Cast down her inscriptions. +She is unconquerable, austere, +Cold as the moon that swims above her +When the nights are clear. + + + IV + + Croissy, Ile-de-France, June, 1815 + +"Whoa! Victorine. +Devil take the mare! I've never seen so vicious a beast. +She kicked Jules the last time she was here, +He's been lame ever since, poor chap." +Rap! Tap! +Tap-a-tap-a-tap! Tap! Tap! +"I'd rather be lame than dead at Waterloo, M'sieu Charles." +"Sacre Bleu! Don't mention Waterloo, and the damned grinning British. +We didn't run in the old days. +There wasn't any running at Jena. +Those were decent days, +And decent men, who stood up and fought. +We never got beaten, because we wouldn't be. +See!" +"You would have taught them, wouldn't you, Sergeant Boignet? +But to-day it's everyone for himself, +And the Emperor isn't what he was." +"How the Devil do you know that? +If he was beaten, the cause +Is the green geese in his army, led by traitors. +Oh, I say no names, Monsieur Charles, +You needn't hammer so loud. +If there are any spies lurking behind the bellows, +I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!" +The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot poker +And advances, brandishing it, into the shadows. +The rows of horses flick +Placid tails. +Victorine gives a savage kick +As the nails +Go in. Tap! Tap! +Jules draws a horseshoe from the fire +And beats it from red to peacock-blue and black, +Purpling darker at each whack. +Ding! Dang! Dong! +Ding-a-ding-dong! +It is a long time since any one spoke. +Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes, +"Well," he sighs, +"He's broke." +The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows. +"It's the green geese, I tell you, +Their hearts are all whites and yellows, +There's no red in them. Red! +That's what we want. Fouche should be fed +To the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole. +That would breed jolly fine lick-bloods +To lead his armies to victory." +"Ancient history, Sergeant. +He's done." +"Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and I'll stun +You where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist." +The Sergeant gives the poker a savage twist; +He is as purple as the cooling horseshoes. +The air from the bellows creaks through the flues. +Tap! Tap! The blacksmith shoes Victorine, +And through the doorway a fine sheen +Of leaves flutters, with the sun between. +By a spurt of fire from the forge +You can see the Sergeant, with swollen gorge, +Puffing, and gurgling, and choking; +The bellows keep on croaking. +They wheeze, +And sneeze, +Creak! Bang! Squeeze! +And the hammer strokes fall like buzzing bees +Or pattering rain, +Or faster than these, +Like the hum of a waterfall struck by a breeze. +Clank! from the bellows-chain pulled up and down. +Clank! +And sunshine twinkles on Victorine's flank, +Starting it to blue, +Dropping it to black. +Clack! Clack! +Tap-a-tap! Tap! +Lord! What galloping! Some mishap +Is making that man ride so furiously. +"Francois, you! +Victorine won't be through +For another quarter of an hour." "As you hope to die, +Work faster, man, the order has come." +"What order? Speak out. Are you dumb?" +"A chaise, without arms on the panels, at the gate +In the far side-wall, and just to wait. +We must be there in half an hour with swift cattle. +You're a stupid fool if you don't hear that rattle. +Those are German guns. Can't you guess the rest? +Nantes, Rochefort, possibly Brest." +Tap! Tap! as though the hammers were mad. +Dang! Ding! Creak! The farrier's lad +Jerks the bellows till he cracks their bones, +And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans. +The Sergeant is lying on the floor +Stone dead, and his hat with the tricolore +Cockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays back + her ears. +What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears? + + + V + + St. Helena, May, 1821 + +Tap! Tap! Tap! +Through the white tropic night. +Tap! Tap! +Beat the hammers, +Unwearied, indefatigable. +They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead. +Lustreless black cloth +Which chokes the radiance of the moonlight +And puts out the little moving shadows of leaves. +Tap! Tap! +The knocking makes the candles quaver, +And the long black hangings waver +Tap! Tap! Tap! +Tap! Tap! +In the ears which do not heed. +Tap! Tap! +Above the eyelids which do not flicker. +Tap! Tap! +Over the hands which do not stir. +Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings, +Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight, +A face! +Sharp as a frozen flame, +Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver, +And still. Perfectly still. +In the next room, the men chatter +As they eat their midnight lunches. +A knife hits against a platter. +But the figure on the bed +Between the stifling black hangings +Is cold and motionless, +Played over by the moonlight from the windows +And the indistinct shadows of leaves. + +Tap! Tap! +Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown. +Tap! Tap! +Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shop + in Jamestown. +He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing, +Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring, +Working from a chart with figures, +Comparing with their rules, +Setting this and that part together with their tools. +Tap! Tap! Tap! +Haste indeed! +So great is the need +That carpenters have been taken from the new church, +Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecterns +To work of greater urgency. +Coffins! +Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning. +Coffins -- and all to measurement. +There is a tin coffin, +A deal coffin, +A lead coffin, +And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-table +Has been sawed up for the grand outer coffin. +Tap! Tap! Tap! +Sunshine outside in the square, +But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them. +The men whistle, +And the coffins grow under their hammers +In the darkness of the shop. +Tap! Tap! Tap! + +Tramp of men. +Steady tramp of men. +Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails +Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders +March slowly along the road to Longwood. +Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road; +Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders. +Four coffins for the little dead man, +Four fine coffins, +And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table! +And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able +And of assured neutrality. +Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co. +Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow. +Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England! + +Tap! Tap! Tap! +Marble likeness of an Emperor, +Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow, +The hammers drum you to your last throne +Which always you shall hold alone. +Tap! Tap! +The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire, +Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyre +In a twilit room. +Here is the emptiness of your dream +Scattered about you. +Coins of yesterday, +Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor, +Strange as those of Herculaneum -- +And you just dead! +Not one spool of thread +Will these buy in any market-place. +Lay them over him, +They are the baubles of a crown of mist +Worn in a vision and melted away at waking. +Tap! Tap! +His heart strained at kingdoms +And now it is content with a silver dish. +Strange World! Strange Wayfarer! +Strange Destiny! +Lower it gently beside him and let it lie. +Tap! Tap! Tap! + + + + +Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + +Reign of Louis Philippe + + + +A great tall column spearing at the sky +With a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why? +He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high. + +What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play, +Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away, +High-crowned hat which the brims overlay. + +Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow. +Must have a sword, I can see the light glow +Between a dark line and his leg. Vertigo + +I get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun. +A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one? +As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne. + +Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn? +Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn, +A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn? + +But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress? +I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess. +Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes -- + +I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all. +I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall. +Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small. + +What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there, +With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declare +Those spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair. + +A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feel +As though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel, +Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel. + +Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's, +Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns. +Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns. + +How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies. +That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies. +Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes! + + + + + + War Pictures + + + + + +The Allies + +August 14th, 1914 + + + +Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging cry +of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the head +of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching men. +Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. +The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky. + +This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men +a cause? + +Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle is red +and its head is flame. + + +In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher. + +His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance +at the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, +and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, +"God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new shoots." + +His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in +the shoulder of the worm. + + +A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet. + +He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. +He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. +The sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are +wet and rippling. They cool his heart. + +He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity, +and loveliness printed on white paper. + + +The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills. + +He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery +and struck away his men. + +But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying stars, +and there are no more wars. + + +Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers -- men, sway and sweat. +They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure roots +of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the eagle +and his scorching sword. + +One! Two! -- One! Two! -- clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles +against the sky. + +Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun +to make it lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse +at the eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on +to the battle, stubbornly. + +This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: + PEACE! + + + + +The Bombardment + + + +Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment +on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling +over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, +and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. +Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? +Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water +rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. +Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! + + +The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. +The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies +leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'. Her hands are restless, +but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease +to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass +on the `etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, +with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, +blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. +The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! +Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago +my father brought it --" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. +Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom! + + +It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut +within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, +his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with +beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself +up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see +copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree +grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, +shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! +The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up +in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! +And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. +Again, Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. +He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, +and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom! + + +A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made +the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, +I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." +Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? +I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house +trembles and creaks. Boom! + + +Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials +oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, +goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, +that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. +Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. +Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see +the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, +and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, +behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, +squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round +the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night +and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, +wet night. + + +Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. +Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer there. +Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. +The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. +Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! + + +The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver. +But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns. +Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. +Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky, +the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles +along the floors. + + +The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower +flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along +the ceiling beams. + + +The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at +the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. +They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, +and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city. +Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! +The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom! + + + + +Lead Soldiers + + + +The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions +and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets +peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala +flamed a night of victorious wars. + +The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, slowly, +and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into the air +and nods -- forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a crimson splash +on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green eyes stare +into the air, and he nods -- nods. + + + Tommy's soldiers march to battle, + Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle. + Bayonets flash, and sabres glance -- + How the horses snort and prance! + Cannon drawn up in a line + Glitter in the dizzy shine + Of the morning sunlight. Flags + Ripple colours in great jags. + Red blows out, then blue, then green, + Then all three -- a weaving sheen + Of prismed patriotism. March + Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch, + Boldly stepping to the rattle + Of the drums, they go to battle. + + +Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. +He puts his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. +Their instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers, +and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, +and from the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. +The song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet. +Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places +a squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool. + + +The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods -- nods. The fire makes +the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold song +Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle. + +Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney. + + + Tommy's army's off to war -- + Not a soldier knows what for. + But he knows about his rifle, + How to shoot it, and a trifle + Of the proper thing to do + When it's he who is shot through. + Like a cleverly trained flea, + He can follow instantly + Orders, and some quick commands + Really make severe demands + On a mind that's none too rapid, + Leaden brains tend to the vapid. + But how beautifully dressed + Is this army! How impressed + Tommy is when at his heel + All his baggage wagons wheel + About the patterned carpet, and + Moving up his heavy guns + He sees them glow with diamond suns + Flashing all along each barrel. + And the gold and blue apparel + Of his gunners is a joy. + Tommy is a lucky boy. + Boom! Boom! Ta-ra! + + +The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand +shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse +and shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles. + + +Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must pass +the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the wash-stand. +The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading the infantry on +at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has flung down +the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie overtripped, +slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks glistening +to the fire's shine. + +The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum +with its sparkles. + +The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and steadily +approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the hearth-rug, +melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song jeers +at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still upstanding, +vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers +all bright and new? + + + Tommy's leaden soldiers we, + Glittering with efficiency. + Not a button's out of place, + Tons and tons of golden lace + Wind about our officers. + Every manly bosom stirs + At the thought of killing -- killing! + Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling. + We are gaudy, savage, strong, + And our loins so ripe we long + First to kill, then procreate, + Doubling so the laws of Fate. + On their women we have sworn + To graft our sons. And overborne + They'll rear us younger soldiers, so + Shall our race endure and grow, + Waxing greater in the wombs + Borrowed of them, while damp tombs + Rot their men. O Glorious War! + Goad us with your points, Great Star! + + +The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and back -- +forward and back -- and the red rose writhes and wriggles, +thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured snakes. + +The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, +and the old man nods. + + +Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new, +gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud +and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the door +to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees +to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours +of his soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. +He is a lucky boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy. + + +Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the pitcher. +He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The pitcher falls, +and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It slips +between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is not water which oozes +to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark from the firelight +heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers, +licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at +the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted uniforms. + + +The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. +The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers +under his purple umbrella, and nods -- forward and back, staring into the air +with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a rosebud pushes +between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground +with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and grows, +with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from +the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly forward, +but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood. + + +The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the chimney, +as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars. + + + + +The Painter on Silk + + + +There was a man +Who made his living +By painting roses +Upon silk. + +He sat in an upper chamber +And painted, +And the noises of the street +Meant nothing to him. + +When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, +He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses +Bursting in the sunshine, +And smiled as he worked. + +He thought only of roses, +And silk. +When he could get no more silk +He stopped painting +And only thought +Of roses. + +The day the conquerors +Entered the city, +The old man +Lay dying. +He heard the bugles and drums, +And wished he could paint the roses +Bursting into sound. + + + + +A Ballad of Footmen + + + +Now what in the name of the sun and the stars +Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars? + +Do men find life so full of humour and joy +That for want of excitement they smash up the toy? + +Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses +All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" + +Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears, +And nine nations of women choking with tears. + +It is folly to think that the will of a king +Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing + +They value, and life is, at least one supposes, +Of some little interest, even if roses + +Have not grown up between one foot and the other. +What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smother + +Such quite elementary feelings, and tag +A man with a number, and set him to wag + +His legs and his arms at the word of command +Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned, + +Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace +And an upturned moustache can set him to face + +Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, +Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases. + +If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, +With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day," + +Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? +A king and his minions are really so few. + +Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! +But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or + +The dire results which could not be inflicted. +With no one to execute sentence, convicted + +Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. +What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows! + +To be killing each other, unmercifully, +At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea." + +Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws +They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws + +So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking +More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking. + +I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows, +And, as to men -- what are men, when their marrows + +Are running with blood they have gulped; it is plain +Such excellent sport does not recollect pain. + +Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mast +The flags which meant order, for order is past. + +Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head, +The civilization we've worked for is dead. + +Squeeze into this archway, the head of the line +Has just swung round the corner to `Die Wacht am Rhein'. + + + + + + The Overgrown Pasture + + + + + +Reaping + + + +You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer? +My! ain't men blinder'n moles? +It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that. +Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed +Me changin' under your very nose, +Each day a little diff'rent. +But you never see nothin', you don't. +Don't touch me, Jake, +Don't you dars't to touch me, +I ain't in no humour. +That's what's come over me; +Jest a change clear through. +You lay still, an' I'll tell yer, +I've had it on my mind to tell yer +Fer some time. +It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night, +An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now. +An' don't make any mistake about one thing, +When I married yer I loved yer. +Why, your voice 'ud make +Me go hot and cold all over, +An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'. +Lord! I was a silly fool. +But that's the way 'twas. +Well, I married yer +An' thought Heav'n was comin' +To set on the door-step. +Heav'n didn't do no settin', +Though the first year warn't so bad. +The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess, +An' then I took her death real hard, +An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man. +I ain't blamin' yer exactly. +But that's how 'twas. +Do lay quiet, +I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought. +There come a time when I got to be +More wife agin than mother. +The mother part was sort of a waste +When we didn't have no other child. +But you'd got used ter lots o' things, +An' you was all took up with the farm. +Many's the time I've laid awake +Watchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree, +Out o' sight. +I'd foller yer around like a dog, +An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in, +Jest to feel its arms around me, +So long's I didn't have yours. +It preyed on me, I guess, +Longin' and longin' +While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night. +Yes, I know you're wide awake now, +But now ain't then, +An' I guess you'll think diff'rent +When I'm done. +Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock? +I didn't want to stay home for reasons, +But you said someone 'd have to be here +'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone. +An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer, +Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes, +Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'. +But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin', +An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter! +'Twas a lovely mornin'. +The apple-trees was jest elegant +With their blossoms all flared out, +An' there warn't a cloud in the sky. +You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said, +An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile, +The air was so still. +Then Elmer come. +It's no use your frettin', Jake, +I'll tell you all about it. +I know what I'm doin', +An' what's worse, I know what I done. +Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits, +An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go, +An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either, +I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer, +An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin' +An' gittin' no comfort. +I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things. +He stayed to dinner, +An' he helped me do the dishes, +An' he said a home was a fine thing, +An' I said dishes warn't a home +Nor yet the room they're in. +He said a lot o' things, +An' I fended him off at first, +But he got talkin' all around me, +Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin', +What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake, +You know. +He got all he wanted, +An' I give it to him, +An' what's more, I'm glad! +I ain't dead, anyway, +An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'. +Keep away, Jake, +You can kill me to-morrer if you want to, +But I'm goin' to have my say. +Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man. +Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months. +I don't want to pretend nothin', +Mebbe if he'd be'n lately +I shouldn't have told yer. +I'll go away in the mornin', o' course. +What you want the light fer? +I don't look no diff'rent. +Ain't the moon bright enough +To look at a woman that's deceived yer by? +Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now! +It ain't a question of forgiveness. +Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute; +It ain't decent. +Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way! + + + + +Off the Turnpike + + + +Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest. +I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye. +Yes, it's all over. +All my things is packed +An' every last one o' them boxes +Is on Bradley's team +Bein' hauled over to th' depot. +No, I ain't goin' back agin. +I'm stoppin' over to French's fer to-night, +And goin' down first train in th' mornin'. +Yes, it do seem kinder queer +Not to be goin' to see Cherry's Orchard no more, +But Land Sakes! When a change's comin', +Why, I al'ays say it can't come too quick. +Now, that's real kind o' you, +Your doughnuts is always so tasty. +Yes, I'm goin' to Chicago, +To my niece, +She's married to a fine man, hardware business, +An' doin' real well, she tells me. +Lizzie's be'n at me to go out ther for the longest while. +She ain't got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you know +She's rented me a real nice little flat, +Same house as hers, +An' I'm goin' to try that city livin' folks say's so pleasant. +Oh, yes, he was real generous, +Paid me a sight o' money fer the Orchard; +I told him 'twouldn't yield nothin' but stones, +But he ain't farmin' it. +Lor', no, Mis' Priest, +He's jest took it to set and look at the view. +Mebbe he wouldn't be so stuck on the view +Ef he'd seed it every mornin' and night for forty year +Same's as I have. +I dessay it's pretty enough, +But it's so pressed into me +I c'n see't with my eyes shut. +No. I ain't cold, Mis' Priest, +Don't shut th' door. +I'll be all right in a minit. +But I ain't a mite sorry to leave that view. +Well, mebbe 'tis queer to feel so, +An' mebbe 'taint. +My! But that tea's revivin'. +Old things ain't always pleasant things, Mis' Priest. +No, no, I don't cal'late on comin' back, +That's why I'd ruther be to Chicago, +Boston's too near. +It ain't cold, Mis' Priest, +It's jest my thoughts. +I ain't sick, only -- +Mis' Priest, ef you've nothin' ter take yer time, +An' have a mind to listen, +Ther's somethin' I'd like ter speak about +I ain't never mentioned it, +But I'd like to tell yer 'fore I go. +Would you mind lowerin' them shades, +Fall twilight's awful grey, +An' that fire's real cosy with the shades drawed. +Well, I guess folks about here think I've be'n dret'ful onsociable. +You needn't say 'taint so, 'cause I know diff'rent. +An' what's more, it's true. +Well, the reason is I've be'n scared out o' my life. +Scared ev'ry minit o' th' time, fer eight year. +Eight mortal year 'tis, come next June. +'Twas on the eighteenth o' June, +Six months after I'd buried my husband, +That somethin' happened ter me. +Mebbe you'll mind that afore that +I was a cheery body. +Hiram was too, +Al'ays liked to ask a neighbor in, +An' ev'n when he died, +Barrin' low sperrits, I warn't averse to seein' nobody. +But that eighteenth o' June changed ev'rythin'. +I was doin' most o' th' farmwork myself, +With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, 'twas, +Comin' in fer an hour or two. +Well, that eighteenth o' June +I was goin' round, +Lockin' up and seein' to things 'fore I went to bed. +I was jest steppin' out t' th' barn, +Goin' round outside 'stead o' through the shed, +'Cause there was such a sight o' moonlight +Somehow or another I thought 'twould be pretty outdoors. +I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess. +I ain't stuck on 'em no more. +Well, them laylock bushes side o' th' house +Was real lovely. +Glitt'rin' and shakin' in the moonlight, +An' the smell o' them rose right up +An' most took my breath away. +The colour o' the spikes was all faded out, +They never keep their colour when the moon's on 'em, +But the smell fair 'toxicated me. +I was al'ays partial to a sweet scent, +An' I went close up t' th' bushes +So's to put my face right into a flower. +Mis' Priest, jest's I got breathin' in that laylock bloom +I saw, layin' right at my feet, +A man's hand! +It was as white's the side o' th' house, +And sparklin' like that lum'nous paint they put on gate-posts. +I screamed right out, +I couldn't help it, +An' I could hear my scream +Goin' over an' over +In that echo be'ind th' barn. +Hearin' it agin an' agin like that +Scared me so, I dar'sn't scream any more. +I jest stood ther, +And looked at that hand. +I thought the echo'd begin to hammer like my heart, +But it didn't. +There was only th' wind, +Sighin' through the laylock leaves, +An' slappin' 'em up agin the house. +Well, I guess I looked at that hand +Most ten minits, +An' it never moved, +Jest lay there white as white. +After a while I got to thinkin' that o' course +'Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield. +That calmed me some, +An' I commenced to think I'd better git him out +From under them laylocks. +I planned to drag him in t' th' barn +An' lock him in ther till Clarence come in th' mornin'. +I got so mad thinkin' o' that all-fired brazen tramp +Asleep in my laylocks, +I jest stooped down and grabbed th' hand and give it an awful pull. +Then I bumped right down settin' on the ground. +Mis' Priest, ther warn't no body come with the hand. +No, it ain't cold, it's jest that I can't abear thinkin' of it, +Ev'n now. +I'll take a sip o' tea. +Thank you, Mis' Priest, that's better. +I'd ruther finish now I've begun. +Thank you, jest the same. +I dropped the hand's ef it'd be'n red hot +'Stead o' ice cold. +Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grass +Pantin'. +Then I up and run to them laylocks +An' pulled 'em every which way. +True es I'm settin' here, Mis' Priest, +Ther warn't nothin' ther. +I peeked an' pryed all about 'em, +But ther warn't no man ther +Neither livin' nor dead. +But the hand was ther all right, +Upside down, the way I'd dropped it, +And glist'nin' fit to dazzle yer. +I don't know how I done it, +An' I don't know why I done it, +But I wanted to git that dret'ful hand out o' sight +I got in t' th' barn, somehow, +An' felt roun' till I got a spade. +I couldn't stop fer a lantern, +Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience. +Then I scooped that awful thing up in th' spade. +I had a sight o' trouble doin' it. +It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn't bear +Ev'n to touch it with my foot to prop it, +But I done it somehow. +Then I carried it off be'ind the barn, +Clost to an old apple-tree +Where you couldn't see from the house, +An' I buried it, +Good an' deep. + +I don't rec'lect nothin' more o' that night. +Clarence woke me up in th' mornin', +Hollerin' fer me to come down and set th' milk. +When he'd gone, +I stole roun' to the apple-tree +And seed the earth all new turned +Where I left it in my hurry. +I did a heap o' gardenin' +That mornin'. +I couldn't cut no big sods +Fear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted 'em fer, +So I got teeny bits o' turf here and ther, +And no one couldn't tell ther'd be'n any diggin' +When I got through. +They was awful days after that, Mis' Priest, +I used ter go every mornin' and poke about them bushes, +An' up and down the fence, +Ter find the body that hand come off of. +But I couldn't never find nothin'. +I'd lay awake nights +Hearin' them laylocks blowin' and whiskin'. +At last I had Clarence cut 'em down +An' make a big bonfire of 'em. +I told him the smell made me sick, +An' that warn't no lie, +I can't abear the smell on 'em now; +An' no wonder, es you say. +I fretted somethin' awful 'bout that hand +I wondered, could it be Hiram's, +But folks don't rob graveyards hereabouts. +Besides, Hiram's hands warn't that awful, starin' white. +I give up seein' people, +I was afeared I'd say somethin'. +You know what folks thought o' me +Better'n I do, I dessay, +But mebbe now you'll see I couldn't do nothin' diff'rent. +But I stuck it out, +I warn't goin' to be downed +By no loose hand, no matter how it come ther +But that ain't the worst, Mis' Priest, +Not by a long ways. +Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry's Orchard. +Well, I'd got used to th' thought o' bein' sort o' blighted, +An' I warn't scared no more. +Lived down my fear, I guess. +I'd kinder got used to th' thought o' that awful night, +And I didn't mope much about it. +Only I never went out o' doors by moonlight; +That stuck. +Well, when Mr. Densmore's offer come, +I started thinkin' 'bout the place +An' all the things that had gone on ther. +Thinks I, I guess I'll go and see where I put the hand. +I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by. +I know'd the place real well, +Fer I'd put it right in between two o' the apple roots. +I don't know what possessed me, Mis' Priest, +But I kinder wanted to know +That the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway. +It had sorter bothered me, thinkin' I might ha' imagined it. +I took a mornin' when the sun was real pleasant and warm; +I guessed I wouldn't jump for a few old bones. +But I did jump, somethin' wicked. +Ther warn't no bones! +Ther warn't nothin'! +Not ev'n the gold ring I'd minded bein' on the little finger. +I don't know ef ther ever was anythin'. +I've worried myself sick over it. +I be'n diggin' and diggin' day in and day out +Till Clarence ketched me at it. +Oh, I know'd real well what you all thought, +An' I ain't sayin' you're not right, +But I ain't goin' to end in no county 'sylum +If I c'n help it. +The shiv'rin' fits come on me sudden like. +I know 'em, don't you trouble. +I've fretted considerable about the 'sylum, +I guess I be'n frettin' all the time I ain't be'n diggin'. +But anyhow I can't dig to Chicago, can I? +Thank you, Mis' Priest, +I'm better now. I only dropped in in passin'. +I'll jest be steppin' along down to French's. +No, I won't be seein' nobody in the mornin', +It's a pretty early start. +Don't you stand ther, Mis' Priest, +The wind'll blow yer lamp out, +An' I c'n see easy, I got aholt o' the gate now. +I ain't a mite tired, thank you. +Good-night. + + + + +The Grocery + + + +"Hullo, Alice!" +"Hullo, Leon!" +"Say, Alice, gi' me a couple +O' them two for five cigars, +Will yer?" +"Where's your nickel?" +"My! Ain't you close! +Can't trust a feller, can yer." +"Trust you! Why +What you owe this store +Would set you up in business. +I can't think why Father 'lows it." +"Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly +Than you be. That's a fact. +Besides, he knows I got a vote." +"A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote! +A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father +When all his bank account +Has run away in credits. +There's your cigars, +If you can relish smokin' +With all you owe us standin'." +"I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent. +You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't. +I work when anythin's doin'. +I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure. +Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring." +"Come Spring, and this December! +I've no patience with you, Leon, +Shilly-shallyin' the way you do. +Here, lift over them crates o' oranges +I wanter fix 'em in the winder." +"It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work. +You pepper up about it somethin' good. +You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite. +Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder. +Th' oranges c'n wait, +An' I don't like talkin' to yer back." +"Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what you can git. +Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon. +They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em, +Don't they? +Now hand me them bananas +An' I'll string 'em right acrost." +"What do yer mean +'Bout me not havin' you to talk to? +Are yer springin' somethin' on me?" +"I don't know 'bout springin' +When I'm tellin' you right out. +I'm goin' away, that's all." +"Where? Why? +What yer mean -- goin' away?" +"I've took a place +Down to Boston, in a candy store +For the holidays." +"Good Land, Alice, +What in the Heavens fer!" +"To earn some money, +And to git away from here, I guess." +"Ain't yer Father got enough? +Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?" +"He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him." +"He's rich I tell yer. +I never figured he'd be close with you." +"Oh, he ain't. Not close. +That ain't why. +But I must git away from here. +I must! I must!" +"You got a lot o' reason in yer +To-night. +How long d' you cal'late +You'll be gone?" +"Maybe for always." +"What ails yer, Alice? +Talkin' wild like that. +Ain't you an' me goin' to be married +Some day." +"Some day! Some day! +I guess the sun'll never rise on some day." +"So that's the trouble. +Same old story. +'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now. +You know I love yer, +An' I'll marry yer as soon +As I c'n raise the money." +"You've said that any time these five year, +But you don't do nothin'." +"Wot could I do? +Ther ain't no work here Winters. +Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't." +"I guess you warn't born a carpenter. +Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty." +"I got a dret'ful tender throat; +Dr. Smiles he told me +I mustn't resk ice-cuttin'." +"Why haven't you gone to Boston, +And hunted up a job?" +"Have yer forgot the time I went expressin' +In the American office, down ther?" +"And come back two weeks later! +No, I ain't." +"You didn't want I should git hurted, +Did yer? +I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work. +My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas. +Ef I was like yer brother now, +I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago. +But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer. +I ain't got Arthur's luck." +"Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks, +And git locked up in jail!" +"Oh, come now, Alice, +`Disgrace' is a mite strong. +Why, the jail was a joke. +Art's all right." +"All right! +All right to dance, and smirk, and lie +For a livin', +And then in the end +Lead a silly girl to give you +What warn't hers to give +By pretendin' you'd marry her -- +And she a pupil." +"He'd ha' married her right enough, +Her folks was millionaires." +"Yes, he'd ha' married her! +Thank God, they saved her that." +"Art's a fine feller. +I wish I had his luck. +Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits, +And eatin' in rest'rants. +But somebody's got to stick to the old place, +Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop, +Hey, Alice?" +"You admire him! +You admire Arthur! +You'd be like him only you can't dance. +Oh, Shame! Shame! +And I've been like that silly girl. +Fooled with your promises, +And I give you all I had. +I knew it, oh, I knew it, +But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it. +You've shamed me through and through. +Why couldn't you hold your tongue, +And spared me seein' you +As you really are." +"What the Devil's the row? +I only said Art was lucky. +What you spitfirin' at me fer? +Ferget it, Alice. +We've had good times, ain't we? +I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer, +And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time." +"It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time. +I've good cause to love it, ain't I? +Many's the night I've hid my face in the dark +To shut out thinkin'!" +"Why, that ain't nothin'. +You ain't be'n half so kind to me +As lots o' fellers' girls. +Gi' me a kiss, Dear, +And let's make up." +"Make up! +You poor fool. +Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece +For you now. +You've killed yourself for me. +Done it out o' your own mouth. +You've took away my home, +I hate the sight o' the place. +You're all over it, +Every stick an' stone means you, +An' I hate 'em all." +"Alice, I say, +Don't go on like that. +I can't marry yer +Boardin' in one room, +But I'll see Cleve to-morrer, +I'll make him ----" +"Oh, you fool! +You terrible fool!" +"Alice, don't go yit, +Wait a minit, +I'll see Cleve ----" +"You terrible fool!" +"Alice, don't go. +Alice ----" (Door slams) + + + + +Number 3 on the Docket + + + +The lawyer, are you? +Well! I ain't got nothin' to say. +Nothin'! +I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'. +They know'd real well 'twas me. +Ther warn't no supposin', +Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, +An' me in my house dress. +Folks don't walk miles an' miles +In the drifted snow, +With no hat nor wrap on 'em +Ef everythin's all right, I guess. +All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! +Nothin' warn't right with me. +Never was. +Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? +Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? +Many's the time I've set up with him nights +When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'. +I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby. +I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! +Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me! +Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it. +Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! +Yes, Sir. +No, Sir. +I beg your pardon, I -- I -- +Oh, I'm a wicked woman! +An' I'm desolate, desolate! +Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed +Afore my hands done it. +Oh, my God, what shall I do! +No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, +An' I don't want none. +I want a bolt o' lightnin' +To strike me dead right now! +Oh, I'll tell yer. +But it won't make no diff'rence. +Nothin' will. +Yes, I killed him. +Why do yer make me say it? +It's cruel! Cruel! +I killed him because o' th' silence. +The long, long silence, +That watched all around me, +And he wouldn't break it. +I tried to make him, +Time an' agin, +But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was. +He never spoke 'cept when he had to, +An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no". +You can't even guess what that silence was. +I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, +An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, +An' al'ays comin' back. +Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes +It would ha' driven it away; +But he never would. +He didn't hear it same as I did. +You see, Sir, +Our farm was off'n the main road, +And set away back under the mountain; +And the village was seven mile off, +Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane. +We didn't have no hired man, +'Cept in hayin' time; +An' Dane's place, +That was the nearest, +Was clear way 'tother side the mountain. +They used Marley post-office +An' ours was Benton. +Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, +An' it warn't above two mile that way, +But it warn't never broke out Winters. +I used to dread the Winters. +Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; +Winter'd come so quick after that. +You don't know what snow's like when yer with it +Day in an' day out. +Ed would be out all day loggin', +An' I set at home and look at the snow +Layin' over everythin'; +It 'ud dazzle me blind, +Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink. +Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears +Till I most went mad listenin' to it. +Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor +Jest to hear it clatter. +I was most frantic when dinner-time come +An' Ed was back from the woods. +I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak. +But he'd never say a word till I asked him +Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, +An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer. +Then he'd go out agin, +An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder. +It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him +An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him. +I got so I was scared o' th' trees. +I thought they come nearer, +Every day a little nearer, +Closin' up round the house. +I never went in t' th' woods Winters, +Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough. +It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us. +He used to go sleddin' and skatin', +An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung +An' brought him back agin. +We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, +We wanted him to have a education. +We sent him to High School, +An' then he went up to Boston to Technology. +He was a minin' engineer, +An' doin' real well, +A credit to his bringin' up. +But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine. +And I'm glad! I'm glad! +He ain't here to see me now. +Neddy! Neddy! +I'm your mother still, Neddy. +Don't turn from me like that. +I can't abear it. I can't! I can't! +What did you say? +Oh, yes, Sir. +I'm here. +I'm very sorry, +I don't know what I'm sayin'. +No, Sir, +Not till after Neddy died. +'Twas the next Winter the silence come, +I don't remember noticin' it afore. +That was five year ago, +An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse. +I asked Ed to put in a telephone. +I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on +I could ring up some o' th' folks. +But Ed wouldn't hear of it. +He said we'd paid so much for Neddy +We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas. +An' he never understood me wantin' to talk. +Well, this year was worse'n all the others; +We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, +An' the snow lay so thick +You couldn't see the fences even. +Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, +Ther warn't a hump or a holler +Fer as you could see. +It was so quiet +The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot +Sounded like pistol shots. +Ed was out all day +Same as usual. +An' it seemed he talked less'n ever. +He didn't even say `Good-mornin'', once or twice, +An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things. +On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton +Fer some oats. +I'd oughter ha' gone with him, +But 'twas washin' day +An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, +An' I couldn't do my dryin'. +All my life I'd done my work punctual, +An' I couldn't fix my conscience +To go junketin' on a washin'-day. +I can't tell you what that day was to me. +It dragged an' dragged, +Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle +Fer dinner. +Every time I stopped stirrin' the water +I heerd the whisperin' all about me. +I stopped oftener'n I should +To see ef 'twas still ther, +An' it al'ays was. +An' gittin' louder +It seemed ter me. +Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind. +That seemed most alive somehow. +But the woods looked so kind of menacin' +I closed it quick +An' started to mangle's hard's I could, +The squeakin' was comfortin'. +Well, Ed come home 'bout four. +I seen him down the road, +An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn +To meet him quicker. +I hollered out, `Hullo!' +But he didn't say nothin', +He jest drove right in +An' climbed out o' th' sleigh +An' commenced unharnessin'. +I asked him a heap o' questions; +Who he'd seed +An' what he'd done. +Once in a while he'd nod or shake, +But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'. +'Twas gittin' dark then, +An' I was in a state, +With the loneliness +An' Ed payin' no attention +Like somethin' warn't livin'. +All of a sudden it come, +I don't know what, +But I jest couldn't stand no more. +It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, +An' it didn't seem as though I was me. +I had to break a way out somehow, +Somethin' was closin' in +An' I was stiflin'. +Ed's loggin' axe was ther, +An' I took it. +Oh, my God! +I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time. +I run out inter th' woods, +Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; +An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow +I seed Ed in front of me +Where I'd laid him. +An' I see him now. +There! There! +What you holdin' me fer? +I want ter go to Ed, +He's bleedin'. +Stop holdin' me. +I got to go. +I'm comin', Ed. +I'll be ther in a minit. +Oh, I'm so tired! + (Faints) + + + + + + Clocks Tick a Century + + + + + +Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + + After a Print by George Cruikshank + + + +It was a gusty night, +With the wind booming, and swooping, +Looping round corners, +Sliding over the cobble-stones, +Whipping and veering, +And careering over the roofs +Like a thousand clattering horses. +Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city, +Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait, +And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins +And laughed as it whistled past him. +It rolled him along the street, +With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk, +And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him. +It bumped him against area railings, +And chuckled in his ear when he said "Ouch!" +Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet +And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter. +The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking. +It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins, +And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door +It was a relief, +Although the breath was quite knocked out of him. +The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up, +And the keyhole was as big as a barn door; +The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star, +And the keyhole went out with it. +Such a stabbing, and jabbing, +And sticking, and picking, +And poking, and pushing, and prying +With that key; +And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two, +Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll. +But the door opened at last, +And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall +And slammed the door to so hard +That the knocker banged five times before it stopped. +Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle, +And all the time the moon winked at him through the window. +"Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?" +Taunted the wind. +"I can find the keyhole." +And the wind, thin as a wire, +Darted in and seized the candle flame +And knocked it over to one side +And pummelled it down -- down -- down --! +But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin, +And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner, +For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, "Spruggins! Spruggins!" + behind him. +The fire in his bedroom burned brightly. +The room with its crimson bed and window curtains +Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle. +It was still and warm. +There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened; +And no moon, +For the curtains were drawn. +The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear +In a wide brass dish. +Mr. Spruggins sighed with content; +He was safe at home. +The fire glowed -- red and yellow roses +In the black basket of the grate -- +And the bed with its crimson hangings +Seemed a great peony, +Wide open and placid. +Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler. +He slipped off his bottle-green coat +And his flowered waistcoat. +He put on a flannel dressing-gown, +And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin. +He wound his large gold watch +And placed it under his pillow. +Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. +There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds; +But behind him was his quiet candle. +There was the wind whisking along the street. +The window rattled, but it was fastened. +Did the wind say, "Spruggins"? +All Mr. Spruggins heard was "S-s-s-s-s --" +Dying away down the street. +He dropped the curtain and got into bed. +Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan; +The bed was warm, +And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers, +With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head. +Mr. Spruggins dozed. +He had forgotten to put out the candle, +But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright . . . +Too bright! +The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids, +They scorched him back to consciousness. +He tried to shift his position; +He could not move. +Something weighed him down, +He could not breathe. +He was gasping, +Pinned down and suffocating. +He opened his eyes. +The curtains of the window were flung back, +The fire and the candle were out, +And the room was filled with green moonlight. +And pressed against the window-pane +Was a wide, round face, +Winking -- winking -- +Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other. +Tick -- tock -- went the watch under his pillow, +Wink -- wink -- went the face at the window. +It was not the fire roses which had pricked him, +It was the winking eyes. +Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up; +He could not, because -- +His heart flapped up into his mouth +And fell back dead. +On his chest was a fat pink pig, +On the pig a blackamoor +With a ten pound weight for a cap. +His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes, +And his eyes rolled round and round, +With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing, +And appearing again on the other side. +The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles, +And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar, +While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind. +He dug his spurs into the pig, +Which trampled and snorted, +And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins. +Then the green light on the floor began to undulate. +It heaved and hollowed, +It rose like a tide, +Sea-green, +Full of claws and scales +And wriggles. +The air above his bed began to move; +It weighed over him +In a mass of draggled feathers. +Not one lifted to stir the air. +They drooped and dripped +With a smell of port wine and brandy, +Closing down, slowly, +Trickling drops on the bed-quilt. +Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass, +And the moon burst into the room, +Sizzling -- "S-s-s-s-s -- Spruggins! Spruggins!" +It rolled toward him, +A green ball of flame, +With two eyes in the center, +A red eye and a yellow eye, +Dropping their lids slowly, +One after the other. +Mr. Spruggins tried to scream, +But the blackamoor +Leapt off his pig +With a cry, +Drew his scimitar, +And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth. + +Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn +And remade the fire. +Then he crept back to bed +By the light which seeped in under the window curtains, +And lay there, shivering, +While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven. + + + + +The Paper Windmill + + + +The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out +at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square +glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced, +and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water +of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots +piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if +they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, "Oh!" with delight, +and pressed against the window with all his might. + + +The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open +like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it. +"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy. "Can't you hear me +through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow +when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc." But the golden cock +stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind. +He could not understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico" +when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing. +His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses +drifted away down the canal. + + +It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind +was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart +beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune: +"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee +to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white," +and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop! milk for your tea. +Plop! trop! drink it to-night." It was very pleasant out there, +but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear. + + +It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. +Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment +it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner, +there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head, +picking her way over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves +in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage. +The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed +sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered +toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull. +The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys. + + +The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it, +spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square, +the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never +stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. +It burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked, +and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron, +and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad +cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, +and the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square +was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another, +faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze, +staring in amaze. + + +The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, +a great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, +and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more +than the wind which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame +on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, +each one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, +and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy +who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy. + + +The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed, +for the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer +came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy +in the window of the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass +between the boy and the windmills. They slid round before his eyes +in rapidly revolving splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours -- +big, little, thick, thin -- all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor +dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued +to the window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything! +Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred +those other toys which never stirred. "Nursie, come quickly. Look! +I want a windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you? +I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue." + + +So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue, +and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment +to pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute +he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end +of a stick which he held out to the little boy. "But I wanted a windmill +which went round," cried the little boy. "That is the one you asked for, +Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do. +"See, it is silver, and here is the blue." "But it is only a blue streak," +sobbed the little boy. "I wanted a blue ring, and this silver +doesn't sparkle." "Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted, +now run away and play with it, for I am very busy." + + +The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the floor +lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick. +But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big wheel +of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling rainbow, +and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed +a maze of spattering diamonds. "Cocorico!" crowed the golden cock +on the top of the `Stadhuis'. "That is something worth crowing for." +But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled +bit of paper on the floor. + + + + +The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + + + +A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought +In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought +With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold, +The slender shaft all twined about and thickly scrolled +With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling, +Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling +Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams; +Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams +Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen, +Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean. +Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players +Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers +Of music to serve every instrument, are there, +And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear. +It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights, +When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights +And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards, +Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards +Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools +Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools. +With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust +Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust +Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range, +The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change; +To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws; +To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws; +To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade +Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade. +Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy +Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy. +He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red, +He sees it split and stream, and all about his head +Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking, +Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking +The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom. +The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room. +The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door +And the sun widens out all along the floor, +Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light, +So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright. + + "O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, + and Magnify Him for ever." + +The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded fair, +Will heap it with the Works of the Lord. In the morning air, +Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled, +Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World +Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise. +The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze +An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair +Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair +To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs, +The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks +A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn, +And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn. +Only in the gloom far in the corner there +The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare, +Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread, +The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread, +Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme -- +Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme! + +A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers, +Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers. +A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling, +And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing +Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry, +And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly. +Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun +Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one +Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones, +And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones, +An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown, +The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown +Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled +With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled, +Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell, +A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell +The stand will hold no more. The Boy with humming head +Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed. + +The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind +Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind. +He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy +It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free +For adoration only, for worship. Dedicate, +His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate. +The hours strike below from the clock on the stair. +The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer. +Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him +Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim, +Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven. +Like an open rose the sun will stand up even, +Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows +Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows +From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite +The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light. +Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim, +`Viols d'amore' and `hautbois' accorded to a hymn. +The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings +Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings. +He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes +Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise. + +The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the wall +When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual. +He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame. +He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame +The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass. +He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass +Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate +Worthy to hold them burning. Alas! He had been late +In thinking of this need, and now he could not find +Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind. +The house was not astir, and he dared not go down +Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown +And slam before the draught he made as he went out. +The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about. +A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear +Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there. +The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared, +Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared. +He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid +Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed +To light with ease, then stood a little to one side, +Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried +To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays +Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze. +Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame, +Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came. +The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced, +Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced, +A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile +Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile +Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up, +A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup. + + "O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever." + +A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled, seeming +A chalice foamed with sunrise. The Boy woke from his dreaming. +A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies, +The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries +Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue +Of gleaming, brutal fire. The Boy instantly swung +His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down. +The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown +Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed +And flung it over all, and then with aching head +He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains +Of his holy offering. The lacquer stand had stains +Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear +Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably. His dear +Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there, +Winking in the brightness. + The clock upon the stair +Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate. +The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late. + + + + +Spring Day + + + + Bath + +The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus +in the air. + +The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water +in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water +into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light. + +Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, +and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger +sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light +in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, +the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost +too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. +I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. + +The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is +a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. + + + Breakfast Table + +In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. +It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, +and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, +draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, +hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl -- and my eyes +begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. +Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. +A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, +flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a stream, +clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, +revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral +up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. +The day is new and fair with good smells in the air. + + + Walk + +Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. + +On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, +with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet +clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. +The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters +under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, +but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, +and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind +flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, +the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers +on her hat. + +A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay +with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over +the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus. + +The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille' against the blue sky. + +Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. +Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, +leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, +jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. + +A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible, +shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine +tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high, +and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. + + + Midday and Afternoon + +Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still +brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people +lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light +in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, +darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, +murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, +blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes +on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against +the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, +thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, +reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, +plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps. +A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press. +They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus. + +The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows, +putting out their contents in a flood of flame. + + + Night and Sleep + +The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out +along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, +and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream +in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means +a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong +sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street. +A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, +but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours? + +I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees +and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, +it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers +in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. + +My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see +the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. +I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops +I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, +glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing +for the Spring. + +The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air. + +Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams +into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters +queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses +down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky +when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like +tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air. + + + + +The Dinner-Party + + + + Fish + +"So . . ." they said, +With their wine-glasses delicately poised, +Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. +"So . . ." they said again, +Amused and insolent. +The silver on the table glittered, +And the red wine in the glasses +Seemed the blood I had wasted +In a foolish cause. + + + Game + +The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers +Sneered languidly over his quail. +Then my heart flew up and laboured, +And I burst from my own holding +And hurled myself forward. +With straight blows I beat upon him, +Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him. +But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, +And I recoiled upon myself, +Panting. + + + Drawing-Room + +In a dress all softness and half-tones, +Indolent and half-reclined, +She lay upon a couch, +With the firelight reflected in her jewels. +But her eyes had no reflection, +They swam in a grey smoke, +The smoke of smouldering ashes, +The smoke of her cindered heart. + + + Coffee + +They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups. +One dropped in a lump of sugar, +One stirred with a spoon. +I saw them as a circle of ghosts +Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, +And mildly protesting against my coarseness +In being alive. + + + Talk + +They took dead men's souls +And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; +Their cuff-links and tiaras +Were gems dug from a grave; +They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; +And I took a green liqueur from a servant +So that he might come near me +And give me the comfort of a living thing. + + + Eleven O'Clock + +The front door was hard and heavy, +It shut behind me on the house of ghosts. +I flattened my feet on the pavement +To feel it solid under me; +I ran my hand along the railings +And shook them, +And pressed their pointed bars +Into my palms. +The hurt of it reassured me, +And I did it again and again +Until they were bruised. +When I woke in the night +I laughed to find them aching, +For only living flesh can suffer. + + + + +Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + + + + First Movement + +Thin-voiced, nasal pipes +Drawing sound out and out +Until it is a screeching thread, +Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, +It hurts. +Whee-e-e! +Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! +There are drums here, +Banging, +And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones +Of the market-place. +Whee-e-e! +Sabots slapping the worn, old stones, +And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones; +Clumsy and hard they are, +And uneven, +Losing half a beat +Because the stones are slippery. +Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong! +The thin Spring leaves +Shake to the banging of shoes. +Shoes beat, slap, +Shuffle, rap, +And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices, +Little pigs' voices +Weaving among the dancers, +A fine white thread +Linking up the dancers. +Bang! Bump! Tong! +Petticoats, +Stockings, +Sabots, +Delirium flapping its thigh-bones; +Red, blue, yellow, +Drunkenness steaming in colours; +Red, yellow, blue, +Colours and flesh weaving together, +In and out, with the dance, +Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together. +Pigs' cries white and tenuous, +White and painful, +White and -- +Bump! +Tong! + + + Second Movement + +Pale violin music whiffs across the moon, +A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon, +Cherry petals fall and flutter, +And the white Pierrot, +Wreathed in the smoke of the violins, +Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling, +Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth +With his finger-nails. + + + Third Movement + +An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church, +It wheezes and coughs. +The nave is blue with incense, +Writhing, twisting, +Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests. + `Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine'; +The priests whine their bastard Latin +And the censers swing and click. +The priests walk endlessly +Round and round, +Droning their Latin +Off the key. +The organ crashes out in a flaring chord, +And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone. + `Dies illa, dies irae, + Calamitatis et miseriae, + Dies magna et amara valde.' +A wind rattles the leaded windows. +The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter, + `Dies illa, dies irae;' +The swaying smoke drifts over the altar, + `Calamitatis et miseriae;' +The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water, + `Dies magna et amara valde;' +And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them +Stretched upon a bier. +His ears are stone to the organ, +His eyes are flint to the candles, +His body is ice to the water. +Chant, priests, +Whine, shuffle, genuflect, +He will always be as rigid as he is now +Until he crumbles away in a dust heap. + `Lacrymosa dies illa, + Qua resurget ex favilla + Judicandus homo reus.' +Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness. + + + + +Towns in Colour + + + + I + + Red Slippers + + +Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, +windy sleet! + + +Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, +festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes +of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections +against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon +into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights +upon the tops of umbrellas. + +The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, +it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, +fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain -- and freeze again to red slippers, +myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window. + + +They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer; +they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked +in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, +flared and burnished by red rockets. + +Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous +block of shops. + +They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets +into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. + + +People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down, +is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes +and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, +lolling awkwardly in its flower chair. + +One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? + + +The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only +red slippers. + + + + II + + Thompson's Lunch Room -- Grand Central Station + + Study in Whites + + +Wax-white -- +Floor, ceiling, walls. +Ivory shadows +Over the pavement +Polished to cream surfaces +By constant sweeping. +The big room is coloured like the petals +Of a great magnolia, +And has a patina +Of flower bloom +Which makes it shine dimly +Under the electric lamps. +Chairs are ranged in rows +Like sepia seeds +Waiting fulfilment. +The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap +Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall -- +Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow +Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. +Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, +Ice-green carboys, shifting -- greener, bluer -- with the jar of moving water. +Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass +Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar +Above the lighthouse-shaped castors +Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. +Grey-white placards: "Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters": +Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. +Dropping on the white counter like horn notes +Through a web of violins, +The flat yellow lights of oranges, +The cube-red splashes of apples, +In high plated `epergnes'. +The electric clock jerks every half-minute: +"Coming! -- Past!" +"Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie," +Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. +A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. +Two rice puddings and a salmon salad +Are pushed over the counter; +The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. +A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, +And the sound throws across the room +Sharp, invisible zigzags +Of silver. + + + + III + + An Opera House + + +Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, +A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, +Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. +Gold carving edges the balconies, +Rims the boxes, +Runs up and down fluted pillars. +Little knife-stabs of gold +Shine out whenever a box door is opened. +Gold clusters +Flash in soft explosions +On the blue darkness, +Suck back to a point, +And disappear. +Hoops of gold +Circle necks, wrists, fingers, +Pierce ears, +Poise on heads +And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. +Gold! +Gold! +The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. +Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: +Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; +Gold -- spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold +Of harps. +The conductor raises his baton, +The brass blares out +Crass, crude, +Parvenu, fat, powerful, +Golden. +Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. +Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, +Crash. +The orange curtain parts +And the prima-donna steps forward. +One note, +A drop: transparent, iridescent, +A gold bubble, +It floats . . . floats . . . +And bursts against the lips of a bank president +In the grand tier. + + + + IV + + Afternoon Rain in State Street + + +Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, +Slant lines of black rain +In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. +Below, +Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, +The street. +And over it, umbrellas, +Black polished dots +Struck to white +An instant, +Stream in two flat lines +Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. +Like a four-sided wedge +The Custom House Tower +Pokes at the low, flat sky, +Pushing it farther and farther up, +Lifting it away from the house-tops, +Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, +With the lever of its apex. +The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, +Scratching lines of black wire across it, +Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface +With the sharp precision of tools. +The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, +A chequered table of blacks and greys. +Oblong blocks of flatness +Crawl by with low-geared engines, +And pass to short upright squares +Shrinking with distance. +A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, +And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, +A narrow, level bar of steel. +Hard cubes of lemon +Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings +As the windows light up. +But the lemon cubes are edged with angles +Upon which they cannot impinge. +Up, straight, down, straight -- square. +Crumpled grey-white papers +Blow along the side-walks, +Contorted, horrible, +Without curves. +A horse steps in a puddle, +And white, glaring water spurts up +In stiff, outflaring lines, +Like the rattling stems of reeds. +The city is heraldic with angles, +A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable +And countercoloured bends of rain +Hung over a four-square civilization. +When a street lamp comes out, +I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds +To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. + + + + V + + An Aquarium + + +Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, +Silver shiftings, +Rings veering out of rings, +Silver -- gold -- +Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, +With sharp white bubbles +Shooting and dancing, +Flinging quickly outward. +Nosing the bubbles, +Swallowing them, +Fish. +Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, +The light rippling over them +In steel-bright tremors. +Outspread translucent fins +Flute, fold, and relapse; +The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles +In scarcely tarnished twinklings. +Curving of spotted spines, +Slow up-shifts, +Lazy convolutions: +Then a sudden swift straightening +And darting below: +Oblique grey shadows +Athwart a pale casement. +Roped and curled, +Green man-eating eels +Slumber in undulate rhythms, +With crests laid horizontal on their backs. +Barred fish, +Striped fish, +Uneven disks of fish, +Slip, slide, whirl, turn, +And never touch. +Metallic blue fish, +With fins wide and yellow and swaying +Like Oriental fans, +Hold the sun in their bellies +And glow with light: +Blue brilliance cut by black bars. +An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, +Across it, in a tangent, +A smear of rose, black, silver. +Short twists and upstartings, +Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: +Sunshine playing between red and black flowers +On a blue and gold lawn. +Shadows and polished surfaces, +Facets of mauve and purple, +A constant modulation of values. +Shaft-shaped, +With green bead eyes; +Thick-nosed, +Heliotrope-coloured; +Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; +In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. + +Outside, +A willow-tree flickers +With little white jerks, +And long blue waves +Rise steadily beyond the outer islands. + + + + + + +____________ +End of text. + + + + + +Some Books by Amy Lowell +------------------------ + + +Poetry + + +What's O'Clock +Legends +Pictures of the Floating World +Can Grande's Castle +Men, Women and Ghosts +Sword Blades and Poppy Seed +A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (already online) +A Critical Fable + +Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + + +Prose + +Tendencies in Modern American Poetry +Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature +John Keats + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + diff --git a/old/almwg10.zip b/old/almwg10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..305cb1d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/almwg10.zip |