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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. 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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 |