TOWARD THE GULF

By Edgar Lee Masters

CONTENTS

TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY

TOWARD THE GULF

LAKE BOATS

CITIES OF THE PLAIN

EXCLUDED MIDDLE

SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL.

JOHNNY APPLESEED

THE LOOM

DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S

SIR GALAHAD

ST. DESERET

HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR

VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART

THE LANDSCAPE

TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY

SWEET CLOVER

SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL

FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE

POOR PIERROT

MIRAGE OF THE DESERT

DAHLIAS

THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES

DELILAH

THE WORLD-SAVER

RECESSIONAL

THE AWAKENING

IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR

FRANCE

BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES

DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC!

DEAR OLD DICK

THE ROOM OF MIRRORS

THE LETTER

CANTICLE OF THE RACE

BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE

MY LIGHT WITH YOURS

THE BLIND

"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU"

CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT

WIDOW LA RUE

DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE

FRIAR YVES

THE EIGHTH CRUSADE

THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

NEANDERTHAL

THE END OF THE SEARCH

BOTANICAL GARDENS

TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY

It would have been fitting had I dedicated Spoon River Anthology to you. Considerations of an intimate nature, not to mention a literary encouragement which was before yours, crowded you from the page. Yet you know that it was you who pressed upon my attention in June, 1909, the Greek Anthology. It was from contemplation of its epitaphs that my hand unconsciously strayed to the sketches of "Hod Putt," "Serepta The Scold" ("Serepta Mason" in the book), "Amanda Barker" ("Amanda" in the book), "Ollie McGee" and "The Unknown," the first written and the first printed sketches of The Spoon River Anthology. The Mirror of May 29th, 1914, is their record.

I take one of the epigrams of Meleager with its sad revealment and touch of irony and turn it from its prose form to a verse form, making verses according to the breath pauses:

"The holy night and thou, O Lamp, we took as witness of our vows; and before thee we swore, he that would love me always and I that I would never leave him. We swore, and thou wert witness of our double promise. But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters. And thou, O Lamp, thou seest him in the arms of another."

In verse this epigram is as follows:

  The holy night and thou,

  O Lamp,

  We took as witness of our vows;

  And before thee we swore,

  He that would love me always

  And I that I would never leave him.

  We swore,

  And thou wert witness of our double promise.

  But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters.

  And thou, O Lamp,

  Thou seest him in the arms of another.

It will be observed that iambic feet prevail in this translation. They merely become noticeable and imperative when arranged in verses. But so it is, even in the briefest and starkest rendering of these epigrams from the Greek the humanism and dignity of the original transfer themselves, making something, if less than verse, yet more than prose; as Byron said of Sheridan's speeches, neither poetry nor oratory, but better than either. It was no difficult matter to pass from Chase Henry:

  "In life I was the town drunkard.

   When I died the priest denied me burial

   In holy ground, etc."

to the use of standard measures, or rhythmical arrangements of iambics or what not, and so to make a book, which for the first third required a practiced voice or eye to yield the semblance of verse; and for the last two-thirds, or nearly so, accommodated itself to the less sensitive conception of the average reader. The prosody was allowed to take care of itself under the emotional requirements and inspiration of the moment. But there is nothing new in English literature for some hundreds of years in combinations of dactyls, anapests or trochees, and without rhyme. Nor did I discover to the world that an iambic pentameter can be lopped to a tetrameter without the verse ceasing to be an iambic; though it be no longer the blank verse which has so ennobled English poetry. A great deal of unrhymed poetry is yet to be written in the various standard rhythms and in carefully fashioned metres.

But obviously a formal resuscitation of the Greek epigrams, ironical and tender, satirical and sympathetic, as casual experiments in unrelated themes would scarcely make the same appeal that an epic rendition of modern life would do, and as it turned out actually achieved.

The response of the American press to Spoon River Anthology during the summer of 1914 while it was appearing in the Mirror is my warrant for saying this. It was quoted and parodied during that time in the country and in the metropolitan newspapers. Current Opinion in its issue of September, 1914, reproduced from the Mirror some of the poems. Though at this time the schematic effect of the Anthology could not be measured, Edward J. Wheeler, that devoted patron of the art and discriminating critic of its manifestations, was attracted, I venture to say, by the substance of "Griffy, The Cooper," for that is one of the poems from the Anthology which he set forth in his column "The Voice of Living Poets" in the issue referred to. Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, followed in its issue of October, 1914, with a reprinting from the Mirror. In a word, the Anthology went the rounds over the country before it was issued in book form. And a reception was thus prepared for the complete work not often falling to the lot of a literary production. I must not omit an expression of my gratitude for the very high praise which John Cowper Powys bestowed on the Anthology just before it appeared in book form and the publicity which was given his lecture by the New York Times. Nathan Haskell Dole printed an article in the Boston Transcript of June 30, 1915, in which he contrasted the work with the Greek Anthology, pointing in particular to certain epitaphs by Carphylides, Kallaischros and Pollianos. The critical testimony of Miss Harriet Monroe in her editorial comments and in her preface to "The New Poetry" has greatly strengthened the judgment of to-day against a reversal at the hands of a later criticism.

This response to the Anthology while it was appearing in the Mirror and afterwards when put in the book was to nothing so much as to the substance. It was accepted as a picture of our life in America. It was interpreted as a transcript of the state of mind of men and women here and elsewhere. You called it a Comedy Humaine in your announcement of my identity as the author in the Mirror of November 20, 1914. If the epitaphic form gave added novelty I must confess that the idea was suggested to me by the Greek Anthology. But it was rather because of the Greek Anthology than from it that I evolved the less harmonious epitaphs with which Spoon River Anthology was commenced. As to metrical epitaphs it is needless to say that I drew upon the legitimate materials of authentic English versification. Up to the Spring of 1914, I had never allowed a Spring to pass without reading Homer; and I feel that this familiarity had its influence both as to form and spirit; but I shall not take the space now to pursue this line of confessional.

What is the substance of which I have spoken if it be not the life around us as we view it through eyes whose vision lies in heredity, mode of life, understanding of ourselves and of our place and time? You have lived much. As a critic and a student of the country no one understands America better than you do. As a denizen of the west, but as a surveyor of the east and west you have brought to the country's interpretation a knowledge of its political and literary life as well as a proficiency in the history of other lands and other times. You have seen and watched the unfolding of forces that sprang up after the Civil War. Those forces mounted in the eighties and exploded in free silver in 1896. They began to hit through the directed marksmanship of Theodore Roosevelt during his second term. You knew at first hand all that went with these forces of human hope, futile or valiant endeavor, articulate or inarticulate expression of the new birth. You saw and lived, but in greater degree, what I have seen and lived. And with this back-ground you inspired and instructed me in my analysis. Standing by you confirmed or corrected my sculpturing of the clay taken out of the soil from which we both came. You did this with an eye familiar with the secrets of the last twenty years, familiar also with the relation of those years to the time which preceded and bore them.

So it is, that not only because I could not dedicate Spoon River to you, but for the larger reasons indicated, am I impelled to do you whatever honor there may be in taking your name for this book. By this outline confession, sometime perhaps to be filled in, do I make known what your relation is to these interpretations of mine resulting from a spirit, life, thought, environment which have similarly come to us and have similarly affected us.

I call this book "Toward the Gulf," a title importing a continuation of the attempts of Spoon River and The Great Valley to mirror the age and the country in which we live. It does not matter which one of these books carries your name and makes these acknowledgments; so far, anyway, as the opportunity is concerned for expressing my appreciation of your friendship and the great esteem and affectionate interest in which I hold you.

EDGAR LEE MASTERS.

The following poems were first printed in the publications indicated:

Toward the Gulf, The Lake Boats, The Loom, Tomorrow is my Birthday, Dear Old Dick, The Letter, My Light with Yours, Widow LaRue, Neanderthal, in Reedy's Mirror.

Draw the Sword, Oh Republic, in the Independent.

Canticle of the Race, in Poetry, a Magazine of Verse.

Friar Yves, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine.

"I pay my debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau," in Fashions of the Hour.

TOWARD THE GULF

     Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt

     From the Cordilleran Highlands,

     From the Height of Land

     Far north.

     From the Lake of the Woods,

     From Rainy Lake,

     From Itasca's springs.

     From the snow and the ice

     Of the mountains,

     Breathed on by the sun,

     And given life,

     Awakened by kisses of fire,

     Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline

     Down the cliffs,

     Down the hills,

     Over the stones.

     Trickling as rills;

     Swiftly running as mountain brooks;

     Swirling through runnels of rock;

     Curving in spheréd silence

     Around the long worn walls of granite gorges;

     Storming through chasms;

     And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin

     To the muddled waters of the mighty river,

     Himself obeying the call of the gulf,

     And the unfathomed urge of the sea!

     Waters of mountain peaks,

     Spirits of liberty

     Leaving your pure retreats

     For work in the world.

     Soiling your crystal springs

     With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you run,

     Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan

     That devours you,

     And uses you to carry waste and earth

     For the making of land at the gulf,

     For the conquest of land for the feet of men.

     De Soto, Marquette and La Salle

     Planting your cross in vain,

     Gaining neither gold nor ivory,

     Nor tribute

     For France or Spain.

     Making land alone

     For liberty!

     You could proclaim in the name of the cross

     The dominion of kings over a world that was new.

     But the river has altered its course:

     There are fertile fields

     For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you knew.

     And there are liberty and democracy

     For thousands of miles

     Where in the name of kings, and for the cross

     You tramped the tangles for treasure.

     The Falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters

     In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices,

     Swirling, dancing, leaping, foaming,

     Spirits of caverns, of canyons and gorges:

     Waters tinctured by star-lights, sweetened by breezes

     Blown over snows, out of the rosy northlands,

     Through forests of pine and hemlock,

     Whisperings of the Pacific grown symphonic.

     Voices of freedom, restless, unconquered,

     Mad with divinity, fearless and free:—

     Hunters and choppers, warriors, revelers,

     Laughers, dancers, fiddlers, freemen,

     Climbing the crests of the Alleghenies,

     Singing, chopping, hunting, fighting

     Erupting into Kentucky and Tennessee,

     Into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,

     Sweeping away the waste of the Indians,

     As the river carries mud for the making of land.

     And taking the land of Illinois from kings

     And handing its allegiance to the Republic.

     What riflemen with Daniel Boone for leader,

     And conquerors with Clark for captain

     Plunge down like melted snows

     The rocks and chasms of forbidden mountains,

     And make more land for freemen!

     Clear-eyed, hard-muscled, dauntless hunters,

     Choppers of forests and tillers of fields

     Meet at last in a field of snow-white clover

     To make wise laws for states,

     And to teach their sons of the new West

     That suffrage is the right of freemen.

     Until the lion of Tennessee,

     Who crushes king-craft near the gulf.

     Where La Salle proclaimed the crown,

     And the cross,

     Is made the ruler of the republic

     By freeman suffragans,

     And winners of the West!

     Father of Waters! Ever recurring symbol of wider freedom,

     Even to the ocean girdled earth,

     The out-worn rule of Florida rots your domain.

     But the lion of Tennessee asks: Would you take from Spain

     The land she has lost but in name?

     It shall be done in a month if you loose my sword.

     It was done as he said.

     And the sick and drunken power of Spain that clung,

     And sucked at the life of Chile, Peru, Argentina,

     Loosened under the blows of San Martin and Bolivar,

     Breathing the lightning thrown by Napoleon the Great

     On the thrones of Europe.

     Father of Waters! 'twas you who made us say:

     No kings this side of the earth forever!

     One-half of the earth shall be free

     By our word and the might that is back of our word!

     The falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters

     In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices!

     And the river moves in its winding channel toward the gulf,

     Over the breast of De Soto,

     By the swamp grave of La Salle!

     The old days sleep, the lion of Tennessee sleeps

     With Daniel Boone and the hunters,

     The rifle men, the revelers,

     The laughers and dancers and choppers

     Who climbed the crests of the Alleghenies,

     And poured themselves into Tennessee, Ohio,

     Kentucky, Illinois, the bountiful West.

     But the river never sleeps, the river flows forever,

     Making land forever, reclaiming the wastes of the sea.

     And the race never sleeps, the race moves on forever.

     And wars must come, as the waters must sweep away

     Drift-wood, dead wood, choking the strength of the river—

     For Liberty never sleeps!

     The lion of Tennessee sleeps!

     And over the graves of the hunters and choppers

     The tramp of troops is heard!

     There is war again,

     O, Father of Waters!

     There is war, O, symbol of freedom!

     They have chained your giant strength for the cause

     Of trade in men.

     But a man of the West, a denizen of your shore,

     Wholly American,

     Compact, clear-eyed, nerved like a hunter,

     Who knew no faster beat of the heart,

     Except in charity, forgiveness, peace;

     Generous, plain, democratic,

     Scarcely appraising himself at full,

     A spiritual rifleman and chopper,

     Of the breed of Daniel Boone—

     This man, your child, O, Father of Waters,

     Waked from the winter sleep of a useless day

     By the rising sun of a Freedom bright and strong,

     Slipped like the loosened snows of your mountain streams

     Into a channel of fate as sure as your own—

     A fate which said: till the thing be done

     Turn not back nor stop.

     Ulysses of the great Atlantis,

     Wholly American,

     Patient, silent, tireless, watchful, undismayed

     Grant at Fort Donelson, Grant at Vicksburg,

     Leading the sons of choppers and riflemen,

     Pushing on as the hunters and farmers

     Poured from the mountains into the West,

     Freed you, Father of Waters,

     To flow to the Gulf and be one

     With the earth-engirdled tides of time.

     And gave us states made ready for the hands

     Wholly American:

     Hunters, choppers, tillers, fighters

     For epochs vast and new

     In Truth, in Liberty,

     Posters from land to land and sea to sea

     Till all the earth be free!

     Ulysses of the great Atlantis,

     Dream not of disaster,

     Sleep the sleep of the brave

     In your couch afar from the Father of Waters!

     A new Ulysses arises,

     Who turns not back, nor stops

     Till the thing is done.

     He cuts with one stroke of the sword

     The stubborn neck that keeps the Gulf

     And the Caribbean

     From the luring Pacific.

     Roosevelt the hunter, the pioneer,

     Wholly American,

     Winner of greater wests

     Till all the earth be free!

     And forever as long as the river flows toward the Gulf

     Ulysses reincarnate shall come

     To guard our places of sleep,

     Till East and West shall be one in the west of heaven and earth!

     In an old print

     I see a thicket of masts on the river.

     But in the prints to be

     There will be lake boats,

     With port holes, funnels, rows of decks,

     Huddled like swans by the docks,

     Under the shadows of cliffs of brick.

     And who will know from the prints to be,

     When the Albatross and the Golden Eagle,

     The flying craft which shall carry the vision

     Of impatient lovers wounded by Spring

     To the shaded rivers of Michigan,

     That it was the Missouri, the Iowa,

     And the City of Benton Harbor

     Which lay huddled like swans by the docks?

     You are not Lake Leman,

     Walled in by Mt. Blanc.

     One sees the whole world round you,

     And beyond you, Lake Michigan.

     And when the melodious winds of March

     Wrinkle you and drive on the shore

     The serpent rifts of sand and snow,

     And sway the giant limbs of oaks,

     Longing to bud,

     The boats put forth for the ports that began to stir,

     With the creak of reels unwinding the nets,

     And the ring of the caulking wedge.

     But in the June days—

     The Alabama ploughs through liquid tons

     Of sapphire waves.

     She sinks from hills to valleys of water,

     And rises again,

     Like a swimming gull!

     I wish a hundred years to come, and forever

     All lovers could know the rapture

     Of the lake boats sailing the first Spring days

     To coverts of hepatica,

     With the whole world sphering round you,

     And the whole of the sky beyond you.

     I knew the captain of the City of Grand Rapids.

     He had sailed the seas as a boy.

     And he stood on deck against the railing

     Puffing a cigar,

     Showing in his eyes the cinema flash of the sun on the waves.

     It was June and life was easy. ...

     One could lie on deck and sleep,

     Or sit in the sun and dream.

     People were walking the decks and talking,

     Children were singing.

     And down on the purser's deck

     A man was dancing by himself,

     Whirling around like a dervish.

     And this captain said to me:

     "No life is better than this.

     I could live forever,

     And do nothing but run this boat

     From the dock at Chicago to the dock at Holland

     And back again."

     One time I went to Grand Haven

     On the Alabama with Charley Shippey.

     It was dawn, but white dawn only,

     Under the reign of Leucothea,

     As we volplaned, so it seemed, from the lake

     Past the lighthouse into the river.

     And afterward laughing and talking

     Hurried to Van Dreezer's restaurant

     For breakfast.

     (Charley knew him and talked of things

     Unknown to me as he cooked the breakfast.)

     Then we fished the mile's length of the pier

     In a gale full of warmth and moisture

     Which blew the gulls about like confetti,

     And flapped like a flag the linen duster

     Of a fisherman who paced the pier—

     (Charley called him Rip Van Winkle).

     The only thing that could be better

     Than this day on the pier

     Would be its counterpart in heaven,

     As Swedenborg would say—

     Charley is fishing somewhere now, I think.

     There is a grove of oaks on a bluff by the river

     At Berrien Springs.

     There is a cottage that eyes the lake

     Between pines and silver birches

     At South Haven.

     There is the inviolable wonder of wooded shore

     Curving for miles at Saugatuck.

     And at Holland a beach like Scheveningen's.

     And at Charlevoix the sudden quaintness

     Of an old-world place by the sea.

     There are the hills around Elk Lake

     Where the blue of the sky is so still and clear

     It seems it was rubbed above them

     By the swipe of a giant thumb.

     And beyond these the little Traverse Bay

     Where the roar of the breeze goes round

     Like a roulette ball in the groove of the wheel,

     Circling the bay,

     And beyond these Mackinac and the Cheneaux Islands—

     And beyond these a great mystery!—

     Neither ice floes, nor winter's palsy

     Stays the tide in the river.

LAKE BOATS

     And under the shadows of cliffs of brick

     The lake boats

     Huddled like swans

     Turn and sigh like sleepers——

     They are longing for the Spring!

CITIES OF THE PLAIN

     Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees,

     The panders who betray the idiot cities

     For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled,

     Ignorant, soul-less, rich,

     Smothered in fumes of pitch?

     Rooms of mahogany in tall sky scrapers

     See the unfolding and the folding up

     Of ring-clipped papers,

     And letters which keep drugged the public cup.

     The walls hear whispers and the semi-tones

     Of voices in the corner, over telephones

     Muffled by Persian padding, gemmed with brass spittoons.

     Butts of cigars are on the glass topped table,

     And through the smoke, gracing the furtive Babel,

     The bishop's picture blesses the picaroons,

     Who start or stop the life of millions moving

     Unconscious of obedience, the plastic

     Yielders to satanic and dynastic

     Hands of reproaching and approving.

     Here come knights armed,

     But with their arms concealed,

     And rubber heeled.

     Here priests and wavering want are charmed.

     And shadows fall here like the shark's

     In messages received or sent.

     Signals are flying from the battlement.

     And every president

     Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks,

     The receipt of custom knows, without a look,

     Their meaning as the code is in no book.

     The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth

     Watch for the flags of stealth!

     Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks.

     Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets

     Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites,

     And choke the counsels and symposiacs

     Of dreamers who have pity for the backs

     That bear and bleed.

     All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal,

     The church's creed,

     The city's soul,

     The city's sea girt loveliness,

     The merciless and meretricious press.

     Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed,

     Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical

     Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal.

     But nothing of its work in type is hinted:

     Taxes are high! The mentors of the town

     Must keep their taxes down

     On buildings, presses, stocks

     In gas, oil, coal and docks.

     The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man

     Who holds the taxing bodies through the church,

     And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search

     The spider man, the master publican,

     And for his friendship silence keep,

     Letting him herd the populace like sheep

     For self and for the insatiable desires

     Of coal and tracks and wires,

     Pick judges, legislators,

     And tax-gatherers.

     Or name his favorites, whom they name:

     The slick and sinistral,

     Servitors of the cabal,

     For praise which seems the equivalent of fame:

     Giving to the delicate handed crackers

     Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers,

     The flash and thunder of front pages!

     And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages

     Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate.

     And the unilluminate,

     Whose brows are brass,

     Who weep on every Sabbath day

     For Jesus riding on an ass,

     Scarce know the ass is they,

     Now ridden by his effigy,

     The publican with Jesus' painted mask,

     Along a way where fumes of odorless gas

     First spur then fell them from the task.

     Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle

     Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle.

     And the angels say to Yahveh looking down

     From the alabaster railing, on the town,

     O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack

     We wish we had our little Sodom back!

EXCLUDED MIDDLE

     Out of the mercury shimmer of glass

     Over these daguerreotypes

     The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges

     With its little figure of flowers.

     And the enameled glair of parted hair

     Lies over the oval brow,

     From under which eyes of fiery blackness

     Look through you.

     And the only repose of spirit shown

     Is in the hands

     Lying loosely one in the other,

     Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ...

     And in the companion folder of this case

     Of gutta percha

     Is the shape of a man.

     His brow is oval too, but broader.

     His nose is long, but thick at the tip.

     His eyes are blue

     Wherein faith burns her signal lights,

     And flashes her convictions.

     His mouth is tense, almost a slit.

     And his face is a massive Calvinism

     Resting on a stock tie.

     They were married, you see.

     The clasp on this gutta percha case

     Locks them together.

     They were locked together in life.

     And a hasp of brass

     Keeps their shadows face to face in the case

     Which has been handed down—

     (The pictures of noble ancestors,

     Showing what strains of gentle blood

     Flow in the third generation)—

     From Massachusetts to Illinois. ...

     Long ago it was over for them,

     Massachusetts has done its part,

     She raised the seed

     And a wind blew it over to Illinois

     Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated

     Until one soul comes forth:

     But a soul all striped and streaked,

     And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed,

     As it were a tree which on one branch

     Bears northern spies,

     And on another thorn apples. ...

     Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden,

     And you Buffon and De Vries,

     Come with your secrets of sea shore asters

     Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias,

     Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog,

     And show us how they cross and change,

     And become hybrids.

     And show us what heredity is,

     And how it works.

     For the secret of these human beings

     Locked in this gutta percha case

     Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions.

     Let us lay out the facts as far as we can.

     Her eyes were black,

     His eyes were blue.

     She saw through shadows, walls and doors,

     She knew life and hungered for more.

     But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places

     To feel clouds about his face, and get the lights

     Of supernal sun-sets.

     She was reason, and he was faith.

     She had an illumination, but of the intellect.

     And he had an illumination but of the soul.

     And she saw God as merciless law,

     And he knew God as divine love.

     And she was a man, and he in part was a woman.

     He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ,

     And the remission of sins by blood,

     And the literal fall of man through Adam,

     And the mystical and actual salvation of man

     Through the coming of Christ.

     And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes

     To hide her scorn for it all.

     She was crucified,

     And raged to the last like the impenitent thief

     Against the fate which wasted and trampled down

     Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill,

     Which would have piled up gold or honors

     For a mate who knew that life is growth,

     And health, and the satisfaction of wants,

     And place and reputation and mansion houses,

     And mahogany and silver,

     And beautiful living.

     She hated him, and hence she pitied him.

     She was like the gardener with great pruners

     Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping

     Just for the dread.

     She had married him—but why?

     Some inscrutable air

     Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden—

     Some power had crossed them.

     And here is the secret I think:

     (As we would say here is electricity)

     It is the vibration inhering in sex

     That produces devils or angels,

     And it is the sex reaction in men and women

     That brings forth devils or angels,

     And starts in them the germs of powers or passions,

     Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses,

     Till the stock dies out.

     So now for their hybrid children:—

     She gave birth to four daughters and one son.

     But first what have we for the composition of these daughters?

     Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor.

     Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer.

     Love thwarted and becoming acid.

     Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity.

     Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream under-ground

     Where only blind things swim.

     God year by year removing himself to remoter thrones

     Of inexorable law.

     God coming closer even while disease

     And total blindness came between him and God

     And defeated the mercy of God.

     And a love and a trust growing deeper in him

     As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross,

     Mocked his crucifixion,

     And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain,

     Till at last she is all satirist,

     And he is all saint.

     And all the children were raised

     After the strictest fashion in New England,

     And made to join the church,

     And attend its services.

     And these were the children:

     Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago,

     She debated religion with her husband for ten years,

     Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years

     Scarcely spoke to her.

     She died a convert to Catholicism.

     They had two children:

     The boy became a forgerer

     Of notorious skill.

     The daughter married, but was barren.

     Miranda married a rich man

     And spent his money so fast that he failed.

     She lashed him with a scorpion tongue

     And made him believe at last

     With her incessant reasonings

     That he was a fool, and so had failed.

     In middle life he started over again,

     But became tangled in a law-suit.

     Because of these things he killed himself.

     Louise was a nymphomaniac.

     She was married twice.

     Both husbands fled from her insatiable embraces.

     At thirty-two she became a woman on a telephone list,

     Subject to be called,

     And for two years ran through a daily orgy of sex,

     When blindness came on her, as it came on her father before her,

     And she became a Christian Scientist,

     And led an exemplary life.

     Deborah was a Puritan of Puritans,

     Her list of unmentionable things

     Tabooed all the secrets of creation,

     Leaving politics, religion, and human faults,

     And the mistakes most people make,

     And the natural depravity of man,

     And his freedom to redeem himself if he chooses,

     As the only subjects of conversation.

     As a twister of words and meanings,

     And a skilled welder of fallacies,

     And a swift emerger from ineluctable traps of logic,

     And a wit with an adder's tongue,

     And a laugher,

     And an unafraid facer of enemies,

     Oppositions, hatreds,

     She never knew her equal.

     She was at once very cruel, and very tender,

     Very selfish and very generous

     Very little and very magnanimous.

     Scrupulous as to the truth, and utterly disregardless of the truth.

     Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible,

     Easily used at times, of erratic judgment,

     Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness

     The falsest trails to her own undoing—

     All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent

     Derived from father and mother,

     But mixed by whom, and how, and why?

     Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul.

     His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes

     Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose

     Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers.

     His shapely body, hands and feet belonged

     To some patrician face, not to Marat's.

     And his was like Marat's, fanatical,

     Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide

     A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks

     Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists

     His father loved. And being a rebel soul

     He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness

     Moving as malice marred the life of man.

     'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud,

     And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man

     To free the world from error, suffer, die

     For liberty of thought. You see his mother

     Is in possession of one part of him,

     Or all of him for some time.

                                   So he lives

     Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer)

     That genius fires him. All the while a gift

     For analytics stored behind that brow,

     That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all

     Of which he well may boast above the man

     He hates as but a slave of faith and fear.

     He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam,

     But for long years neglects the jug of wine.

     And as for "thou" he does not wake for years,

     Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains

     Run counter in him, end in knots at times.

     He takes from father certain tastes and traits,

     From mother certain others, one can see

     His mother's sex re-actions to his father,

     Not passed to him to make him celibate,

     But holding back in sleeping passions which

     Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love.

     Not love since that great engine in the brow

     Tears off the irised wings of love and bares

     The poor worm's body where the wings had been:

     What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme

     In music over what is but desire,

     And ends when that is satisfied!

                                         He's a crank.

     And follows all the psychic thrills which run

     To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward,

     Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics,

     It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace,

     It's non-resistance with a swelling heart,

     As who should say how truer to the faith

     Of Jesus am I, without hope or faith,

     Than churchmen. He's a prohibitionist,

     The poor's protagonist, the knight at arms

     Of fallen women, yelling at the rich

     Whose wicked greed makes all the prostitutes—

     No prostitutes without the wicked rich!

     But as he ages, as the bitter days

     Approach with perorations: O ye vipers,

     The engine in him changes all the world,

     Reverses all the wheels of thought behind.

     For Nietzsche comes, and makes him superman.

     He dumps the truth of Jesus over—there

     It lies with his youth's textual skepticism,

     And laughter at the supernatural.

     Now what's the motivating principle

     Of such a mind? In youth he sought for rules

     Wherewith to trail and capture truths. He found it

     In James McCosh's Logic, it was this:

     Lex Exclusi Tertii aut Medii,

     Law of Excluded Middle speaking plain:

     A thing is true, or not true, never a third

     Hypothesis, so God is or is not.

     That's very good to start with, how to end

     And how to know which of the two is false—

     He hunted out the false, as mother did—

     Requires a tool. He found it in this book,

     Reductio ad absurdum; let us see

     Excluded middle use reductio.

     God is or God is not, but then what God?

     Excluded Middle never sought a God

     To suffer demolition at his hands

     Except the God of Illinois, the God

     Grown but a little with his followers

     Since Moses lived and Peter fished. So now

     God is or God is not. Let us assume

     God is and use reductio ad absurdum,

     Taking away the rotten props, the posts

     That do not fit or hold, and let Him fall.

     For if he falls, the other postulate

     That God is not is demonstrated. See

     A universe of truth pass on the way

     Cleared by Excluded Middle through the stuff

     Of thought and visible things, a way that lets

     A greater God escape, uncaught by all

     The nippers of reductio ad absurdum.

     But to resume his argument was this:

     God is or God is not, but if God is

     Why pestilence and war, earthquake and famine?

     He either wills them, or cannot prevent them,

     But if he wills them God is evil, if

     He can't prevent them, he is limited.

     But God, you say, is good, omnipotent,

     And here I prove Him evil, or too weak

     To stay the evil. Having shown your God

     Lacking in what makes God, the proposition

     Which I oppose to this, that God is not

     Stands proven. For as evil is most clear

     In sickness, pain and death, it cannot be

     There is a Power with strength to overcome them,

     Yet suffers them to be.

                            And so this man

     Went through the years of life, and stripped the fields

     Of beauty and of thought with mandibles

     Insatiable as the locust's, which devours

     A season's care and labor in an hour.

     He stripped these fields and ate them, but they made

     No meat or fat for him. And so he lived

     On his own thought, as starving men may live

     On stored up fat. And so in time he starved.

     The thought in him no longer fed his life,

     And he had withered up the outer world

     Of man and nature, stripped it to the bone,

     Nothing but skull and cross-bones greeted him

     Wherever he turned—the world became a bottle

     Filled with a bitter essence he could drink

     From long accustomed doses—labeled poison

     And marked with skull and cross-bones. Could he laugh

     As mother laughed? No more! He tried to find

     The mother's laugh and secret for the laugh

     Which kept her to the end—but did she laugh?

     Or if she laughed, was it so hollow, forced

     As all his laughter now was. He had proved

     Too much for laughter. Nothing but himself

     Remained to keep himself, he lived alone

     Upon his stored up fat, now daily growing

     To dangerous thinness.

                           So with love of woman.

     He had found "thou" the jug of wine as well,

     "Thou" "thou" had come and gone too many times.

     For what is sex but touch of flesh, the hand

     Is flesh and hands may touch, if so, the loins—

     Reductio ad absurdum, O you fools,

     Who see a wrong in touch of loins, no wrong

     In clasp of hands. And so again, again

     With his own tools of thought he bruised his hands

     Until they grew too callous to perceive

     When they were touched.

                               So by analysis

     He turned on everything he once believed.

     Let's make an end!

                          Men thought Excluded Middle

     Was born for great things. Why that bulging brow

     And analytic keen if not for greatness?

     In those old days they thought so when he fought

     For lofty things, a youthful radical

     Come here to change the world! But now at last

     He lectures in back halls to youths who are

     What he was in his youth, to acid souls

     Who must have bitterness, can take enough

     To kill a healthy soul, as fiends for dope

     Must have enough to kill a body clean.

     And so upon a night Excluded Middle

     Is lecturing to prove that life is evil,

     Not worth the living—when his auditors

     Behold him pale and sway and take his seat,

     And later quit the hall, the lecture left

     Half finished.

     This had happened in a twinkling:

     He had made life a punching bag, with fists,

     Excluded Middle and Reductio,

     Had whacked it back and forth. But just as often

     As he had struck it with an argument

     That it is not worth living, snap, the bag

     Would fly back for another punch. For life

     Just like a punching bag will stand your whacks

     Of hatred and denial, let you punch

     Almost at will. But sometime, like the bag,

     The strap gives way, the bag flies up and falls

     And lies upon the floor, you've knocked it out.

     And this is what Excluded Middle does

     This night, the strap breaks with his blows. He proves

     His strength, his case and for the first he sees

     Life is not worth the living. Life gives up,

     Resists no more, flys back no more to him,

     But hits the ceiling, snap the strap gives way!

     The bag falls to the floor, and lies there still—

     Who now shall pick it up, re-fasten it?

     And so his color fades, it well may be

     The crisis of a long neurosis, well

     What caused it? But his eyes are wondrous clear

     Perceiving life knocked out. His heart is sick,

     He takes his seat, admiring friends swarm round him,

     Conduct him to a carriage, he goes home

     And sitting by the fire (O what is fire?

     The miracle of fire dawns on his thought,

     Fire has been near him all these years unseen,

     How wonderful is fire!) which warms and soothes

     Neuritic pains, he takes the rubber case

     Which locks the images of father, mother.

     And as he stares upon the oval brow,

     The eyes of blue which flash the light of faith,

     Preserved like dendrites in this silver shimmer,

     Some spectral speculations fill his brain,

     Float like a storm above the sorry wreck

     Of all his logic tools, machines; for now

     Since pains in back and shoulder like to father's

     Fall to him at the age that father had them,

     Father has entered him, has settled down

     To live with him with those neuritic pangs.

     Thus are his speculations. Over all

     How comes it that a sudden feel of life,

     Its wonder, terror, beauty is like father's?

     As if the soul of father entered in him

     And made the field of consciousness his own,

     Emotions, powers of thought his instruments.

     That is a horrible atavism, when

     You find yourself reverting to a soul

     You have not loved, despite yourself becoming

     That other soul, and with an out-worn self

     Crying for burial on your hands, a life

     Not yours till now that waits your new found powers—

     Live now or die indeed!

SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL.

     Let me consider your emergence

     From the milieu of our youth:

     We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry.

     No meal has been prepared, where have you been?

     Toward sun's decline we see you down the path,

     And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile,

     Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again

     You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed,

     Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces.

     Of running wild without our meals

     You do not speak.

     Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy,

     After removing gloves and hat, you run,

     As with a winged descending flight, and cry,

     Half song, half exclamation,

     Seize one of us,

     Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite

     Ears of us in a rapture of affection.

     "You shall have supper," then you say.

     The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire,

     The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock

     We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff.

     I understand now how your youth and spirits

     Fought back the drabness of the village,

     And wonder not you spent the afternoons

     With such bright company as Eugenia Turner—

     And I forgive you hunger, loneliness.

     But when we asked you where you'd been,

     Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children

     Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day

     To cream and porridge, bread and meat.

     We think to corner you—alas for us!

     Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out

     Like anvil sparks to justify your way:

     "Your father's always gone—you selfish children,

     You'd have me in the house from morn till night."

     You put us in the wrong—our cause is routed.

     We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind,

     You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us.

     Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution

     To whip you out when minds grow strong.

     Up in the moon-lit room without a light,

     (The lamps have not been filled,)

     We crawl in unmade beds.

     We leave you pouring over paper backs.

     We peek above your shoulder.

     It is "The Lady in White" you read.

     Next morning you are dead for sleep,

     You've sat up more than half the night.

     We have been playing hours when you arise,

     It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last,

     When school days come I'm always late to school.

     Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door,

     Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock,

     Find father has returned during the night.

     You are all happiness, his idlest word

     Provokes your laughter.

     He shows us rolls of precious money earned;

     He's given you a silk dress, money too

     For suits and shoes for us—all is forgiven.

     You run about the house,

     As with a winged descending flight and cry

     Half song, half exclamation.

     We're sick so much. But then no human soul

     Could be more sweet when one of us is sick.

     We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats

     Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer,

     And clothes were warmer, food more regular,

     And sleep more regular, it might be different.

     Then there's the well. You fear the water.

     He laughs at you, we children drink the water,

     Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles:

     It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well.

     The village has no drainage, blights and mildews

     Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring

     Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times,

     Sick to somnambulistic sense of things.

     You blame him for the well, that's just one thing.

     You seem to differ about everything—

     You seem to hate each other—when you quarrel

     We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped

     For taking sides.

     Our broken school days lose us clues,

     Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning

     And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed—

     That shall not be made up in all our life.

     The children, save a few, are not our friends,

     Some taunt us with your quarrels.

     We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words

     Of foulness on the fences. So it is

     An American village, in a great Republic,

     Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom

     Must have their way!

     We reach the budding age.

     Sweet aches are in our breasts:

     Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you?

     I am all tenderness for you at times,

     Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh

     Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me

     Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look.

     What are these phantasies I have? They breed

     Strange hatred for you, even while I feel

     My soul's home is with you, must be with you

     To find my soul's rest. ...

     I must go back a little. At ten years

     I play with Paula.

     I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books,

     Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games.

     You overhear us under the oak tree

     Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat

     And draw me in the house.

     When I resist you whip me cruelly.

     To think of whipping me at such time,

     And mix the shame of smarting legs and back

     With love of Paula!

     So I lose Paula.

     I am a man at last.

     I now can master what you are and see

     What you have been. You cannot rout me now,

     Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds,

     Remembrance of your baffling days,

     I take great strength and show you

     Where you have been untruthful, where a hater,

     Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self,

     Where you neglected us,

     Where you heaped fast destruction on our father—

     For now I know that you devoured his soul,

     And that no soul that you could not devour

     Could have its peace with you.

     You've dwindled to a quiet word like this:

     "You are unfilial." Which means at last

     That I have conquered you, at least it means

     That you could not devour me.

     Yet am I blind to you? Let me confess

     You are the world's whole cycle in yourself:

     You can be summer rich and luminous;

     You can be autumn, mellow, mystical;

     You can be winter with a cheerful hearth;

     You can be March, bitter, bright and hard,

     Pouring sharp sleet, and showering cutting hail;

     You can be April of the flying cloud,

     And intermittent sun and musical air.

     I am not you while being you,

     While finding in myself so much of you.

     It tears my other self, which is not you.

     My tragedy is this: I do not love you.

     Your tragedy is this: my other self

     Which triumphs over you, you hate at heart.

     Your solace is you have no faith in me.

     All quiet now, no March days with you now,

     Only the soft coals slumbering in your face,

     I saw you totter over a ravine!

     Your eyes averted, watching steps,

     A light of resignation on your brow.

     Your thin-spun hair all gray, blown by the wind

     Which swayed the blossomed cherry trees,

     Bent last year's reeds,

     Shook early dandelions, and tossed a bird

     That left a branch with song—

     I saw you totter over a ravine!

     What were you at the start?

     What soul dissatisfaction, sense of wrong,

     Of being thwarted, stung you?

     What was your shrinking of the flesh;

     What fear of being soiled, misunderstood,

     What wrath for loneliness which constant hope

     Saw turned to fine companionship;

     What in your marriage, what in seeing me,

     The fruit of marriage, recreated traits

     Of face or spirit which you loathed;

     What in your father and your mother,

     And in the chromosomes from which you grew,

     By what mitosis could result at last

     In you, in issues of such moment,

     In our dissevered beings,

     In what the world will take from me

     In children, in events?

     All quiet now, no March days with you now,

     Only the soft coals slumbering in your face,

     I saw you totter over a ravine,

     And back of you the Furies!

JOHNNY APPLESEED

     When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples

     Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River,

     I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander

     From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing.

     I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards,

     Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted,

     Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing,

     Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke.

     For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones

     That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards around here,

     When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches,

     And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river.

     Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me:

     My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side,

     There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him

     Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard.

     Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people

     For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards

     All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here,

     Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois.

     Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me:

     I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here

     For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter.

     And few will know who planted, and none will understand.

     I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber

     Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley.

     And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard.

     How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me?

     Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship,

     Labor and laughter and gain in the late October.

     Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy.

     Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows!

     Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen!

     Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple.

     Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising.

     You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet.

     No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter:

     The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails,

     Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever.

     Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil.

     And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the root,

     The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms

     Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty:

     You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue!

     And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen.

     So many things love an apple as well as ourselves.

     A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it:

     Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen.

THE LOOM

     My brother, the god, and I grow sick

     Of heaven's heights.

     We plunge to the valley to hear the tick

     Of days and nights.

     We walk and loiter around the Loom

     To see, if we may,

     The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon

     To the shuttle's play;

     Who grows the wool, who cards and spins,

     Who clips and ties;

     For the storied weave of the Gobelins,

     Who draughts and dyes.

     But whether you stand or walk around

     You shall but hear

     A murmuring life, as it were the sound

     Of bees or a sphere.

     No Hand is seen, but still you may feel

     A pulse in the thread,

     And thought in every lever and wheel

     Where the shuttle sped,

     Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged—

     Is it cochineal?—

     Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged

     A tale to reveal.

     Woven and wound in a bolt and dried

     As it were a plan.

     Closer I looked at the thread and cried

     The thread is man!

     Then my brother curious, strong and bold,

     Tugged hard at the bolt

     Of the woven life; for a length unrolled

     The cryptic cloth.

     He gasped for labor, blind for the moult

     Of the up-winged moth.

     While I saw a growth and a mad crusade

     That the Loom had made;

     Land and water and living things,

     Till I grew afraid

     For mouths and claws and devil wings,

     And fangs and stings,

     And tiger faces with eyes of hell

     In caves and holes.

     And eyes in terror and terrible

     For awakened souls.

     I stood above my brother, the god

     Unwinding the roll.

     And a tale came forth of the woven slain

     Sequent and whole,

     Of flint and bronze, trowel and hod,

     The wheel and the plane,

     The carven stone and the graven clod

     Painted and baked.

     And cromlechs, proving the human heart

     Has always ached;

     Till it puffed with blood and gave to art

     The dream of the dome;

     Till it broke and the blood shot up like fire

     In tower and spire.

     And here was the Persian, Jew and Goth

     In the weave of the cloth;

     Greek and Roman, Ghibelline, Guelph,

     Angel and elf.

     They were dyed in blood, tangled in dreams

     Like a comet's streams.

     And here were surfaces red and rough

     In the finished stuff,

     Where the knotted thread was proud and rebelled

     As the shuttle proved

     The fated warp and woof that held

     When the shuttle moved;

     And pressed the dye which ran to loss

     In a deep maroon

     Around an altar, oracle, cross

     Or a crescent moon.

     Around a face, a thought, a star

     In a riot of war!

     Then I said to my brother, the god, let be,

     Though the thread be crushed,

     And the living things in the tapestry

     Be woven and hushed;

     The Loom has a tale, you can see, to tell,

     And a tale has told.

     I love this Gobelin epical

     Of scarlet and gold.

     If the heart of a god may look in pride

     At the wondrous weave

     It is something better to Hands which guide—

     I see and believe.

DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S

     Look here, Jack:

     You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh.

     You haven't told me any stories. You

     Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind?

     JACK

     What time is it? Where is my watch?

     FLORENCE

                                            Your watch

     Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it.

     Why, Jack, what talk for you.

     JACK

                             Well, never mind,

     Let's pack no ice.

     FLORENCE

                   What's that?

     JACK

                   No quarreling—

     What is the time?

     FLORENCE

                   Look over towards my dresser—

     My clock says half-past eleven.

     JACK

                                      Listen to that—

     That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night,

     And on this street.

     FLORENCE

                   And why not on this street?

     JACK

     You may be right. It may as well be played

     Where you live as in front of where I work,

     Some twenty stories up. I think you're right.

     FLORENCE

     Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay.

     Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle.

     Just think you make a lot of money, Jack.

     You're young and prominent. They all know you.

     I hear your name all over town. I see

     Your picture in the papers. What's the matter?

     JACK

     I've lost my job for one thing.

     FLORENCE

                   You don't mean it!

     JACK

     They used me and then fired me, same as you.

     If you don't make the money, out you go.

     FLORENCE

     Yes, out I go. But, there are other places.

     JACK

     On further down the street.

     FLORENCE

                   Not yet a while.

     JACK

     Not yet for me, but still the question is

     Whether to fight it out for up or down,

     Or run from everything, be free.

     FLORENCE

     You can't do that.

     JACK

                   Why not?

     FLORENCE

                                   No more than I.

     Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by

     To marry me then I could get away.

     It happens all the time. Last week in fact

     Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here.

     He's rich as cream.

     JACK

                                 What corresponds to marriage

     To take me from slavery?

     FLORENCE

     Money is everything.

     JACK

                                   Yes, everything and nothing.

     Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house,

     The madam merely acts as figure-head;

     Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine.

     She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather

     Be editor than owner. I was editor.

     My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill,

     Incorporate through some multi-millionaires,

     And all our lesser writers were the girls,

     Like you and Rachel.

     FLORENCE

                                      But you know before

     He married Rachel, he was lover to

     The madam here.

     JACK

                                The stories tally, for

     The pulp mill took my first assistant editor

     To wife by making him the editor.

     And I was fired just as the madam here

     Lost out with Perko.

     FLORENCE

                                   This is growing funny...

     Ahem! I'll ask you something—

     As if I were a youth and you a girl—

     How were you ruined first?

     JACK

                                              The same as you:

     You ran away from school. It was romance.

     You thought you loved this flashy travelling man.

     And I—I loved adventure, loved the truth.

     I wanted to destroy the force called "They."

     There is no "They"—we're all together here,

     And everyone must live, Christ Perko too,

     The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate,

     The alderman, the precinct captain too,

     And you the girls, myself the editor,

     And all the lesser writers. Here we are

     Thrown in one integrated lot. You see

     There is no "They," except the terms, the thought

     Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. ...

     So I came to the city, went to work

     Reporting for a paper. Having said

     There is no "They"—I've freed myself to say

     What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you,

     And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you,

     And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round

     To courts and dirty places, make you risk

     Your body and your life, and make you watch

     The rules about your writing; what's tabooed,

     What names are to be cursed or to be praised,

     What interests, policies to be subserved,

     And what to undermine. So I went through,

     Until I had a desk, wrote editorials—

     Now said I to myself, I'm free at last.

     But no, my manager, your madam, mark you,

     Kept eye on me, for he was under watch

     Of some Christ Perko. So my manager

     Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects.

     But, as he was a just man, loved me too.

     He gave me things to write where he could let

     My conscience have full scope, as you might live

     In this house where you saw the man you loved,

     And no one else, though living in this hell.

     For I lived in a hell, who saw around me

     Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution.

     And when this offer came to be an editor

     Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel

     My courage and my virtue given reward.

     Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories,

     Creations of free souls. It was not so.

     The poems and the stories one could see

     Were written to be sold, to please a taste,

     Placate a prejudice, keep still alive

     An era dying, ready for the tomb,

     Already smelling. And that was not all.

     Just as the madam here must make report

     To Perko, so the magazine had to run

     To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here,

     Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends

     With alderman, policemen, magistrates,

     So I was just a wheel in a machine

     To keep it running with such larger wheels,

     And by them run, of policies, and politics

     Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in

     And given dope to keep me still lest I

     Cry out and wake the copper-who's the copper

     For such as I was? If he heard me cry

     How could he raid the magazine? If he raided

     Where was the court to take me and the rest—

     That's it, where is the court?

     FLORENCE

                                   It seems to me

     You're bad as I am.

     JACK

                                   I am worse than you:

     I poison minds with thoughts they take as good.

     I drug an era, make it foul or dull—

     You only sicken bodies here and there.

     But you know how it is. You have remorse,

     You fight it down, hush it with sophistry.

     You think about the world, about your fellows:

     You see that everyone is selling self,

     Little or much somehow. You feed your body,

     Try to be hearty, take things as they come.

     You take athletics, try to keep your strength,

     As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke,

     Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh.

     And through it all the soul's and body's needs,

     The pleasures, interests, passions of our life,

     The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul,

     The time is passing," move and claim your strength.

     Till you forget yourself, forget the boy

     And man you were, forget the dreams you had,

     The creed you wished to live by—yes, what's worse,

     See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed

     Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house.

     And then you say: What is the difference?

     As you might ask what virtue is and why

     Should woman keep it.

                                      I have reached this place

     Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to:

     As long as I have breath: The man who sees not,

     Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world

     From vast disintegration is a brute,

     And marked for a brute's death—that is his hell.

     'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose

     My place as editor. For when they came

     And tried to make me pass an article

     To poison millions with, I said, "I won't,

     I won't by God. I'll quit before I do."

     And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit.

     FLORENCE

     And so you took to drink and came to me!

     And that's the same as if I came to you

     And used you as an editor. I am nothing

     But just a poor reporter in this house—

     But now I quit.

     JACK

                          Where are you going, Florence?

     FLORENCE

     I'm going to a village or a farm

     Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve,

     Where I'll wear calico instead of silk,

     And where there'll be no furnace in the house.

     And where the carpet which has kept me here

     And keeps you here as editor is not.

     I'm going to economize my life

     By freeing it of systems which grow rich

     By using me, and for the privilege

     Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed.

     I hate you now, because I hate my life.

     JACK

     Wait! Wait a minute.

     FLORENCE

                           Dinah, call a cab!

SIR GALAHAD

     I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street

     Who said to me: "I'm going for the train,

     I want you with me."

                          And it happened then

     My mind was hard, as muscles of the back

     Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain

     And need the osteopath to be made supple,

     To give the nerves and streams of life a chance.

     Hosea Job was just the osteopath

     To loose, relax my mood. And so I said

     "All right"—and went.

                           Hosea was a man

     Whom nothing touched of danger, or of harm.

     His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one

     Seems like to fall before a truck or train—

     Instead he walks across them. Or you see

     Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple,

     Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners

     And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles.

     The buildings slant and sway like monstrous searchlights,

     But never touch him. And the mad piano

     Comes up to him, puts down its angry head,

     Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand,

     And lows a symphony.

                           By which I mean

     Hosea had some money, and would sign

     A bond or note for any man who asked him.

     He'd rent a house and leave it, rent another,

     Then rent a farm, move out from town and in.

     He'd have the leases of superfluous places

     Cancelled some how, was never sued for rent.

     One time he had a fancy he would see

     South Africa, took ship with a load of mules,

     First telegraphing home from New Orleans

     He'd be back in the Spring. Likewise he went

     To Klondike with the rush. I think he owned

     More kinds of mining stock than there were mines.

     He had more quaint, peculiar men for friends

     Than one could think were living. He believed

     In every doctrine in its time, that promised

     Salvation for the world. He took no thought

     For life or for to-morrow, or for health,

     Slept with his windows closed, ate what he wished.

     And if he cut his finger, let it go.

     I offered him peroxide once, he laughed.

     And when I asked him if his soul was saved

     He only said: "I see things. I lie back

     And take it easy. Nothing can go wrong

     In any serious sense."

                             So many thought

     Hosea was a nut, and others thought,

     That I was just a nut for liking him.

     And what would any man of business say

     If he knew that I didn't ask a question,

     But simply went with him to take the train

     That day he asked me.

                             And the train had gone

     Five miles or so when I said: "Where you going?"

     Hosea answered, and it made me start—

     Hosea answered simply, "We are going

     To see Sir Galahad."

                             It made me start

     To hear Hosea say this, for I thought

     He was now really off. But, I looked at him

     And saw his eyes were sane.

                             "Sir Galahad?

     Who is Sir Galahad?"

                             Hosea answered:

     "I'm going up to see Sir Galahad,

     And sound him out about re-entering

     The game and run for governor again."

     So then I knew he was the man our fathers

     Worked with and knew and called Sir Galahad,

     Now in retirement fifteen years or so.

     Well, I was twenty-five when he was famous.

     Sir Galahad was forty then, and now

     Must be some fifty-five while I am forty.

     So flashed across my thought the matter of time

     And ages. So I thought of all he did:

     Of how he went from faith to faith in politics

     And ran for every office up to governor,

     And ran for governor four times or so,

     And never was elected to an office.

     He drew more bills to remedy injustice,

     Improve the courts, relieve the poor, reform

     Administration, than the legislature

     Could read, much less digest or understand.

     The people beat him and the leaders flogged him.

     They shut the door against his face until

     He had no place to go except a farm

     Among the stony hills, and there he went.

     And thither we were going to see the knight,

     And call him from his solitude to the fight

     Against injustice, greed.

                               So we got off

     The train at Alden, just a little village

     Of fifty houses lying beneath the sprawl

     Of hills and hills. And here there was a stillness

     Made lonelier by an anvil ringing, by

     A plow-man's voice at intervals.

                                Here Hosea

     Engaged a horse and buggy, and we drove

     And wound about a crooked road between

     Great hills that stood together like the backs

     Of elephants in a herd, where boulders lay

     As thick as hail in places. Ruined pines

     Stood like burnt matches. There was one which stuck

     Against a single cloud so white it seemed

     A bursted bale of cotton.

                                We reached the summit

     And drove along past orchards, past a field

     Level and green, kept like a garden, rich

     Against the coming harvest. Here we met

     A scarecrow man, driving a scarecrow horse

     Hitched to a wobbly wagon. And we stopped,

     The scarecrow stopped. The scarecrow and Hosea

     Talked much of people and of farming—I

     Sat listening, and I gathered from the talk,

     And what Hosea told me as we drove,

     That once this field so level and so green

     The scarecrow owned. He had cleaned out the stumps,

     And tried to farm it, failed, and lost the field,

     But raged to lose it, thought he might succeed

     In further time. Now having lost the field

     So many years ago, could be a scarecrow,

     And drive a scarecrow horse, yet laugh again

     And have no care, the sorrow healed.

                                           It seemed

     The clearing of the stumps was scarce a starter

     Toward a field of profit. For in truth,

     The soil possessed a secret which the scarecrow

     Never went deep enough to learn about.

     His problem was all stumps. Not solving that,

     He sold it to a farmer who out-slaved

     The busiest bee, but only half succeeded.

     He tried to raise potatoes, made a failure.

     He planted it in beans, had half a crop.

     He sowed wheat once and reaped a stack of straw.

     The secret of the soil eluded him.

     And here Hosea laughed: "This fellow's failure

     Was just the thing that gave another man

     The secret of the soil. For he had studied

     The properties of soils and fertilizers.

     And when he heard the field had failed to raise

     Potatoes, beans and wheat, he simply said:

     There are other things to raise: the question is

     Whether the soil is suited to the things

     He tried to raise, or whether it needs building

     To raise the things he tried to raise, or whether

     It must be builded up for anything.

     At least he said the field is clear of stumps.

     Pass on your field, he said. If I lose out

     I'll pass it on. The field is his, he said

     Who can make something grow.

                                 And so this field

     Of waving wheat along which we were driving

     Was just the very field the scarecrow man

     Had failed to master, as that other man

     Had failed to master after him.

                                         Hosea

     Kept talking of this field as we drove on.

     That field, he said, is economical

     Of men compared with many fields. You see

     It only used two men. To grub the stumps

     Took all the scarecrow's strength. That other man

     Ran off to Oklahoma from this field.

     I have known fields that ate a dozen men

     In country such as this. The field remains

     And laughs and waits for some one who divines

     The secret of the field. Some farmers live

     To prove what can't be done, and narrow down

     The guess of what is possible. It's right

     A certain crop should prosper and another

     Should fail, and when a farmer tries to raise

     A crop before it's time, he wastes himself

     And wastes the field to try.

                                 We now were climbing

     To higher hills and rockier fields. Hosea

     Had fallen into silence. I was thinking

     About Sir Galahad, was wondering

     Which man he was, the scarecrow, or the farmer

     Who didn't know the seed to sow, or whether

     He might still prove the farmer raising wheat,

     Now we were come to give him back the field

     With all the stumps grubbed out, the secret lying

     Revealed and ready for the appointed hands.

     We passed an orchard growing on a knoll

     And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill,

     And near the barn a house. Hosea said:

     "This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse.

     And we were in the silence of the country

     At mid-day on a day in June. No bird

     Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing,

     No dog was barking. All was summer stillness.

     We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well,

     Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips,

     Walked in a path along the house. I said:

     "Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps

     Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed

     Too bad to come so far and not to find him.

     "We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit

     Under that tree and wait for him."

                                        And then

     We turned the corner of the house and there

     Under a tree an old man sat, his head

     Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep.

     And by his feet a dog half blind and fat

     Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark.

     Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said.

     "Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said I.

     And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me,

     I had forgotten, you too have forgotten.

     The man is old, he's very old. The years

     Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad

     Should sleep and not be waked."

                                 We tip-toed off

     And hurried back to Alden for the train.

ST. DESERET

     You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips

     Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette.

     Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch,

     And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice.

     But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds

     Your vision not at all, and you have passion

     For me and what I am. How can you be so?

     Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours,

     Bury your face in these my russet tresses,

     And yet not lose your vision? So I love you,

     And fear you too. How idle to deny it

     To you who know I fear you.

                                  Here am I

     Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask.

     You stride about my rooms and open books,

     And say when did he give you this? You pick

     His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl

     Out of ironic strength, and smile the while:

     "You did not love this man." You probe my soul

     About his courtship, how I ran away,

     How he pursued with gifts from city to city,

     Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood

     Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard,

     Watchful and waiting at the green-room door.

     So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks,

     One little question at a time, you've inked

     The story in my flesh. And now at last

     You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true.

     But what a death he had! Envy him that.

     Your frigid soul can never win the death

     I gave him.

                      Listen since you know already

     All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh!

     You know these too? Well, only I can tell them.

     First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man

     So love a woman, see a living thing

     So love another. Why he could not touch

     My hand but that his heart went up ten beats.

     His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath

     Come short when speaking. When he felt my breast

     Crush soft around him he would reel and walk

     Away from me, while I stood like a snake

     Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed

     As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly,

     And pet and pat me like a favored child,

     And let me go my way, while you turn back

     To what you left for me.

                                        Not so with him:

     I was all through his blood, had made his flesh

     My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last,

     Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own.

     So that he lived two lives, his own and mine,

     With one poor body, which he gave to me.

     Save that he could not give what I pushed back

     Into his hands to use for me and live

     My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with.

     I loved all this and thrived upon it, still

     I did not love him. Then why marry him?

     Why don't you see? It meant so much to him.

     And 'twas a little thing for me to do.

     His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion

     That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath,

     His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters,

     His failing health, why even woman's cruelty

     Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty

     Takes other means for finding its expression.

     And mine found its expression—you have guessed

     And so I tell you all.

                                  We were married then.

     He made a sacrament of our nuptials,

     Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips

     Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast

     And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me

     As man takes his possession, nature's way,

     In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came

     A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered:

     "What angel child may lie upon the breast

     Of this it's angel mother."

                                         Well, you see

     The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him,

     Who made so much of what I had to give,

     And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture

     To give or to withhold. And in that moment

     Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious

     Lying diffused like dew around my heart

     Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup

     To one bright drop of vital power, where

     He could not see it, scarcely knew that something

     Gradually drugged the potion that he drank

     In life with me.

                           So we were wed a year,

     And he was with me hourly, till at last

     I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe

     No where but where I was. Then the bazaar

     Was coming on where I was to dance, and he

     Had long postponed a trip to England where

     Great interests waited for him, and with kisses

     I pushed him to his duty, and he went

     Shame stricken for a duty long postponed,

     Unable to retort against my words

     When I said "You must go;" for well he knew

     He should have gone before. And as for going

     I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel,

     And got him off, and freed myself to breathe.

     His life had been too fast, his years too many

     To stand the strain that came. There was the worry

     About the business, and the labor over it.

     There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil

     In London for the war. But most of all

     There was the separation. And his letters!

     You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were

     Of aching loneliness and pining love

     And hope that lives across three thousand miles,

     And waits the day to travel them, and fear

     Of something which may bar the way forever:

     A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day

     Without a letter or a cablegram.

     And look at the endearments—oh you fiend

     To pick their words to pieces like a botanist

     Who cuts a flower up for his microscope.

     And oh myself who let you see these letters.

     Why did I do it? Rather why is it

     You master me, even as I mastered him?

     At last he finished, got his passage back.

     He had been gone three months. And all these letters

     Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait

     To take me in his arms again, would choke

     With fast and heavy feeding.

                                                Well, you see

     The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused

     Like dew around my heart, and which at once

     Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup

     Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger,

     This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling.

     And all the while it seemed he thought his love

     Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled,

     And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs.

     This is not love which should be, has no use

     In this or any world. And as for me

     I could not stand it longer. And I thought

     Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best

     To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate

     In rapture's own excess.

                                          Then he arrived.

     I went to meet him in the car, pretended

     The feed pipe broke while I was on the way.

     I was not at the station when he came.

     I got back to the house and found him gone.

     He had run through the rooms calling my name,

     So Mary told me. Then he went around

     From place to place, wherever in the village

     He thought to find me.

                                         Soon I heard his steps,

     The key in the door, his winded breath, his call,

     His running, stumbling up the stairs, while I

     Stood silent as a shadow in our room,

     My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light

     His life was feeding them. And then he stood

     Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood

     Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me

     And broke into loud tears.

                                           It had to end.

     One or the other of us had to die.

     I could not die but by a violence,

     And he could die by love alone, and love

     I gave him to his death.

                                        Why tell you details

     And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped

     The energies of love? You have extracted

     The secret in the main, that 'twas from love

     He came to death. His life had been too fast,

     His years too many for the daily rapture

     I gave him after three months' separation.

     And so he died one morning, made me free

     Of nothing but his presence in the flesh.

     His love is on me yet, and its effect.

     And now you're here to slave me differently—

     No soul is ever free.

HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR

     Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain,

     Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold.

     And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold

     The guarded heart against excess of rain.

     Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays

     With paints and clays,

     And strings in many keys—

     Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood

     Of sun-shine where there is no breeze.

     So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood,

     Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite—

     Wind cannot dim or agitate the light.

     From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought

     From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair,

     Eyes, lips and hands and voice,

     As if the stored up thought

     From the earth sphere

     Had given down the being of your choice

     Conjured by the dream long sought.

     For you have moved in madness, rapture, wrath

     In and out of the path

     Drawn by the dream of a face.

     You have been watched, as star-men watch a star

     That leaves its way, returns and leaves its way,

     Until the exploring watchers find, can trace

     A hidden star beyond their sight, whose sway

     Draws the erratic star so long observed—

     So have you wandered, swerved.

     Always pursued and lost,

     Sometimes half found, half-faced,

     Such years we waste

     With the almost:

     The lips flower pressed like buds to hold

     Guarded the heart of the flower,

     But over them eyes not hued as the Dream foretold.

     Or to find the lips too rich and the dower

     Of eyes all gaiety

     Where wisdom scarce can be.

     Or to find the eyes, but to find offence

     In fingers where the sense

     Falters with colors, strings,

     Not touching with closed eyes, out of an immanence

     Of flame and wings.

     Or to find the light, but to find it set behind

     An eye which is not your dream, nor the shadow thereof,

     As it were your lamp in a stranger's window.

     And so almost to find

     In the great weariness of love.

     Now this is the tragedy:

     If the Idea did not move

     Somewhere in the realm of Love,

     Clothing itself in flesh at last for you to see,

     You could scarcely follow the gleam.

     And the tragedy is when Life has made you over,

     And denied you, and dulled your dream,

     And you no longer count the cost,

     Nor the past lament,

     You are sitting oblivious of your discontent

     Beside the Almost—

     And then the face appears

     Evoked from the Idea by your dead desire,

     And blinds and burns you like fire.

     And you sit there without tears,

     Though thinking it has come to kill you, or mock your youth

     With its half of the truth.

     A beach as yellow as gold

     Daisied with tents for a lovely mile.

     And a sea that edges and walls the sand with blue,

     Matching the heaven without a seam,

     Save for the threads of foam that hold

     With stitches the canopy rare as the tile

     Of old Damascus. And O the wind

     Which roars to the roaring water brightened

     By the beating wings of the sun!

     And here I walk, not seeking the Dream,

     As men walk absent of heart or mind

     Who have no wish for a sorrow lightened

     Since all things now seem lost or won.

     And here it is that your face appears!

     Like a star brushed out from leaves by a breeze

     When day's in the sky, though evening nears.

     You are here by a tent with your little brood,

     And I approach in a quiet mood

     And see you, know that the Destinies

     Have surrendered you at last.

     Voice, lips and hands and the light of the eyes.

     And I who have asked so much discover

     That you find in me the man and lover

     You have divined and visualized,

     In quiet day dreams. And what is strange

     Your boy of eight is subtly guised

     In fleeting looks that half resemble

     Something in me. Two souls may range

     Mid this earth's billion souls for life,

     And hide their hunger or dissemble.

     For there are two at least created,

     Endowed with alien powers that draw,

     And kindred powers that by some law

     Bind souls as like as sister, brother.

     There are two at least who are for each other.

     If we are such, it is not fated

     You are for him, howe'er belated

     The time's for us.

     And yet is not the time gone by?

     Your garden has been planted, dear.

     And mine with weeds is over-grown.

     Oh yes! 'tis only late July!

     We can replant, ere frosts appear,

     Gather the blossoms we have sown.

     And I have preached that hearts should seize

     The hour that brings realities. ...

     Yes, I admit it all, we crush

     Under our feet the world's contempt.

     But when I raise the cup, it's blush

     Reveals the snake's eyes, there's a hush

     While a hand writes upon the wall:

     Life cannot be re-made, exempt

     From life that has been, something's gone

     Out of the soil, in life updrawn

     To growths that vine, and tangle, crawl,

     Withered in part, or gone to seed.

     'Tis not the same, though you have freed

     The soil from what was grown. ...

     Heaven is but the hour

     Of the planting of the flower.

     But heaven is the blossom to be,

     Of the one Reality.

     And heaven cannot undo the once sown ground.

     But heaven is love in the pursuing,

     And in the memory of having found. ...

     The rocks in the river make light and sound

     And show that the waters search and move.

     And what is time but an infinite whole

     Revealed by the breaks in thought, desire?

     To put it away is to know one's soul.

     Love is music unheard and fire

     Too rare for eyes; between hurt beats

     The heart detects it, sees how pure

     Its essence is, through heart defeats.—

     You are the silence making sure

     The sound with which it has to cope,

     My sorrow and as well my hope.

VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART

     You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue,

     Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh,

     Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset,

     Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare,

     I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts.

     Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be.

     I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me.

     I love this woman, but what is love to you?

     What is it to your laws or courts? I love her.

     She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room—

     She stood before me naked, shrank a little,

     Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry

     When she saw amiable passion in my eyes—

     She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes

     More in those moments than whole hours of talk

     From witness stands exculpate could make clear

     My innocence.

                           But if I did a crime

     My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life.

     Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love

     Are walled in and locked up like coal or food

     And only may be had by purchasers

     From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold.

     Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste,

     While power and freedom skulk with famished lips

     Too tightly pressed for curses.

                                          So do men,

     Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves

     And live in meagreness to make sure a life

     Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale;

     And live in ways, companionships as fixed

     As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock.

     You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires,

     Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war?

     Then let men live. The moral equivalent

     Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice—

     Religion is not life, but life is living.

     And painted cherries to the hungry thrush

     Is art to life. The artist lived his work.

     You cannot live his life who love his work.

     You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries

     Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths,

     The story's coming of her nakedness

     Be patient for a time.

                                     All this I learned

     While painting pictures no one ever bought,

     Till hunger drove me to this servile work

     As butler in her father's house, with time

     On certain days to walk the galleries

     And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw

     I was not living while I painted pictures.

     I was not living working for a crust,

     I was not living walking galleries:

     All this was but vicarious life which felt

     Through gazing at the thing the artist made,

     In memory of the life he lived himself:

     As we preserve the fragrance of a flower

     By drawing off its essence in a bottle,

     Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away

     To get the inner passion of the flower

     Extracted to a bottle that a queen

     May act the flower's part.

                                      Say what you will,

     Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits,

     Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches

     Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite,

     You call the State, has fashioned life aright—

     The secret is abroad, from eye to eye

     The secret passes from poor eyes that wink

     In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength

     Roped down or barred, that what the human heart

     Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame

     Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out,

     Is love for body and for spirit, love

     To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it,

     This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow

     Where spirits are left free a little while

     Within a little space, so long as strength,

     Flesh, blood increases to the day of use

     As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast,

     Society may feed himself and keep

     His olden shape and power?

                                        Fools go crop

     The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself

     For what you want, and count it righteousness,

     No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing,

     Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls

     Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries,

     Inhaling from a bottle what was lived

     These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny

     That what we men desire are horses, dogs,

     Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change,

     Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change,

     And re-adjusted order.

                                       As I turned

     From painting and from art, yet found myself

     Full of all lusts while bound to menial work

     Where my eyes daily rested on this woman

     A thought came to me like a little spark

     One sees far down the darkness of a cave,

     Which grows into a flame, a blinding light

     As one approaches it, so did this thought

     Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman,

     I wanted her, why should I lose this woman?

     What was there to oppose possession? Will?

     Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then

     Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will

     Deserves achievement? Which has rights above

     The other? I desire her, her desire

     Is not toward me, which of these two desires

     Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers

     For her, at least the stronger must prevail,

     And wreck itself or bend all else before it.

     That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain

     To overwhelm her will with gold, and I

     With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it,

     And what's the difference?

                                       But as I said

     I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard

     Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came

     And gazed upon me from her window. I

     Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes.

     Then in a concentration which was blindness

     To all else, so bewilderment of mind,

     I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope

     Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back

     The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness.

     There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr

     Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele,

     Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning

     Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames

     Consumed her ravished beauty.

                                        So I looked,

     And trembled, then returned perhaps to find

     Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate,

     And radiate with lashes of surprise,

     Delight as when a star is still but shines.

     And on this night somehow our natures worked

     To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner

     To show more back and bosom than before.

     And as I served her, her down-looking eyes

     Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin.

     Before I could begin to bend she leaned

     And let me see—oh yes, she let me see

     The white foam of her little breasts caressing

     The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore

     Of bright carnations. It was from such foam

     That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave

     The napkin to her she pushed out a foot,

     And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she

     Concealed a smile—and you, you jailers laugh

     Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger.

                                            I go on,

     Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps!

     At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir.

     I finding errands in the hallway hear

     The desultory taking up of books,

     And through her open door, see her at last

     Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath

     Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps

     The light on where the onyx tub and walls

     Dazzle the air. I enter then her room

     And stand against the closed door, do not pry

     Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance

     To fly me, fight me standing face to face.

     I hear her flounder in the water, hear

     Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms;

     Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness

     Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute

     She stands with back toward me in the doorway,

     A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair

     Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold.

     She turned toward her dresser then and shook

     White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked

     So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts,

     Touching them under with soft tapering hands

     To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame

     Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these,

     The thought ran through me, for her joy alone

     And not for mine?

                        So I stood there like Zeus

     Coming in thunder to Semele, like

     The diety of Watteau. Correggio

     Had never painted me a satyr there

     Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful,

     My will subdued in worship of her beauty

     To obey her will.

                       And then she turned and saw me,

     And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried

     To hide it from me, faced me immovable

     A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips.

     And let me plead my cause, make known my love,

     Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile.

     Let me approach her till I almost touched

     The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed

     That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped

     Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid—

     Oh no, it cannot be—what would they say?"

     Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed

     The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go—you beast."

     My dream went up like paper charred and whirled

     Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone

     Amid her room and saw my life, our life

     Embodied in this woman lately there

     Lying and cowardly. And as I turned

     To leave the room, her father and the gardener

     Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs

     And turned me over, stunned, to you the law

     Here with these others who have stolen coal

     To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty

     To keep from freezing in this arid country

     Of winter winds on which the dust of custom

     Rides like a fog.

                       Now do your worst to me!

THE LANDSCAPE

     You and your landscape! There it lies

     Stripped, resuming its disguise,

     Clothed in dreams, made bare again,

     Symbol infinite of pain,

     Rapture, magic, mystery

     Of vanished days and days to be.

     There's its sea of tidal grass

     Over which the south winds pass,

     And the sun-set's Tuscan gold

     Which the distant windows hold

     For an instant like a sphere

     Bursting ere it disappear.

     There's the dark green woods which throve

     In the spell of Leese's Grove.

     And the winding of the road;

     And the hill o'er which the sky

     Stretched its pallied vacancy

     Ere the dawn or evening glowed.

     And the wonder of the town

     Somewhere from the hill-top down

     Nestling under hills and woods

     And the meadow's solitudes.

     And your paper knight of old

     Secrets of the landscape told.

     And the hedge-rows where the pond

     Took the blue of heavens beyond

     The hastening clouds of gusty March.

     There you saw their wrinkled arch

     Where the East wind cracks his whips

     Round the little pond and clips

     Main-sails from your toppled ships. ...

     Landscape that in youth you knew

     Past and present, earth and you!

     All the legends and the tales

     Of the uplands, of the vales;

     Sounds of cattle and the cries

     Of ploughmen and of travelers

     Were its soul's interpreters.

     And here the lame were always lame.

     Always gray the gray of head.

     And the dead were always dead

     Ere the landscape had become

     Your cradle, as it was their tomb.

     And when the thunder storms would waken

     Of the dream your soul was not forsaken:

     In the room where the dormer windows look—

     There were your knight and the tattered book.

     With colors of the forest green

     Gabled roofs and the demesne

     Of faery kingdoms and faery time

     Storied in pre-natal rhyme. ...

     Past the orchards, in the plain

     The cattle fed on in the rain.

     And the storm-beaten horseman sped

     Rain blinded and with bended head.

     And John the ploughman comes and goes

     In labor wet, with steaming clothes.

     This is your landscape, but you see

     Not terror and not destiny

     Behind its loved, maternal face,

     Its power to change, or fade, replace

     Its wonder with a deeper dream,

     Unfolding to a vaster theme.

     From time eternal was this earth?

     No less this landscape with your birth

     Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay

     Finds till the twilight of your day.

     It bore you, moulds you to its plan.

     It ends with you as it began,

     But bears the seed of future years

     Of higher raptures, dumber tears.

     For soon you lose the landscape through

     Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true

     To the naked limbs which show

     Buds that never more may blow.

     Now you know the lame were straight

     Ere you knew them, and the fate

     Of the old is yet to die.

     Now you know the dead who lie

     In the graves you saw where first

     The landscape on your vision burst,

     Were not always dead, and now

     Shadows rest upon the brow

     Of the souls as young as you.

     Some are gone, though years are few

     Since you roamed with them the hills.

     So the landscape changes, wills

     All the changes, did it try

     Its promises to justify?...

     For you return and find it bare:

     There is no heaven of golden air.

     Your eyes around the horizon rove,

     A clump of trees is Leese's Grove.

     And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond?

     A wallow where the vagabond

     Beast will not drink, and where the arch

     Of heaven in the days of March

     Refrains to look. A blinding rain

     Beats the once gilded window pane.

     John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread

     Tempts other feet that path to tread

     Between the barn and house, and brave

     The March rain and the winds that rave. ...

     O, landscape I am one who stands

     Returned with pale and broken hands

     Glad for the day that I have known,

     And finds the deserted doorway strown

     With shoulder blade and spinal bone.

     And you who nourished me and bred

     I find the spirit from you fled.

     You gave me dreams,'twas at your breast

     My soul's beginning rose and pressed

     My steps afar at last and shaped

     A world elusive, which escaped

     Whatever love or thought could find

     Beyond the tireless wings of mind.

     Yet grown by you, and feeding on

     Your strength as mother, you are gone

     When I return from living, trace

     My steps to see how I began,

     And deeply search your mother face

     To know your inner self, the place

     For which you bore me, sent me forth

     To wander, south or east or north. ...

     Now the familiar landscape lies

     With breathless breast and hollow eyes.

     It knows me not, as I know not

     Its secret, spirit, all forgot

     Its kindred look is, as I stand

     A stranger in an unknown land.

     Are we not earth-born, formed of dust

     Which seeks again its love and trust

     In an old landscape, after change

     In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange?

     What though we struggled to emerge

     Dividual, footed for the urge

     Of further self-discoveries, though

     In the mid-years we cease to know,

     Through disenchanted eyes, the spell

     That clothed it like a miracle—

     Yet at the last our steps return

     Its deeper mysteries to learn.

     It has been always us, it must

     Clasp to itself our kindred dust.

     We cannot free ourselves from it.

     Near or afar we must submit

     To what is in us, what was grown

     Out of the landscape's soil, the known

     And unknown powers of soil and soul.

     As bodies yield to the control

     Of the earth's center, and so bend

     In age, so hearts toward the end

     Bend down with lips so long athirst

     To waters which were known at first—

     The little spring at Leese's Grove

     Was your first love, is your last love!

     When those we knew in youth have crept

     Under the landscape, which has kept

     Nothing we saw with youthful eyes;

     Ere God is formed in the empty skies,

     I wonder not our steps are pressed

     Toward the mystery of their rest.

     That is the hope at bud which kneels

     Where ancestors the tomb conceals.

     Age no less than youth would lean

     Upon some love. For what is seen

     No more of father, mother, friend,

     For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind

     In death, a something which assures,

     Comforts, allays our fears, endures.

     Just as the landscape and our home

     In childhood made of heaven's dome,

     And all the farthest ways of earth

     A place as sheltered as the hearth.

     Is it not written at the last day

     Heaven and earth shall roll away?

     Yes, as my landscape passed through death,

     Lay like a corpse, and with new breath

     Became instinct with fire and light—

     So shall it roll up in my sight,

     Pass from the realm of finite sense,

     Become a thing of spirit, whence

     I shall pass too, its child in faith

     Of dreams it gave me, which nor death

     Nor change can wreck, but still reveal

     In change a Something vast, more real

     Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees,

     Or even faery presences.

     A Something which the earth and air

     Transmutes but keeps them what they were;

     Clear films of beauty grown more thin

     As we approach and enter in.

     Until we reach the scene that made

     Our landscape just a thing of shade.

TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY

     Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows,

     So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow

     I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye,

     To-morrow lacks two days of being a month—

     Here is a secret—since I made my will.

     Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it?

     That I should make a will! Yet it may be

     That then and jump at this most crescent hour

     Heaven inspired the deed.

                                            As a mad younker

     I knew an aged man in Warwickshire

     Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness

     Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts.

     If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall,

     With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain

     And with doleful suspiration kept

     This habit of his grief. And on a time

     As he stood looking at the flying clouds,

     I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it,

     Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,'

     Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off

     And left me empty there.

                                          Now here am I!

     Oh, it is strange to find myself this age,

     And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled,

     And, like this aged man of Warwickshire,

     Slaved by a mood which must have breath—"Tra-la!

     That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me."

     For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la"

     The moment I break sleep to see the day.

     At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad

     I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table

     I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne

     Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la'

     Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?"

     Then I bethought me of that aged man

     Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered:

     "Perhaps I am so happy when awake

     The song crops out in slumber—who can say?"

     And Anne arose, began to keel the pot,

     But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman?

     To-morrow is my birthday. If I die,

     Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide,

     What soul would interdict the poppied way?

     Heroes may look the Monster down, a child

     Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see

     Such bland unreckoning of his strength—but I,

     Having so greatly lived, would sink away

     Unknowing my departure. I have died

     A thousand times, and with a valiant soul

     Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death

     To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean.

     But in this death that has no bottom to it,

     No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul

     Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink

     From that inane which gulfs us, without place

     For us to stand and see it.

                                      Yet, dear Ben,

     This thing must be; that's what we live to know

     Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it.

     As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens

     Spout learnedly of war, who never saw

     A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day,

     Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile,

     And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast

     They cart you off. What matter if your thought

     Outsoared the Phoenix? Like a beast you rot.

     Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we

     Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow,

     To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow

     Creeps in this petty pace—O, Michael Drayton,

     Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing

     And weariness of going on we lie

     Upon these thorns!

                          These several springs I find

     No new birth in the Spring. And yet in London

     I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford;

     It's April and the larks are singing now.

     The flags are green along the Avon river;

     O, would I were a rambler in the fields.

     This poor machine is racing to its wreck.

     This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow

     Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. Come

     Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits

     Some woman there who will make new the earth,

     And crown the spring with fire."

                                      So back I come.

     And the springs march before me, say, "Behold

     Here are we, and what would you, can you use us?

     What good is air if lungs are out, or springs

     When the mind's flown so far away no spring,

     Nor loveliness of earth can call it back?

     I tell you what it is: in early youth

     The life is in the loins; by thirty years

     It travels through the stomach to the lungs,

     And then we strut and crow. By forty years

     The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh.

     By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot.

     At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty

     The life is in the seed—what's spring to you?

     Puff! Puff! You are so winged and light you fly.

     For every passing zephyr, are blown off,

     And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la,"

     "Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you.

     Puff! Puff! away you go!

                                          Another drink?

     Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I

     Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink

     The better I see that this is April time. ...

     Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything:

     "Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed.

     And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye

     And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens

     Of spring or June show life within the loins,

     And all the world is fair, for now the plant

     Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven

     Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom

     Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup

     And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk

     The stalk to penury, then slumber comes

     With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned germ,

     An old life and a new life all in one,

     A thing of memory and of prophecy,

     Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear.

     What has been ours is taken, what was ours

     Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring,

     Fees in possession and enjoyment too. ...

     The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives

     And dies in us, makes April and unmakes,

     And leaves a man like me at fifty-two,

     Finished but living, on the pinnacle

     Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed

     And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances

     Would shape again to something better—what?

     Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick

     Out of this April, by this larger art

     Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard,

     Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds

     Of that eternity which comes in sleep,

     Or in the viewless spinning of the soul

     When most intense. The woman is somewhere,

     And that's what tortures, when I think this field

     So often gleaned could blossom once again

     If I could find her.

                                Well, as to my plays:

     I have not written out what I would write.

     They have a thousand buds of finer flowering.

     And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit

     As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh.

     Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings

     Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl

     And would break through and enter. But, fair friends,

     What strength in place of sex shall steady me?

     What is the motive of this higher mount?

     What process in the making of myself—

     The very fire, as it were, of my growth—

     Shall furnish forth these writings by the way,

     As incident, expression of the nature

     Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves?...

     Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this,

     Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme,

     And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best

     Is just another delving in the mine

     That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets?

     If you have genius, write my tragedy,

     And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford,"

     Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls,

     And had to live without it, yet live with it

     As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived.

     Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare,

     This moment growing drunk, the famous author

     Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays,

     With this machine too much to him, which started

     Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs

     Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall,

     You shake me down, my timbers break apart.

     Why, if an engine must go on like this

     The building should be stronger."

                                       Or to mix,

     And by the mixing, unmix metaphors,

     No mortal man has blood enough for brains

     And stomach too, when the brain is never done

     With thinking and creating.

                                      For you see,

     I pluck a flower, cut off a dragon's head—

     Choose twixt these figures—lo, a dozen buds,

     A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy,

     Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out

     With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others

     Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn

     Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world.

     And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest,

     As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly

     To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees,

     Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours

     In common talk with people like the Combes.

     All this to get a heartiness, a hold

     On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules,

     Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels

     Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff

     And bear me off or strangle.

                                  Good, my friends,

     The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice

     That calls me to performance—what I know not.

     I've planned an epic of the Asian wash

     Which slopped the star of Athens and put out,

     Which should all history analyze, and present

     A thousand notables in the guise of life,

     And show the ancient world and worlds to come

     To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed

     Of growth to be. With visions such as these

     My spirit turns in restless ecstacy,

     And this enslaved brain is master sponge,

     And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet.

     While my poor spirit, like a butterfly

     Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings,

     And cannot rise.

                         I'm cold, both hands and feet.

     These three days past I have been cold, this hour

     I am warm in three days. God bless the ale.

     God did do well to give us anodynes. ...

     So now you know why I am much alone,

     And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips,

     John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell,

     And do not have them here, dear ancient friends,

     Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love.

     Love is not love which alters when it finds

     A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only

     I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme:

     I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch

     Of hands of flesh.

                        I am most passionate,

     And long am used perplexities of love

     To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder,

     Seeing what I am, what my fate has been?

     Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I,

     A crater which erupts, look where she stands

     In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am,

     As years go, but I am a youth afire

     While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury

     Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out

     For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy!

     I want them not, I want the love which springs

     Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body

     Is piled in reckless generosity. ...

     You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know,

     And think me nature's child, scarce understand

     How much of physic, law, and ancient annals

     I have stored up by means of studious zeal.

     But pass this by, and for the braggart breath

     Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups,

     Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated,

     Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth.

     Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman,

     According to the phrase or the addition

     Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare

     At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April,

     Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry—

     Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?—

     Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it:

     I believe and say it as I would lightly speak

     Of the most common thing to sense, outside

     Myself to touch or analyze, this mind

     Which has been used by Something, as I use

     A quill for writing, never in this world

     In the most high and palmy days of Greece,

     Or in this roaring age, has known its peer.

     No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed,

     Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails

     Of passions curious, countless lives explored

     As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin,

     The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this?

     Since I know them by what I am, the essence

     From which their utterance came, myself a flower

     Of every graft and being in myself

     The recapitulation and the complex

     Of all the great. Were not brains before books?

     And even geometries in some brain

     Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson,

     If I am nature's child am I not all?

     Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale,

     And say that reason in me was a fume.

     But if you honor me, as you have said,

     As much as any, this side idolatry,

     Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be

     In your regard, have come to fifty-two,

     Defeated in my love, who knew too well

     That poets through the love of women turn

     To satyrs or to gods, even as women

     By the first touch of passion bloom or rot

     As angels or as bawds.

                                Bethink you also

     How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process

     Working in man's soul from the woman soul

     As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh,

     Even as a malady may be, while this thing

     Is health and growth, and growing draws all life,

     All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment.

     Till it become a vision paradisic,

     And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost

     Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ...

     This I have know, but had not. Nor have I

     Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used

     Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven

     Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay

     What grew within me, while I saw the blood

     Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child

     Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel

     With my own blood stained.

                                As a virgin shamed

     By the swelling life unlicensed needles it,

     But empties not her womb of some last shred

     Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body,

     And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep,

     And weakness to the last of life, so I

     For some shame not unlike, some need of life

     To rid me of this life I had conceived

     Did up and choke it too, and thence begot

     A fever and a fixed debility

     For killing that begot.

                                  Now you see that I

     Have not grown from a central dream, but grown

     Despite a wound, and over the wound and used

     My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever

     Which longed for that which nursed the malady,

     And fed on that which still preserved the ill,

     The uncertain, sickly appetite to please.

     My reason, the physician to my love,

     Angry that his prescriptions are not kept

     Has left me. And as reason is past care

     I am past cure, with ever more unrest

     Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are,

     And my discourse at random from the truth,

     Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair

     And thought her bright, who is as black as hell

     And dark as night.

                         But list, good gentlemen,

     This love I speak of is not as a cloak

     Which one may put away to wear a coat,

     And doff that for a jacket, like the loves

     We men are wont to have as loves or wives.

     She is the very one, the soul of souls,

     And when you put her on you put on light,

     Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire,

     Which if you tear away you tear your life,

     And if you wear you fall to ashes. So

     'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine,

     That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost,

     And broken hope that we could find each other,

     And that mean more to me and less to her.

     'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me

     Without a sense of loss, without a tear,

     And make me fool and perjured for the oath

     That swore her fair and true. I feel myself

     As like a virgin who her body gives

     For love of one whose love she dreams is hers,

     But wakes to find herself a toy of blood,

     And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite

     For other conquests. For I gave myself,

     And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss

     Of myself never to myself restored.

     The urtication of this shame made plays

     And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds

     That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust,

     But, better, love.

                        To hell with punks and wenches,

     Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans,

     Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades.

     And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers,

     All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers,

     Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes.

     I think I have a fever—hell and furies!

     Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth.

     Ben, if I die before you, let me waste

     Richly and freely in the good brown earth,

     Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out.

     What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see

     What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets?

     Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil

     I take the veil and hide, and like great Cæsar

     Who drew his toga round him, I depart.

     Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever.

     After a little walk, and by your pardon,

     I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing,

     Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world,

     I pass you like an orange to a child:

     I can no more with you. Do what you will.

     What should my care be when I have no power

     To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me

     As little as I need you: go your way!

     Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth,

     But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars

     The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek

     And clap their gushing wounds—but I shall sleep,

     Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon

     Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators

     Shall fulmine over London or America

     Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters

     And cut each others' throats when reason fails—

     But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed

     The race of men till Time cries out "How long?"

     But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years.

     I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep—

     Let's walk and hear the lark.

SWEET CLOVER

     Only a few plants up—and not a blossom

     My clover didn't catch. What is the matter?

     Old John comes by. I show him my result.

     Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure,

     I wanted you to sow it. Now you see

     What comes of letting Hunter do your work.

     The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps,

     Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed

     Was sown.

                But John, who knows a clover field,

     Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil

     And studies them.

                       He says, Look at the roots!

     Hunter neglected to inoculate

     The seed, for clover seed must always have

     Clover bacteria to make it grow,

     And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover

     The roots are studded thick with tubercles,

     Like little warts, made by bacteria.

     And somehow these bacteria lay hold

     Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil,

     And make the plants grow, make them blossom too.

     When Hunter sowed this field he was not well:

     He should have hauled some top-soil to this field

     From some old clover field, or made a culture

     Of these bacteria and soaked the seed

     In it before he sowed it.

                               As I said,

     Hunter was sick when he was working here.

     And then he ran away to Indiana

     And left his wife and children. Now he's back.

     His cough was just as bad in Indiana

     As it is here. A cough is pretty hard

     To run away from. Wife and children too

     Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them

     Stays with a fellow and cannot be left.

     Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you.

     He's straightening out his little farm and making

     Provision for his family. Hunter's changed.

     He is a better man. It almost seems

     That Hunter's blossomed. ...

                                  I am sorry for him.

     The doctor says he has tuberculosis.

SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL

     To a western breeze

     A row of golden tulips is nodding.

     They flutter their golden wings

     In a sudden ecstasy and say:

     Something comes to us from beyond,

     Out of the sky, beyond the hill

     We give it to you.

     And I walk through rows of jonquils

     To a beloved door,

     Which you open.

     And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head

     Nodding to me, and saying:

     Something comes to me

     Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty—

     I give it to you.

     There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes,

     And the freshness of June iris in your hands,

     And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom.

     But your voice is the voice of the robin

     Singing at dawn amid new leaves.

     It is like sun-light on blue water

     Where the south-wind is on the water

     And the buds of the flags are green.

     It is like the wild bird of the sedges

     With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed

     Showering lyrics over the sun-light

     Between rhythmical pauses

     When his heart has stopped,

     Making light and water

     Into song.

     Let me hear your voice,

     And the voice of Eternal Beauty

     Through the music of your voice.

     Let me gather the iris of your hands.

     Against my face.

     And close my eyes with your eyes.

     Let me listen with you

     For the Voice.

FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE

     How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed

     In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told,

     Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you

     From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work,

     Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose,

     The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands,

     The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene.

     How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless,

     You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here

     Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you,

     And think of your work—how nothing could balk you

     Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned,

     Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh,

     Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear

     For your eighty-four years!

                                 And they say of you still

     You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn,

     And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always.

     Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived

     In your day and your place? It was never their due!

     Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be—

     A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes

     Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places.

     Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you.

     And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe—

     Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light?

     But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric.

     Did France bar her door? Geneva remained—good enough!

     Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know.

     Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing,

     You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path;

     You stand at your door and step by another to France—

     Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies

     Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman.

     And here you have printers to print what you write and a house

     For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin.

     O busy Voltaire, never resting. ...

     So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke,

     The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State,

     The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire:

     The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed

     To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil.

     It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter,

     A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast

     Was thrown on the handles.

                                    And yet to this day, O Voltaire,

     They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did

     Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun,

     And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light,

     And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it.

                                                           But listen

     The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still

     But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others,

     That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides.

     The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment

     To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French?

     Did you give up three years of your life

     To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas?

     Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well,

     Six lines in an article written in English are plenty

     To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture,

     Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them

     Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble,

     But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature,

     Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record

     Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting

     At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ...

     How well did you know that life to a genius, a god,

     Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes

     As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show:

     Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp.

     Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds.

     Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying.

     Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake

     Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs,

     Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships.

     You saw through and laughed at—you saw above all

     That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh.

     So you smiled till the lines of your mouth

     A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing

     To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me,

     I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing

     Through eighty-four years for realities—O let them pass,

     Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god?

     Front the ages with a smile!

POOR PIERROT

     Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes

     I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons.

     For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate?

     Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate?

     Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor?

     Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door?

     Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie

     Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye.

     I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep:

     The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep.

     They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife—

     When life fills full the soul then life kills life.

     I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune,

     Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon.

     And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee

     Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea.

MIRAGE OF THE DESERT

     Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door:

     Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through.

     There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds—

     But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue?

     And there's the harp on which great fingers play

     Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things;

     And there's a soul that wanders out when called

     By a voice afar from the answering strings.

     And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears,

     Till the vision, the mad music are wept away.

     One cannot have them and live, but if one die

     It might be better than living—who can say?

     Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know

     How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough?

     Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul—

     But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love!

DAHLIAS

     The mad wind is the warden,

     And the smiling dahlias nod

     To the dahlias across the garden,

     And the wastes of the golden rod.

     They never pray for pardon,

     Nor ask his way nor forego,

     Nor close their hearts nor harden

     Nor stay his hand, nor bestow

     Their hearts filched out of their bosoms,

     Nor plan for dahlias to be.

     For the wind blows over the garden

     And sets the dahlias free.

     They drift to the song of the warden,

     Heedless they give him heed.

     And he walks and blows through the garden

     Blossom and leaf and seed.

THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES

     Silvers and purples breathing in a sky

     Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger,

     Of the restrained but passionate July

     Upon the marshes of the river lie,

     Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly.

     A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend

     Under the flapping of the breeze's wing,

     Departing and revisiting

     The haunts of the river twisting without end.

     The torsions of the river make long miles

     Of the waters of the river which remain

     Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles

     Of water between the rushes, which restrain

     The bewildered currents in returning files,

     Twisting between the greens like a blue racer,

     Too hurt to leap with body or uplift

     Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift

     Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes

     The iron bridge's reticules

     Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons.

     But from the bridge, watching the little steamer

     Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville,

     The river loosened from the abandoned spools

     Of earth and heaven wanders without will,

     Between the rushes, like a silken streamer.

     And two old men who turn the bridge

     For passing boats sit in the sun all day,

     Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs,

     And smoke and talk of a glory passed away.

     And of the ruthless sacrilege

     Which mowed away the pines,

     And cast them in the current here as logs,

     To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver,

     Making for a little hour heroes and heroines,

     Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven,

     When the great saws sent screeches up and whines,

     And cries for more and more

     Slaughter of forests up and down the river

     And along the lake's shore.

     But all is quiet on the river now

     As when the snow lay windless in the wood,

     And the last Indian stood

     And looked to find the broken bough

     That told the path under the snow.

     All is as silent as the spiral lights

     Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise,

     Like the wings of swarming dragon flies,

     Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies

     Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights

     Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare

     Of dunes and purple air,

     There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies.

     The forests and the mills are gone!

     All is as silent as the voice I heard

     On a summer dawn

     When we two fished among the river reeds.

     As silent as the pain

     In a heart that feeds

     A sorrow, but does not complain.

     As silent as above the bridge in this July,

     Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky

     Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane:

     A man-bestridden dragon fly!

DELILAH

     Because thou wast most delicate,

     A woman fair for men to see,

     The earth did compass thy estate,

     Thou didst hold life and death in fee,

     And every soul did bend the knee.

     [Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by

     Delilah and the People by Samson.)]

     Much pleasure also made thee grieve

     For that the goblet had been drained.

     The well spiced viand thou didst leave

     To frown on want whose throat was strained,

     And violence whose hands were stained.

     The purple of thy royal cloak,

     Made the sea paler for its hue.

     Much people bent beneath the yoke

     To fetch thee jewels white and blue,

     And rings to pass thy gold hair through.

     Therefore, Delilah wast thou called,

     Because the choice wines nourished thee

     In Sorek, by the mountains walled

     Against the north wind's misery,

     Where flourished every pleasant tree.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth

     with divers lovers.)]

     Thy lovers also were as great

     In numbers as the sea sands were;

     Thou didst requite their love with hate;

     And give them up to massacre,

     Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah conceiveth the design of ensnaring Samson.)]

     At Gaza and at Ashkelon,

     The obscene Dagon worshipping,

     Thy face was fair to look upon.

     Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing,

     Was deadlier than the adder's sting.

     Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure

     The strong man Samson for my spouse,

     His death will make my ease secure.

     The god has heard this people's vows

     To recompense their injured house."

     Thereafter, when the giant lay

     Supinely rolled against thy feet,

     Him thou didst craftily betray,

     With amorous vexings, low and sweet,

     To tell thee that which was not meet.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah attempteth to discover the source of Samson's

     strength. Samson very neatly deceiveth her.)]

     And Samson spake to thee again;

     "With seven green withes I may be bound,

     So shall I be as other men."

     Whereat the lords the green withes found—

     The same about his limbs were bound.

     Then did the fish-god in thee cry:

     "The Philistines be upon thee now."

     But Samson broke the withes awry,

     As when a keen fire toucheth tow;

     So thou didst not the secret know.

     But thou, being full of guile, didst plead:

     "My lord, thou hast but mocked my love

     With lies who gave thy saying heed;

     Hast thou not vexed my heart enough,

     To ease me all the pain thereof?"

     Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes,

     The liers in wait did list, and then

     He said: "Go to, and get new ropes,

     Wherewith thou shalt bind me again,

     So shall I be as other men."

     [Sidenote: (Samson retaineth his intellect and the lustihood of his

     body and again misleadeth the subtle craft of Delilah.)]

     Then didst thou do as he had said,

     Whereat the fish-god in thee cried,

     "The Philistines be upon thy head,"

     He shook his shoulders deep and wide,

     And cast the ropes like thread aside.

     Yet thou still fast to thy conceit,

     Didst chide him softly then and say:

     "Beforetime thou hast shown deceit,

     And mocked my quest with idle play,

     Thou canst not now my wish gainsay."

     Then with the secret in his thought,

     He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair,

     The web withal, the deed is wrought;

     Thou shalt have all my strength in snare,

     And I as other men shall fare."

     Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove

     The web withal and fastened it,

     And then the pin thy treason drove,

     With laughter making all things fit,

     As did beseem thy cunning wit.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah still pursueth her designs and Samson beginning to

     be somewhat wearied hinteth very close to his secret.)]

     Then the god Dagon speaking by

     Thy delicate mouth made horrid din;

     "Lo the Philistine lords are nigh"—

     He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin,

     And took away the web and pin.

     Yet, saying not it doth suffice,

     Thou in the chamber's secrecy,

     Didst with thy artful words entice

     Samson to give his heart to thee,

     And tell thee where his strength might be.

     Pleading, "How canst thou still aver,

     I love thee, being yet unkind?

     How is it thou dost minister

     Unto my heart with treacherous mind,

     Thou art but cruelly inclined."

     From early morn to falling dusk,

     At night upon the curtained bed,

     Fragrant with spikenard and with musk,

     For weariness he laid his head,

     Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread.

     [Sidenote: (Samson being weakened by lust and overcome by Delilah's

     importunities and guile telleth her wherein his great strength

     consisteth.)]

     Nor wouldst not give him any rest,

     But vexed with various words his soul,

     Till death far more than life was blest,

     Shot through and through with heavy dole,

     He gave his strength to thy control.

     Saying, "I am a Nazarite,

     To God alway, nor hath there yet

     Razor or shears done despite

     To these my locks of coarsen jet,

     Therefore my strength hath known no let."

     "But, and if these be shaven close,

     Whereas I once was strong as ten,

     I may not meet my meanest foes

     Among the hated Philistine,

     I shall be weak like other men."

     He turned to sleep, the spell was done,

     Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow

     The secret of his strength is known;

     Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow,

     Bring up the silver thou didst vow."

     [Sidenote: (Samson having trusted Delilah turneth to sleep whereat her

     minions with force falleth upon him and depriveth him of his

     strength.)]

     They came, and sleeping on thy knees,

     The giant of his locks was shorn.

     And Dagon, being now at ease,

     Cried like the harbinger of morn,

     To see the giant's strength forlorn.

     For he wist not the Lord was gone:—

     "I will go as I went erewhile,"

     He said, "and shake my mighty brawn."

     Without the captains, file on file,

     Did execute Delilah's guile.

     [Sidenote: (Sansculottism, as it seemeth, is overthrown.)]

     At Gaza where the mockers pass,

     Midst curses and unholy sound,

     They fettered him with chains of brass,

     Put out his eyes, and being bound

     Within the prison house he ground.

     The heathen looking on did sing;

     "Behold our god into our hand,

     Hath brought him for our banqueting,

     Who slew us and destroyed our land,

     Against whom none of us could stand."

     [Sidenote: (Samson being no longer formidable and being deprived of

     his eyes is reduced to slavery and made the sport of the heathen.)]

     Now, therefore, when the festival

     Waxed merrily, with one accord,

     The lords and captains loud did call,

     To bring him out whom they abhorred,

     To make them sport who sat at board.

     [Sidenote: (After a time Samson prayeth for vengeance even though

     himself should perish thereby.)]

     And Samson made them sport and stood

     Betwixt the pillars of the house,

     Above with scornful hardihood,

     Both men and women made carouse,

     And ridiculed his eyeless brows.

     Then Samson prayed "Remember me

     O Lord, this once, if not again.

     O God, behold my misery,

     Now weaker than all other men,

     Who once was mightier than ten."

     "Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes,

     And for this unrequited toil,

     For fraud, injustice, perjuries,

     For lords whose greed devours the soil,

     And kings and rulers who despoil."

     [Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)]

     "For all that maketh light of Thee,

     And sets at naught Thy holy word,

     For tongues that babble blasphemy,

     And impious hands that hold the sword—

     Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord."

     He grasped the pillars, having prayed,

     And bowed himself—the building fell,

     And on three thousand souls was laid,

     Gone soon to death with mighty yell.

     And Samson died, for it was well.

     The lords and captains greatly err,

     Thinking that Samson is no more,

     Blind, but with ever-growing hair,

     He grinds from Tyre to Singapore,

     While yet Delilah plays the whore.

     So it hath been, and yet will be,

     The captains, drunken at the feast

     To garnish their felicity,

     Will taunt him as a captive beast,

     Until their insolence hath ceased.

     [Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have

     been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair

     continueth to grow.)]

     Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet,

     To Dagon and to Ashtoreth;

     Of bloody stripes from head to feet,

     He will endure unto the death,

     Being blind, he also nothing saith.

     Then 'gainst the Doric capitals,

     Resting in prayer to God for power,

     He will shake down your marble walls,

     Abiding heaven's appointed hour,

     And those that fly shall hide and cower.

     But this Delilah shall survive,

     To do the sin already done,

     Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive,

     At Gaza and at Ashkelon,

     A woman fair to look upon.

THE WORLD-SAVER

     If the grim Fates, to stave ennui,

     Play whips for fun, or snares for game,

     The liar full of ease goes free,

     And Socrates must bear the shame.

     With the blunt sage he stands despised,

     The Pharisees salute him not;

     Laughter awaits the truth he prized,

     And Judas profits by his plot.

     A million angels kneel and pray,

     And sue for grace that he may win—

     Eternal Jove prepares the day,

     And sternly sets the fateful gin.

     Satan, who hates the light, is fain,

     To back his virtuous enterprise;

     The omnipotent powers alone refrain,

     Only the Lord of hosts denies.

     Whatever of woven argument,

     Lacks warp to hold the woof in place,

     Smothers his honest discontent,

     But leaves to view his woeful face.

     Fling forth the flag, devour the land,

     Grasp destiny and use the law;

     But dodge the epigram's keen brand,

     And fall not by the ass's jaw.

     The idiot snicker strikes more down,

     Than fell at Troy or Waterloo;

     Still, still he meets it with a frown,

     And argues loudly for "the True."

     Injustice lengthens out her chain,

     Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more;

     But while the eons wax and wane,

     He storms the barricaded door.

     Wisdom and peace and fair intent,

     Are tedious as a tale twice told;

     One thing increases being spent—

     Perennial youth belongs to gold.

     At Weehawken the soul set free,

     Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill,

     Drink life from that philosophy,

     And flourish by the age's will.

     If he shall toil to clear the field,

     Fate's children seize the prosperous year;

     Boldly he fashions some new shield,

     And naked feels the victor's spear.

     He rolls the world up into day,

     He finds the grain, and gets the hull.

     He sees his own mind in the sway,

     And Progress tiptoes on his skull.

     Angels and fiends behold the wrong,

     And execrate his losing fight;

     While Jove amidst the choral song

     Smiles, and the heavens glow with light!

     —Trueblood

     Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama—

     Only one drama, then to die. Enough

     To win the heights but once! He writes me letters,

     These later days marked "Opened by the Censor,"

     About his drama, asks me what I think

     About this point of view, and that approach,

     And whether to etch in his hero's soul

     By etching in his hero's enemies,

     Or luminate his hero by enshadowing

     His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him

     Which is the actual and the larger theme,

     His hero or his hero's enemies?

     And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind

     Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan

     The god misunderstood, the lover of man

     Destroyed by heaven for his love of man.

     In July, 1914, while in London

     He took me to his house to dine and showed me

     The verses as above. And while I read

     He left the room, returned, I heard him move

     The ash trays on the table where we sat

     And set some object on the table.

                                        Then

     As I looked up from reading I discovered

     A skull and bony hand upon the table.

     And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow!

     And what a hand was this! A right hand too.

     Those fingers in the flesh did miracles.

     And when I have my hero's skull before me,

     His hand that moulded peoples, I should write

     The drama that possesses all my thought.

     You'd think the spirit of the man would come

     And show me how to find the key that fits

     The story of his life, reveal its secret.

     I know the secrets, but I want the secret.

     You'd think his spirit out of gratitude

     Would start me off. It's something, I insist,

     To find a haven with a dramatist

     After your bones have crossed the sea, and after

     Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion,

     And reverent housing.

                             Dying in New York

     He lay for ten years in a lonely grave

     Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe.

     No grave yard in the city would receive him.

     Neither a banker nor a friend of banks,

     Nor falling in a duel to awake

     Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity

     Was not so much as offered. He was poor,

     And never had a tomb like Washington.

     Of course he wasn't Washington—but still,

     Study that skull a little! In ten years

     A mad admirer living here in England

     Went to America and dug him up,

     And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then

     Our country was in turmoil over France—

     (The details are so rich I lose my head,

     And can't construct my acts.)—hell's flaming here,

     And we are fighting back the roaring fire

     That France had lighted. England would abort

     The era she embraced. Here is a point

     That vexes me in laying out the scenes,

     And persons of the play. For parliament

     Went into fury that these bones were here

     On British soil. The city raged. They took

     The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison

     For crying on the streets the bones' arrival.

     I'd like to put that crier in my play.

     The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case

     I put it on a background understood,

     And showing why the fellow was arrested,

     And what a high offence to heaven it was.

     Then here's another thing: The monument

     This zealous friend had planned was never raised.

     The city wouldn't have it—you can guess

     The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand

     Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me!

     He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets.

     He had the English gift of writing pamphlets.

     He stirred up peoples with his English gift

     Against the mother country. How to show this

     In action, not in talk, is difficult.

     Well, then here is our friend who has these bones

     And cannot honor them in burial.

     And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt.

     And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver.

     Are they an asset? Our Lord Chancellor

     Does not regard them so. I'd like to work

     Some humor in my drama at this point,

     And satirize his lordship just a little.

     Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset

     If it be of a man who helped to cost you

     The loss of half the world. So the receiver

     Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer

     Took care of them. He sold them to a man

     Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin

     About this time turned up in Guilford—then

     It's 1854, the man is dead

     Near forty years, when just the skull and hand

     Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades

     All questions touching on that ownership,

     And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are—

     The rest in short.

                             And as for me—no matter

     Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me.

     Behold the good right hand, behold the skull

     Of Thomas Paine, theo-philanthropist,

     Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look,

     That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote

     The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied

     Americans against the mother country,

     With just that English gift of pamphleteering.

     You see I'd have to bring George Washington,

     And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson

     Upon the stage, and put into their mouths

     The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine,

     To get before the audience that they thought

     He did as much as any man to win

     Your independence; that your Declaration

     Was founded on his writings, even inspired

     A clause against your negro slavery—how—

     Look at this hand!—he was the first to write

     United States of America—there's the hand

     That was the first to write those words. Good Lord

     This drama would out-last a Chinese drama

     If I put all the story in. But tell me

     What to omit, and what to stress?

                                        And still

     I'd have the greatest drama in the world

     If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted,

     Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast,

     His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery.

     And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine

     Because he was too great, and by this showing

     Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers

     For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done—

     I know that; but it puzzles me to think

     That Hamilton—we'll say, is so revered,

     So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied

     On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs!

     Great genius! and so forth—and there's the Crisis

     And Common Sense which only little Shelleys

     Haunting the dusty book shops read at all.

     It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank

     Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt—

     For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed

     In money matters to another's wrong

     For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know

     The world cares more for chastity and temperance

     Than for a faultless life in money matters.

     No use to dramatize that vital contrast,

     The world to-day is what it always was.

     But you don't call this Hamilton an artist

     And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler?

     Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world

     As much as any. There is Leonardo—

     The point's not here.

                           I think it's more like this:

     Some men are Titans and some men are gods,

     And some are gods who fall while climbing back

     Up to Olympus whence they came. And some

     While fighting for the race fall into holes

     Where to return and rescue them is death.

     Why look you here! You'd think America

     Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine

     Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude.

     He's there in France's national assembly,

     And votes to save King Louis with this phrase:

     Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office.

     They think him faithless to the revolution

     For words like these—and clap! the prison door

     Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter

     To president—of what! to Washington

     President of the United States of America,

     A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven

     Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state!

     And Washington is silent, never answers,

     And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell,

     Who hears the guillotine go slash and click!

     Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama.

     Or else to show that Washington was wise

     Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas,

     And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas,

     Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas

     For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense."

     That may be just the story for my drama.

     Old Homer satirized the human race

     For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian.

     But there's not stuff for satire in a war

     Ensuing on the insult for the rescue

     Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets,

     And won a continent for the rescuer.

     That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow

     Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man.

     This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate

     Of England and her power, America's

     Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama

     As showing how the more you do in life

     The greater shall you suffer. This is true,

     If what you battered down gets hold of you.

     This drama almost drives me mad at times.

     I have his story at my fingers' ends.

     But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands.

     I think I'll have to give it up. What's that?

     Well, if an audience of to-day would turn

     From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage

     What is the use to write it, if they'd turn

     No matter how you wrote it? I believe

     They wouldn't like it in America,

     Nor England either, maybe—you are right!

     A drama with no audience is a failure.

     But here's this skull. What shall I do with it?

     If I should have it cased in solid silver

     There is no shrine to take it—no Cologne

     For skulls like this.

                           Well, I must die sometime,

     And who will get it then? Look at this skull!

     This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend:

     A man who has a theme the world despises!

RECESSIONAL

     IN TIME OF WAR

     MEDICAL UNIT—

     Even as I see, and share with you in seeing,

     The altar flame of your love's sacrifice;

     And even as I bear before the hour the vision,

     Your little hands in hospital and prison

     Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes,

     So do I suffer for splendor of your being

     Which leads you from me, and in separation

     Lays on my breast the pain of memory.

     Over your hands I bend

     In silent adoration,

     Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end,

     Asking for consolation

     Out of the sacrament of our separation,

     And for some faithful word acceptable and true,

     That I may know and keep the mystery:

     That in this separation I go forth with you

     And you to the world's end remain with me.

     How may I justify the hope that rises

     That I am giving you to a world of pain,

     And am a part of your love's sacrifices?

     Is it so little if I see you not again?

     You will croon soldier lads to sleep,

     Even to the last sleep of all.

     But in this absence, as your love will keep

     Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall,

     So I, though far away, shall kneel by you

     If the last hour approaches, to bedew

     Your lips that from their infant wondering

     Lisped of a heaven lost.

     I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost

     As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving.

     Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living

     Bearing a solace in death.

     God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,—

     You are transfigured

     Before me, and I bow my head,

     And leave you in the light that lights your way,

     And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped,

     And the hour we must obey—

     Look you, I will go pray!

THE AWAKENING

     When you lie sleeping; golden hair

     Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink

     Ears that nestle, I forbear

     A moment while I look and think

     How you are mine, and if I dare

     To bend and kiss you lying there.

     A Raphael in the flesh! Resist

     I cannot, though to break your sleep

     Is thoughtless of me—you are kissed

     And roused from slumber dreamless, deep—

     You rub away the slumber's mist,

     You scold and almost weep.

     It is too bad to wake you so,

     Just for a kiss. But when awake

     You sing and dance, nor seem to know

     You slept a sleep too deep to break

     From which I roused you long ago

     For nothing but my passion's sake—

     What though your heart should ache!

IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR

     I arise in the silence of the dawn hour.

     And softly steal out to the garden

     Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.

     And a wind moves out of the south-land,

     Like a film of silver,

     And thrills with a far borne message

     The flowers of the garden.

     Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them

     To the south wind as he passes.

     But the zinnias and calendulas,

     In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly

     As the south wind whispers the secret

     Of the dawn hour!

     I stand in the silence of the dawn hour

     In the garden,

     As the star of morning fades.

     Flying from scythes of air

     The hare-bells, purples and golden glow

     On the sand-hill back of the orchard

     Race before the feet of the wind.

     But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim

     Begin to flutter and glisten.

     And in a moment, in a twinkled passion,

     The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed,

     As he fences the lilac lights of the sky,

     And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon

     Is drowned in the waste of morning!

     In the silence of the garden,

     At the dawn hour

     I turn and see you—

     You who knew and followed,

     You who knew the dawn hour,

     And its sky like a Favrile goblet.

     You who knew the south-wind

     Bearing the secret of the morning

     To waking gardens, fields and forests.

     You in a gown of green, O footed Iris,

     With eyes of dryad gray,

     And the blown glory of unawakened tresses—

     A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment,

     In the silence of the dawn hour!

     And here I behold you

     Amid a trance of color, silent music,

     The embodied spirit of the morning:

     Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun

     Caught in the twinkling oak leaves:

     Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind;

     And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas;

     The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac

     Turned white for the woe of the moon;

     And the silence of the dawn hour!

     And there to take you in my arms and feel you

     In the glory of the dawn hour,

     Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh!

     To know your spirit by that oneness

     Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion

     Of life re-lit and visioned.

     In dryad eyes beholding

     The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing

     Rapturous moment of the arisen sun;

     And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile.

     There to behold you,

     Our spirits lost together

     In the silence of the dawn hour!

FRANCE

     France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave!

     France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal!

     Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel

     Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave.

     Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave

     Which Germany and England joined to seal,

     And undismayed didst seek the human weal,

     Through which thou couldst thyself and others save—

     The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise!

     When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours.

     Freedom remembers, and I can forget:—

     Great are we by the faith our past betrays,

     And noble now the great Republic flowers

     Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette.

BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES

     Gourgaud, these tears are tears—but look, this laugh,

     How hearty and serene—you see a laugh

     Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes

     Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves

     When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend,

     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me

     Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy.

     Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed,

     Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves,

     Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world.

     And here we sit grown old, of memories

     Top-full—your hand—my breast is all afire

     With happiness that warms, makes young again.

     You see it is not what we saw to-day

     That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:—

     But all that I remember, we remember

     Of what the world was, what it is to-day,

     Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see

     Not in the rise of this man or of that,

     Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow

     That lifts or fells a nation—no, my friend,

     God is not there, but in the living stream

     Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows,

     Cross-currents, what you will, to that result

     Where stillness shows the star that fits the star

     Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept

     Through sorrow, blood and death,—God moves in that

     And there I find Him.

                           But these tears—for whom

     Or what are tears? The Old Guard—oh, my friend

     That melancholy remnant! And the horse,

     White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing

     The saddle and the bridle which he used.

     My tears take quality for these pitiful things,

     But other quality for the purple robe

     Over the coffin lettered in pure gold

     "Napoleon"—ah, the emperor at last

     Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks

     Over the land he loved, with what result?

     Does just the army that acclaimed him rise

     Which rose to hail him back from Elba?—no

     All France acclaims him! Princes of the church,

     And notables uncover! At the door

     A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled

     Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult,

     He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz,

     The king turns to me, hands the sword to me,

     I place it on the coffin—dear Gourgaud,

     Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh

     For thinking that the Emperor is home;

     For thinking I have laid upon his bed

     The sword that makes inviolable his bed,

     Since History stepped to where I stood and stands

     To say forever: Here he rests, be still,

     Bow down, pass by in reverence—the Ages

     Like giant caryatides that look

     With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold

     With never tiring hands the Vault of Time,

     Command your reverence.

                              What have we seen?

     Why this, that every man, himself achieving

     Exhausts the life that drives him to the work

     Of self-expression, of the vision in him,

     His reason for existence, as he sees it.

     He may or may not mould the epic stuff

     As he would wish, as lookers on have hope

     His hands shall mould it, and by failing take—

     For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye,

     A cinder for that moment in the eye—

     A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise

     Have all his work misvalued for the time,

     And pump his heart up harder to subdue

     Envy, or fear or greed, in any case

     He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes

     His soul's endowment in the vision of life.

     And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau

     He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps,

     Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican,

     Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists,

     Conspirators, and clericals may shout

     Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours

     Kicking the gravel with his little heel,

     Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud.

     Well, what was he at Waterloo?—you know:

     That piercing spirit which at mid-day power

     Knew all the maps of Europe—could unfold

     A map and say here is the place, the way,

     The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here.

     Why, all his memory of maps was blurred

     The night before he failed at Waterloo.

     The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it.

     He could not ride a horse at Waterloo.

     His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested?

     The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris,

     Now that our giant democrat was sick.

     Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris

     Helped by the Duke and Blücher, damn their souls.

     What is a man to do whose work is done

     And does not feel so well, has cancer, say?

     You know he could have reached America

     After his fall at Waterloo. Good God!

     If only he had done it! For they say

     New Orleans is a city good to live in.

     And he had ceded to America

     Louisiana, which in time would curb

     The English lion. But he didn't go there.

     His mind was weakened else he had foreseen

     The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged

     Would claw him if it got him, play with him

     Before it killed him. Who was England then?—

     An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king

     Who lost a continent for the lust that slew

     The Emperor—the world will say at last

     It was no other. Who was England then?

     A regent bad as husband, father, son,

     Monarch and friend. But who was England then?

     Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who

     Had cut his country's long before. The duke—

     Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept—

     The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows

     With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury,

     To see the Duke waylay democracy.

     The world's great conqueror's conqueror!—Eh bien!

     Grips England after Waterloo, but when

     The people see the duke for what he is:

     A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry,

     A spotless knight of ancient privilege,

     They up and stone him, by the very deed

     Stone him for wronging the democracy

     The Emperor erected with the sword.

     The world's great conqueror's conqueror—Oh, I sicken!

     Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves

     Are guarded and kept up, but falling down

     To ruin and erasure when the graves

     Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets,

     Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk

     Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor,

     Melt up true metal at your peril, poets,

     Sweet moralists, monopolists of God.

     But who was England? Byron driven out,

     And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct,

     Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey,

     The turn-coat panegyrist of King George,

     An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last;

     A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop

     The progress of democracy and chanting

     To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo,

     Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped.

     For England of to-day is freer—why?

     The revolution and the Emperor!

     They quench the revolution, send Napoleon

     To St. Helena—but the ashes soar

     Grown finer, grown invisible at last.

     And all the time a wind is blowing ashes,

     And sifting them upon the spotless linen

     Of kings and dukes in England till at last

     They find themselves mistaken for the people.

     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me—tiens!

     The Emperor is home again in France,

     And Europe for democracy is thrilling.

     Now don't you see the Emperor was sick,

     The shadows falling slant across his mind

     To write to such an England: "My career

     Is ended and I come to sit me down

     Before the fireside of the British people,

     And claim protection from your Royal Highness"—

     This to the regent—"as a generous foe

     Most constant and most powerful"—I weep.

     They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship,

     He thinks he's bound for England, and why not?

     They dine him, treat him like an Emperor.

     And then they tack and sail to St. Helena,

     Give him a cow shed for a residence.

     Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him,

     Spy on his torture, intercept his letters,

     Step on his broken wings, and mock the film

     Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ...

     One day the packet brought to him a book

     Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor."

     Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned

     Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed,

     The Emperor said—I stood near by—"Who gave you

     The right to slur my title? In a few years

     Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself

     Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered

     For your indignities to me, that's all.

     England expended millions on her libels

     To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose

     Obscure or bloody—how have they availed?

     You have me here upon this scarp of rock,

     But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun

     And like the sun it cannot be destroyed.

     Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam

     The liberal stream, but only to make stronger

     The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true?

     That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend

     And trust God as I have not trusted yet.

     And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed?

     A portion of the royal blood of Europe?

     A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood

     Is dated from the field of Montenotte,

     And from my mother there in Corsica,

     And from the revolution. I'm a man

     Who made himself because the people made me.

     You understand as little as she did

     When I had brought her back from Austria,

     And riding through the streets of Paris pointed

     Up to the window of the little room

     Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne,

     A poor boy with my way to make—as poor

     As Andrew Jackson in America,

     No more a despot than he is a despot.

     Your England understands. I was a menace

     Not as a despot, but as head and front,

     Eyes, brain and leader of democracy,

     Which like the messenger of God was marking

     The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies.

     Your England understands I had to hold

     By rule compact a people drunk with rapture,

     And torn by counter forces, had to fight

     The royalists of Europe who beheld

     Their peoples feverish from the great infection,

     Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop

     Its spread to them. Your England understands.

     Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey.

     But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors,

     My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures

     Arts, sciences I builded, democratic

     Triumphs which I won will live for ages—

     These are my witnesses, will testify

     Forever what I was and meant to do.

     The ideas which I brought to power will stifle

     All royalty, all feudalism—look

     They live in England, they illuminate

     America, they will be faith, religion

     For every people—these I kindled, carried

     Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief

     Torch bearer, soldier, representative."

     You were not there, Gourgaud—but wait a minute,

     I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now:

     Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor

     Contemptuous but not the less bewitched.

     And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled

     "You make me smile." Why that is memorable:

     It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone.

     He was a prophet, founder of the sect

     Of smilers and of laughers through the world,

     Smilers and laughers that the Emperor

     Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe,

     What were it in this day except for France,

     Napoleon's France, the revolution's France?

     What will it be as time goes on but peoples

     Made free through France?

                               I take the good and ill,

     Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed,

     Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours,

     Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched,

     His child torn from him, Josephine and wife

     Silent or separate, waiting long for death,

     Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings

     Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain

     A little sun, and crying to the sea

     With broken voice—I weep when I remember

     Such things which you and I from day to day

     Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then

     There is that night of thunder, and the dawning

     And all that day of storm and toward the evening

     He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well,

     I leave the room and say to Steward there:

     "The Emperor is dead." That very moment

     A crash of thunder deafened us. You see

     A great age boomed in thunder its renewal—

     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend.

DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC!

     By the blue sky of a clear vision,

     And by the white light of a great illumination,

     And by the blood-red of brotherhood,

     Draw the sword, O Republic!

     Draw the sword!

     For the light which is England,

     And the resurrection which is Russia,

     And the sorrow which is France,

     And for peoples everywhere

     Crying in bondage,

     And in poverty!

     You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic!

     And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks;

     And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory:

     Now the leaven must be stirred,

     And the brands themselves carried and touched

     To the jungles and the black-forests.

     Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling,

     They are crying to each other from the peaks—

     They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight,

     Eager for battle!

     As a strong man nurses his youth

     To the day of trial;

     But as a strong man nurses it no more

     On the day of trial,

     But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength!

     And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth!

     You shall neither save your youth,

     Nor hoard your strength

     Beyond this hour, O Republic!

     For you have sworn

     By the passion of the Gaul,

     And the strength of the Teuton,

     And the will of the Saxon,

     And the hunger of the Poor,

     That the white man shall lie down by the black man,

     And by the yellow man,

     And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh,

     Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy.

     And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold

     Aught beside them,

     You have dedicated the earth, O Republic,

     To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy!

     By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom,

     And by the Power that makes us love our fellows,

     And by the Power that comforts us in death,

     Dying for great races to come—

     Draw the sword, O Republic!

     Draw the Sword!

DEAR OLD DICK

     (Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke)

     Said dear old Dick

     To the colored waiter:

     "Here, George! be quick

     Roast beef and a potato.

     I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one,

     You black old scoundrel, get a move on you!

     I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun.

     This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you,

     You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon—"

     "Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the coon.

     "Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick,

     "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick

     With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor,

     Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick."

     And the nigger all the time was moving round the table,

     Rattling the silver things faster and faster—

     "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able

     I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn."

     "Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone,

     You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick.

     Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick

     A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard;

     Or how would you relish some spit in your broth?

     Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard?

     Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth?

     Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie?

     That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye/'

     Then dear old Dick made this long reply:

     "You know, I love a nigger,

     And I love this nigger.

     I met him first on the train from California

     Out of Kansas City; in the morning early

     I walked through the diner, feeling upset

     For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly.

     And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed,

     Waiting for the time to serve the omelet,

     Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers.

     And this is what he said in a fine southern way:

     'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest,

     I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.'

     Now think! here's a human who has no other cares

     Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving,

     And who has as much fun when he sees you carving

     The sirloin as you do, does this black man.

     Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel,

     Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan?

     There's music in their soul as original

     As any breed of people in the whole wide earth;

     They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth.

     There are only two things real American:

     One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger.

     Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure

     Anything beside that is not imitation

     Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation.

     Return to this globe five hundred years hence—

     You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon

     In art, in music, has altered our tune;

     We are destined to bow to their influence;

     There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone,

     And that is America put into tone."

     And dear old Dick gathered speed and said:

     "Sometimes through Dvorák a vision arises

     To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red:

     'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow,

     I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow

     Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes

     Favorite souls and the souls of kings.'

     Now these are the words, and here is the dream,

     No wonder you think I am seeing things:

     The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam

     Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight.

     And a giant negro as black as night

     Is walking by a camel in a caravan.

     His great back glistens with the streaming sweat.

     The camel is ridden by a light-faced man,

     A Greek perhaps, or Arabian.

     And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying

     With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down.

     He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing;

     His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening

     To the negro keeping time like a tabouret.

     And what cares he for Memphis town,

     Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead,

     Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread?

     A tune is in his heart, a reality:

     The camel, the desert are things that be,

     He's a negro slave, but his heart is free."

     Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner.

     "Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner,"

     Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter.

     "Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato.

     I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do;

     Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo',

     And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took

     From a dish set by, by the git-away cook.

     I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do."

     "Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew

     His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend

     To wait on St. Peter world without end."

THE ROOM OF MIRRORS

     I saw a room where many feet were dancing.

     The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing

     Both flames of candles and the heaven's light,

     Though windows there were none for air or flight.

     The room was in a form polygonal

     Reached by a little door and narrow hall.

     One could behold them enter for the dance,

     And waken as it were out of a trance,

     And either singly or with some one whirl:

     The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl.

     And every panel of the room was just

     A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust

     Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize

     Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease

     Of music or of dancing, save by him

     Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim

     And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors,

     And by his partner struck through by the terrors

     Of sudden loss.

                     And looking I could see

     That scarcely any dancer here could free

     His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze

     Upon himself or others, till a craze

     Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate

     The hand that took each dancer soon or late.

     Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced,

     Some stared and paled and then more madly danced.

     One dancer only never looked at all.

     He seemed soul captured by the carnival.

     There were so many dancers there he loved,

     He was so greatly by the music moved,

     He had no time to study his own face

     There in the mirrors as from place to place

     He quickly danced.

                        Until I saw at last

     This dancer by the whirling dancers cast

     Face full against a mirrored panel where

     Before he could look at himself or stare

     He plunged through to the other side—and quick,

     As water closes when you lift the stick,

     The mirrored panel swung in place and left

     No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick.

     But all his partners thus so soon bereft

     Went dancing to the music as before.

     But I saw faces in that mirrored door

     Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching

     Their faces over shoulders, even matching

     Their terror with each other's to repress

     A growing fear in seeing it was less

     Than some one else's, or to ease despair

     By looking in a face who did not care,

     While watching for the hand that through some door

     Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor

     With every time-beat of the orchestra.

     What is this room of mirrors? Who can say?

THE LETTER

     What does one gain by living? What by dying

     Is lost worth having? What the daily things

     Lived through together make them worth the while

     For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying

     Of souls through separation? There's your smile!

     And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings

     Half uttered nothings of delight! But then

     Now that I see you not, and shall again

     Touch you no more—memory can possess

     Your soul's essential self, and none the less

     You live with me. I therefore write to you

     This letter just as if you were away

     Upon a journey, or a holiday;

     And so I'll put down everything that's new

     In this secluded village, since you left. ...

     Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember,

     After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom.

     We had spring all at once—the long December

     Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room,

     And laid your things away. And then one morning

     I saw the mother robin giving warning

     To little bills stuck just above the rim

     Of that nest which you watched while being built,

     Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb,

     With folded wings against an April rain.

     On June the tenth Edward and Julia married,

     I did not go for fear of an old pain.

     I was out on the porch as they drove by,

     Coming from church. I think I never scanned

     A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it

     Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet—

     I went into the house to have a cry.

     A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife.

     Between housework and hoeing in the garden

     I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life.

     My heart was numb and still I had to harden

     All memory or die. And just the same

     As when you sat beside the window, passed

     Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed.

     He did not die till late November came.

     Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast,

     'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child.

     Her husband was in Monmouth at the time.

     She had no milk, the baby is not well.

     The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell.

     And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled

     His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime

     Has shocked the village, for the monster killed

     Glendora Wilson's father at his door—

     A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled.

     I could go on, but wherefore tell you more?

     The world of men has gone its olden way

     With war in Europe and the same routine

     Of life among us that you knew when here.

     This gossip is not idle, since I say

     By means of it what I would tell you, dear:

     I have been near you, dear, for I have been

     Not with you through these things, but in despite

     Of living them without you, therefore near

     In spirit and in memory with you.

     Do you remember that delightful Inn

     At Chester and the Roman wall, and how

     We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth?

     And afterward when you and I came down

     To London, I forsook the murky town,

     And left you to quaint ways and crowded places,

     While I went on to Putney just to see

     Old Swinburne and to look into his face's

     Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on

     A finer thing than any verse he wrote?

     (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!)

     He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason

     To England's greatness. What was Camden like?

     Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink?

     And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think.

     His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh!

     Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half

     My visit, so I left.

                           The thing was this:

     None of this talk was Swinburne any more

     Than some child of his loins would take his hair,

     Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,—

     His flesh was nothing but a poor affair,

     A channel for the eternal stream—his flesh

     Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book,

     But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look

     Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh

     And liquid meaning. So I knew at last

     His real immortal self is in his verse.

     Since you have gone I've thought of this so much.

     I cannot lose you in this universe—

     I first must lose myself. The essential touch

     Of soul possession lies not in the walk

     Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk

     Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes

     Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread

     Broken together, nor the hour of love

     When flesh surrenders depths of things divine

     Beyond all vision, as they were the dream

     Of other planets, but without these even

     In death and separation, there is heaven:

     By just that unison and its memory

     Which brought our lips together. To be free

     From accidents of being, to be freeing

     The soul from trammels on essential being,

     Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed

     Into the only heaven God has made:

     That's where we know each other as we are,

     In the bright ether of some quiet star,

     Communing as two memories with each other.

CANTICLE OF THE RACE

     SONG OF MEN

     How beautiful are the bodies of men—

     The agonists!

     Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong

     For their strength's behests.

     Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong

     In games or tests

     When they run or box or swim the long

     Sea-waves crests

     With their slender legs, and their hips so strong,

     And their rounded chests.

     I know a youth who raises his arms

     Over his head.

     He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms

     Of flood or fire.

     He springs renewed from a lusty bed

     To his youth's desire.

     He drowses, for April flames outspread

     In his soul's attire.

     The strength of men is for husbandry

     Of woman's flesh:

     Worker, soldier, magistrate

     Of city or realm;

     Artist, builder, wrestling Fate

     Lest it overwhelm

     The brood or the race, or the cherished state.

     They sing at the helm

     When the waters roar and the waves are great,

     And the gale is fresh.

     There are two miracles, women and men—

     Yea, four there be:

     A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man,

     And God's decree.

     And a babe from the womb in a little span

     Ere the month be ten.

     Their rapturous arms entwine and cling

     In the depths of night;

     He hunts for her face for his wondering,

     And her eyes are bright.

     A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring

     Is man's delight.

     SONG OF WOMEN

     How beautiful is the flesh of women—

     Their throats, their breasts!

     My wonder is a flame which burns,

     A flame which rests;

     It is a flame which no wind turns,

     And a flame which quests.

     I know a woman who has red lips,

     Like coals which are fanned.

     Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips

     From her white-rose chin.

     Her throat curves like a cloud to the land

     Where her breasts begin.

     I close my eyes when I put my hand

     On her breast's white skin.

     The flesh of women is like the sky

     When bare is the moon:

     Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks,

     And sea-shell loins.

     I know a woman whose splendors vex

     Where the flesh joins—

     A slope of light and a circumflex

     Of clefts and coigns.

     She thrills like the air when silence wrecks

     An ended tune.

     These are the things not made by hands in the earth:

     Water and fire,

     The air of heaven, and springs afresh,

     And love's desire.

     And a thing not made is a woman's flesh,

     Sorrow and mirth!

     She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre,

     And she drips the wine.

     Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh

     As buds on the vine:

     For fire and water and air are flesh,

     And love is the shrine.

     SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT

     How beautiful is the human spirit

     In its vase of clay!

     It takes no thought of the chary dole

     Of the light of day.

     It labors and loves, as it were a soul

     Whom the gods repay

     With length of life, and a golden goal

     At the end of the way.

     There are souls I know who arch a dome,

     And tunnel a hill.

     They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome,

     And measure the sky.

     They find the good and destroy the ill,

     And they bend and ply

     The laws of nature out of a will

     While the fates deny.

     I wonder and worship the human spirit

     When I behold

     Numbers and symbols, and how they reach

     Through steel and gold;

     A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech,

     And an hour foretold.

     It ponders its nature to turn and teach,

     And itself to mould.

     The human spirit is God, no doubt,

     Is flesh made the word:

     Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael,

     And the souls who heard

     Beyond the rim of the world the swell

     Of an ocean stirred

     By a Power on the waters inscrutable.

     There are souls who gird

     Their loins in faith that the world is well,

     In a faith unblurred.

     How beautiful is the human spirit—

     The flesh made the word!

BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE

     This way and that way measuring,

     Sighting from tree to tree,

     And from the bend of the river.

     This must be the place where Black Eagle

     Twelve hundred moons ago

     Stood with folded arms,

     While a Pottawatomie father

     Plunged a knife in his heart,

     For the murder of a son.

     Black Eagle stood with folded arms,

     Slim, erect, firm, unafraid,

     Looking into the distance, across the river.

     Then the knife flashed,

     Then the knife crashed through his ribs

     And into his heart.

     And like a wounded eagle's wings

     His arms fell, slowly unfolding,

     And he sank to death without a groan!

     And my name is Black Eagle too.

     And I am of the spirit,

     And perhaps of the blood

     Of that Black Eagle of old.

     I am naked and alone,

     But very happy;

     Being rich in spirit and in memories.

     I am very strong.

     I am very proud,

     Brave, revengeful, passionate.

     No longer deceived, keen of eye,

     Wise in the ways of the tribes:

     A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes.

     A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains.

     A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries.

     A knower of harmless snakes,

     And the livid copperhead.

     Lastly a knower of the spirits,

     For there are many spirits:

     Spirits of hidden lakes,

     And of pine forests.

     Spirits of the dunes,

     And of forested valleys.

     Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields,

     And great distances.

     There are many spirits

     Under the Great Spirit.

     Him I know not.

     Him I only feel

     With closed eyes.

     Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river

     At a sky of stars,

     When the leaves of the oak are asleep.

     I will fill this birch bark full of writing

     And hide it in the cleft of an oak,

     Here where Black Eagle fell.

     Decipher my story who can:

     When I was a boy of fourteen

     Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs,

     Rose from the door of his tent

     And came to where we were running,

     Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox,

     And said to me in their hearing:

     "You are the fastest of all.

     Now run again, and let me see.

     And if you can run

     I will make you my runner,

     I will care for you,

     And you shall have pockets of gold." ...

     And then we ran.

     And the others lagged behind me,

     Like smoke behind the wind.

     But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox

     Grew dark.

     They nudged each other.

     They looked side-ways,

     Toeing the earth in shame. ...

     Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me.

     And he went here and there

     To find a match.

     And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper,

     And nuggets of gold.

     And at last the match was made.

     It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell,

     It was by a red and yellow mountain,

     It was by a great river

     That we ran.

     Hundreds of Indians came to the race.

     They babbled, smoked and quarreled.

     And everyone carried a knife,

     And everyone carried a gun.

     And we runners—

     How young we were and unknowing

     What the race meant to them!

     For we saw nothing but the track,

     We saw nothing but our trainers

     And the starters.

     And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim.

     But the Indians and the squaws saw much else,

     They thought of the race in such different ways

     From the way we thought of it.

     For with me it was honor,

     It was triumph,

     It was fame.

     It was the tender looks of Indian maidens

     Wherever I went.

     But now I know that to Tobacco Jim,

     And the old fathers and young bucks

     The race meant jugs of whiskey,

     And new guns.

     It meant a squaw,

     A pony,

     Or some rise in the life of the tribe.

     So the shot of the starter rang at last,

     And we were off.

     I wore a band of yellow around my brow

     With an eagle's feather in it,

     And a red strap for my loins.

     And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang:

     "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle,

     They are all behind you."

     And they were all behind me,

     As the cloud's shadow is behind

     The bend of the grass under the wind.

     But as we neared the end of the race

     The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians,

     And the young bucks,

     Crowded close to the track—

     I fell and lost.

     Next day Tobacco Jim went about

     Lamenting his losses.

     And when I told him they tripped me

     He cursed them.

     But later he went about asking in whispers

     If I was wise enough to throw the race.

     Then suddenly he disappeared.

     And we heard rumors of his riches,

     Of his dogs and ponies,

     And of the joyous life he was leading.

     Then my father took me to New Mexico,

     And here my life changed.

     I was no longer the runner,

     I had forgotten it all.

     I had become a wise Indian.

     I could do many things.

     I could read the white man's writing

     And write it.

     And Indians flocked to me:

     Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel,

     Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet,

     And many others.

     They flocked to me, for I could help them.

     For the Great Spirit may pick a chief,

     Or a leader.

     But sometimes the chief rises

     By using wise Indians like me

     Who are rich in gifts and powers ...

     But at least it is true:

     All little great Indians

     Who are after ponies,

     Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets

     Gain their ends through the gifts and powers

     Of wise Indians like me.

     They come to you and ask you to do this,

     And to do that.

     And you do it, because it would be small

     Not to do it.

     And until all the cards are laid on the table

     You do not see what they were after,

     And then you see:

     They have won your friend away;

     They have stolen your hill;

     They have taken your place at the feast;

     They are wearing your feathers;

     They have much gold.

     And you are tired, and without laughter.

     And they drift away from you,

     As Tobacco Jim went away from me.

     And you hear of them as rich and great.

     And then you move on to another place,

     And another life.

     Billy the Pelican has built him a board house

     And lives in Guthrie.

     Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace.

     Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News;

     He is helping the government

     To reclaim stolen lands.

     (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole

     Who tripped me in the race.)

     Big Jawed Prophet is very rich.

     He has disappeared as an eagle

     With a rabbit.

     And I have come back here

     Where twelve hundred moons ago

     Black Eagle before me

     Had the knife run through his ribs

     And through his heart. ...

     I will hide this writing

     In the cleft of the oak

     By this bend in the river.

     Let him read who can:

     I was a swift runner whom they tripped.

MY LIGHT WITH YOURS

     I

     When the sea has devoured the ships,

     And the spires and the towers

     Have gone back to the hills.

     And all the cities

     Are one with the plains again.

     And the beauty of bronze,

     And the strength of steel

     Are blown over silent continents,

     As the desert sand is blown—

     My dust with yours forever.

     II

     When folly and wisdom are no more,

     And fire is no more,

     Because man is no more;

     When the dead world slowly spinning

     Drifts and falls through the void—

     My light with yours

     In the Light of Lights forever!

THE BLIND

     Amid the din of cars and automobiles,

     At the corner of a towering pile of granite,

     Under the city's soaring brick and stone,

     Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand

     With eyeless sockets playing on a flute.

     And an old woman holds the cup for you,

     Wherein a curious passer by at times

     Casts a poor coin.

     You are so blind you cannot see us men

     As walking trees!

     I fancy from the tune

     You play upon the flute, you have a vision

     Of leafy trees along a country road-side,

     Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks

     Rise singing in the sun-shine!

     In your darkness

     You may see such things playing on your flute

     Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago!

     And here's another on a farther corner,

     With head thrown back as if he searched the skies,

     He's selling evening papers, what's to him

     The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news.

     That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call,

     Or play the flute in blindness.

     Yet I think

     It's neither news nor music with these blind ones—

     Rather the hope of re-created eyes,

     And a light out of death!

     "How can it be," I hear them over and over,

     "There never shall be eyes for me again?"

"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU"

     —His Own Words

     IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL

     Eagle, whose fearless

     Flight in vast spaces

     Clove the inane,

     While we stood tearless,

     White with rapt faces

     In wonder and pain. ...

     Heights could not awe you,

     Depths could not stay you.

     Anguished we saw you,

     Saw Death way-lay you

     Where the storm flings

     Black clouds to thicken

     Round France's defender!

     Archangel stricken

     From ramparts of splendor—

     Shattered your wings! ...

     But Lafayette called you,

     Rochambeau beckoned.

     Duty enthralled you.

     For France you had reckoned

     Her gift and your debt.

     Dull hearts could harden

     Half-gods could palter.

     For you never pardon

     If Liberty's altar

     You chanced to forget. ...

     Stricken archangel!

     Ramparts of splendor

     Keep you, evangel

     Of souls who surrender

     No banner unfurled

     For ties ever living,

     Where Freedom has bound them.

     Praise and thanksgiving

     For love which has crowned them—

     Love frees the world! ...

CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT

     Who is that calling through the night,

     A wail that dies when the wind roars?

     We heard it first on Shipley's Hill,

     It faded out at Comingoer's.

     Along five miles of wintry road

     A horseman galloped with a cry,

     "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer,

     "When I heard clattering hoofs go by."

     "I flung the winder up to listen;

     I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge;

     I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle

     When he went over Houghton's Bridge."

     Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin'

     A heifer in the barn, and then

     My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.'

     'There,' says my boy, it is again."

     "Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris,

     We seed 'im at the Christmas tree.

     It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy

     I seed go home with Emily.'

     "'He is too old for galavantin'

     Upon a night like this,' says I.

     'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty,

     Good-natured huskiness in that cry.'

     "'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin'

     The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine,

     'I never thought—it makes me shiver,

     And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'"

     Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it

     I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns.

     Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse

     Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's."

     Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle

     And held it up to the winder pane.

     But when I heerd again the holler

     'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane."

     Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed

     I thought he'd thump the door away.

     I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?'

     'O, Emily,' I heard him say.

     "And there stood Billy Paris tremblin',

     His face so white, he looked so queer.

     'O Andy'—and his voice went broken.

     'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.'

     "'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up,

     'What brings you here?—I would be told.'

     Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers,

     It teched her hand ... and it war cold.

     "'We got back from the Christmas doin's

     And went to bed, and she was sayin',

     (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin'

     To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.'

     "'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two,

     And then I thought I heerd her moan.

     It war the wind, I guess, for Emily

     War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.'

     "I left him then to call my woman

     To tell her that her mother died.

     When we come back his voice was steady,

     The big tears in his eyes was dried.

     "He just sot there and quiet like

     Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had,

     And said for her to die on Christmas

     Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad.

     "He grew so cam he almost skeered us.

     Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.'

     Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman

     That ever walked this Vale of Care.'

     "Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang,

     I never heerd her once complain.'

     Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas

     When she can go and have no pain.'

     "Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.'

     Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.'

     He hid his face then in his muffler

     And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'"

WIDOW LA RUE

     I

     What will happen, Widow La Rue?

     For last night at three o'clock

     You woke and saw by your window again

     Amid the shadowy locust grove

     The phantom of the old soldier:

     A shadow of blue, like mercury light—

     What will happen, Widow La Rue?

     What may not happen

     In this place of summer loneliness?

     For neither the sunlight of July,

     Nor the blue of the lake,

     Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands,

     Nor the song of larks and thrushes,

     Nor the bravuras of bobolinks,

     Nor scents of hay new mown,

     Nor the ox-blood sumach cones,

     Nor the snow of nodding yarrow,

     Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest

     Of the bluff by the lake

     Can take away the loneliness

     Of this July by the lake!

     Last night you saw the old soldier

     By your window, Widow La Rue!

     Or was it your husband you saw,

     As he lay by the gate so long ago?

     With the iris of his eyes so black,

     And the white of his eyes so china-blue,

     And specks of blood on his face,

     Like a wall specked by a shake a brush;

     And something like blubber or pinkish wax,

     Hiding the gash in his throat——

     The serum and blood blown up by the breath

     From emptied lungs.

     II

     So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend

     For the afternoon and the night,

     Where the phantom will not come,

     Where the phantom may be forgotten.

     And scarcely has she turned the road,

     Round the water-mill by the creek,

     When the telephone rings and daughter Flora

     Springs up from a drowsy chair

     And the ennui of a book,

     And runs to answer the call.

     And her heart gives a bound,

     And her heart stops still,

     As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses

     Quick as poison through all her frame.

     And something like bees swarming in her breast

     Comes to her throat in a surge of fear,

     Rapture, passion, for what is the voice

     But the voice of her lover?

     And just because she is here alone

     In this desolate summer-house by the lake;

     And just because this man is forbidden

     To cross her way, for a taint in his blood

     Of drink, from a father who died of drink;

     And just because he is in her thought

     By night and day,

     The voice of him heats her through like fire.

     She sways from dizziness,

     The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ...

     He is in the village, is walking out,

     He will be at the door in an hour.

     III

     The sun is half a hand above the lake

     In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness.

     On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover

     Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow

     Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters

     Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end.

     A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire

     Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet.

     Over the olive green of the darkening forest

     A thin moon slits the sky and down the road

     Two lovers walk.

                      It is night when they reappear

     From the forest, walking the hay-field over.

     And the sky is so full of stars it seems

     Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up,

     Then stand entranced under the silence of stars,

     And in the silence of the scented hay-field

     Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water

     A hundred feet below.

     And at last they sit by a cock of hay,

     As warm as the nest of a bird,

     Hand clasped in hand and silent,

     Large-eyed and silent.

     O, daughter Flora!

     Delicious weakness is on you now,

     With your lover's face above you.

     You can scarcely lift your hand,

     Or turn your head

     Pillowed upon the fragrant hay.

     You dare not open your moistened eyes

     For fear of this sky of stars,

     For fear of your lover's eyes.

     The trance of nature has taken you

     Rocked on creation's tide.

     And the kinship you feel for this man,

     Confessed this night—so often confessed

     And wondered at—

     Has coiled its final sorcery about you.

     You do not know what it is,

     Nor care what it is,

     Nor care what fate is to come,—

     The night has you.

     You only move white, fainting hands

     Against his strength, then let them fall.

     Your lips are parted over set teeth;

     A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body

     Maddens your lover,

     And in a swift and terrible moment

     The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ...

     Then your lover sits up with a sigh.

     But you lie there so still with closed eyes.

     So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars.

     A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr

     Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom,

     But you do not move.

     And the sun comes up at last

     Finding you asleep in his arms,

     There by the hay cock.

     And he kisses your tears away,

     And redeems his word of last night,

     For down to the village you go

     And take your vows before the Pastor there,

     And then return to the summer house. ...

     All is well.

     IV

     Widow La Rue has returned

     And is rocking on the porch—

     What is about to happen?

     For last night the phantom of the old soldier

     Appeared to her again—

     It followed her to the house of her friend,

     And appeared again.

     But more than ever was it her husband,

     With the iris of his eyes so black,

     And the white of his eyes so china-blue.

     And while she thinks of it,

     And wonders what is about to happen,

     She hears laughter,

     And looking up, beholds her daughter

     And the forbidden lover.

     And then the daughter and her husband

     Come to the porch and the daughter says

     "We have just been married in the village, mother;

     Will you forgive us?

     This is your son; you must kiss your son."

     And Widow La Rue from her chair arises

     And calmly takes her child in her arms,

     And clasps his hand.

     And after gazing upon him

     Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked

     Upon returning Agamemnon,

     With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed,

     She kissed him,

     And in a calm voice blessed them.

     Then sent her daughter, singing,

     On an errand back to the village

     To market for dinner, saying:

     "We'll talk over plans, my dear."

     V

     And the young husband

     Rocks on the porch without a thought

     Of the lightning about to strike.

     And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue

     Enters the house.

     And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture,

     The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room

     By a window back of the chair where he rocks,

     And drawing the shade

     She speaks:

     "These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier

     Who haunts the midnights

     Of this summer loneliness.

     And I knew that a doom was at hand. ...

     You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ...

     O, God in heaven!"

     Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness

     Winds out of the July glare

     And stops the flow of his blood,

     As he hears from the re-echoing room

     The voice of Widow La Rue

     Moving darkly between banks

     Of delirious fear and woe!

     "Be calm till you hear me through. ...

     Do not move, or enter here,

     I am hiding my face from you. ...

     Hear me through, and then fly.

     I warned her against you, but how could I tell her

     Why you were not for her?

     But tell me now, have you come together?

     No? Thank God for that. ...

     For you must not come together. ...

     Now listen while I whisper to you:

     My daughter was born of a lawless love

     For a man I loved before I married,

     And when, for five years, no child came

     I went to this man

     And begged him to give me a child. ...

     Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ...

     And when my husband saw her,

     And saw the likeness of this man in her face

     He went out of the house, where they found him later

     By the entrance gate

     With the iris of his eyes so black,

     And the white of his eyes so china-blue,

     And specks of blood on his face,

     Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush.

     And something like blubber or pinkish wax

     Hiding the gash in his throat—

     The serum and blood blown up by the breath

     From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God!

     Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand?

     Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go!

     Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore!

     Take down the sickle and end yourself!

     You don't care, you say, for all I've told you?

     Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ...

     And her father died when she was a baby. ...

     And you were four when your father died. ...

     And her father died on the very day

     That your father died,

     At the verv same moment. ...

     On the very same bed. ...

     Don't you understand?"

     VI

     He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch,

     He runs and stumbles to reach the road.

     He yells and curses and tears his hair.

     He staggers and falls and rises and runs.

     And Widow La Rue

     With the eyes of Clytemnestra

     Stands at the window and watches him

     Running and tearing his hair.

     VII

     She seems so calm when the daughter returns.

     She only says: "He has gone to the meadow,

     He will soon be back. ..."

     But he never came back.

     And the years went on till the daughter's hair

     Was white as her mother's there in the grave.

     She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left

     And didn't say good-bye.

DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE

     I lectured last upon the morbus sacer,

     Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old

     In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed

     To deities or devils. To resume

     We find it caused by morphological

     Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes,

     More times, indeed, the anatomical

     Basis, if one be, escapes detection.

     For many functions of the cortex are

     Unknown, as I have said.

                                And now remember

     Mercier's analysis of heredity:

     Besides direct transmission of unstable

     Nervous systems, there remains the law

     Hereditary of sanguinity.

     Then here's another matter: Parents may

     Have normal nervous systems, yet produce

     Children of abnormal nerves and minds,

     Caused by unsuitable sexual germs.

     Let me repeat before I leave the matter

     The factors in a perfect organization:

     First quality in the germ producing matter;

     Then quality in the sperm producing force,

     And lastly relative fitness of the two.

     We are but plants, however high we rise,

     Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream

     We are but plants, and all we are and do

     Depends upon the seed and on the soil.

     What Mendel found in raising peas may lead

     To perfect knowledge of the human mind.

     There is one law for men and peas, the law

     Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men

     And mind of certain matter, all depends

     Not on a varying law, but on a law

     Varied in its course by matter, as

     The arm, which is a lever and which works

     By lever principle cannot make use

     And form cement with trowel to the forms

     It makes of paint or marble.

                                  To resume:

     A child may take the qualities of one parent

     In some respects, and of the other parent

     In some respects. A child may have the traits

     Of father at one period of his life,

     The mother at one period of his life.

     And if the parents' traits are similar

     Their traits may be prepotent in a child,

     Thus giving rise to qualities convergent.

     So if you take a circle and draw off

     A line which would become another circle

     If drawn enough, completed, but is left

     Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind

     Of cumulative heredity. Take John,

     My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect,

     John has a mind which is a perfect circle.

     A perfect circle can be small, you know.

     And so John has good sense within his sphere.

     But if some force began to work like yeast

     In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line

     To make a larger thinking circle, say

     About a great invention, heaven or God,

     Then John would be abnormal, till this line

     Shot round and joined, became a larger circle.

     This is the secret of eccentric genius,

     The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space

     Does not enclose co-ordinated thought.

     He's like a plant mutating, half himself

     Half something new and greater. If we looked

     To John's heredity we'd find this change

     Was manifest in mother or in father

     About the self-same period of life,

     Most likely in his father. Attributes

     Of fathers are inherited by sons,

     Of mothers by the daughters.

                                  Now this morning

     I take up paranoia. Paranoics

     Are often noted for great gifts of mind.

     Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics,

     Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown,

     Cellini, many others. All who think

     Themselves inspired of God, and all who see

     Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects

     Of prophecies are paranoics. All

     Who visions have of God or archangels,

     Hear voices or celestial music, these

     Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise

     Enough above the earth to look along

     A longer arc and see realities,

     Or see strange things through atmospheric strata

     Which build up or distort the things they see

     Remains the question. Let us wait the proof.

     Last week I told you I would have to-day

     The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here,

     And lecture on his case. Here is the brain:

     Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look

     After the lecture at the brain and skull.

     There's nothing anatomical at fault

     With this fine brain, so far as I can find.

     You'll note how deep the convolutions are,

     Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull

     Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note,

     The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical.

     But this is scarce significant. Let me tell

     How Jacob Groesbell looked:

                                 The man was tall,

     Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs.

     His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high,

     And ran back at an angle, temples full.

     His nose was long and fleshy at the point,

     Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray,

     The iris flecked. They looked as if a light

     As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears

     Were very large, projected at right angles.

     His neck was slender, womanish. His skin

     Of finest texture, white and very smooth.

     His voice was quiet, musical. His manner

     Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable.

     His parents, as I learned through inquiry,

     Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved.

     The mother healthy both in mind and body.

     The father was eccentric, perhaps insane.

     They were first cousins.

                              I knew Jacob Groesbell

     Ten years before he died. I knew him first

     When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman

     With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then

     As time went on I saw him when he came

     At my request to do my carpentry.

     I grew to know him, and by slow degrees

     He told me of his readings in the Bible,

     And gave me his interpretations. At last

     Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach,

     Which took him off. He sent for me, and said

     He wished me to attend him, which I did.

     He told me I could have his body and brain

     To lecture on, dissect, since some had said

     He was insane, he told me, and if so

     I should find something wrong with brain or body.

     And if I found a wrong then all his visions

     Of God and archangels were just the fancies

     That come to madmen. So he made provision

     To give his brain and body for this cause,

     And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing

     On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic.

     As I have said before, in making tests

     And observations of the patient, have

     His conversation taken stenographically,

     In order to preserve his speech exactly,

     And catch the flow if he becomes excited.

     So we determine if he makes new words,

     If he be incoherent, or repeats.

     I took my secretary once to make

     A stenographic record. Strange enough

     He would not talk while she was writing down.

     And when I asked him why, he would not tell.

     So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel,

     And put in it a dictaphone, and when

     A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put

     My hand among my bottles in the satchel,

     As if I was compounding medicine,

     Instead I'd put another cylinder on.

     And thus I got his story in his voice,

     Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all,

     Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone

     The students in the farthest gallery

     Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me,

     And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain

     Here in this jar beside me. Listen now

     To Jacob Groesbell's voice:

                                 "Will you repeat

     From the beginning connectedly the story

     Of your religious life, illumination,

     Vhat you have called your soul's escape?"

                                          "I will,

     Since I shall never tell it again."

                                      "I grew up

     Timid and sensitive, not very strong,

     Not understood of father or of mother.

     They did not love me, and I never felt

     A tenderness for them. I used to quote:

     'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?'

     At school I was not liked. I had a chum

     From time to time, that's all. And I remember

     My mother on a day put with my luncheon

     A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came

     I missed it, found some boys had taken it,

     And when I asked for it, they made the cry:

     'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I

     Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour

     It hurts me to remember it. Such days,

     All misery! For all my clothes were patched.

     They hooted at me. So I lived alone.

     At twelve years old I had great fears of death,

     And hell, heard devils in my room. One night

     During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains,

     And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day

     As I was walking on the village street

     Close to the church I heard a voice which said

     'Behold, my son'—and falling on my knees

     I prayed in ecstacy—but as I prayed

     Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me.

     A heat ran through me, I arose and fled.

     Well, then I joined the church and was baptized.

     But something left me in the ceremony,

     I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back

     Into the trap. I took to wandering

     In solitary places, could not bear

     To see a human face. I slept for nights

     In still ravines, or meadows. But one time

     Returning to my home, I found the room

     Filled up with visitors—my heart stopped short,

     And glancing at the faces of my parents

     I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak,

     Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So

     I tell this just to illustrate my shyness,

     Which cursed my youth and made me miserable,

     Something I fought but could not overcome.

     And pondering on the Scriptures I could see

     How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even,

     How even as my brothers called me mad

     They called our Saviour so.

                                "At fourteen years

     My father taught me carpentry, his trade,

     And made me work with him. I seemed to be

     The butt for jokes and laughter with the men—

     I know not why. For now and then they'd drop

     A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew

     I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts

     Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years,

     God was not with me though I sought Him ever

     And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain

     Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights,

     Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves,

     Clouds, trunks of trees,—illusions of the devil.

     I was turned twenty years when on an evening

     Calm, beautiful in June, after a day

     Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch,

     The sun just sinking, at my left I heard

     A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ."

     My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil

     Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought,

     So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy.

     I ran into my room and seized a pistol

     To end my life. God willed it otherwise.

     I fainted and awoke upon the floor

     After some hours. To heap my suffering full

     A few days after this while in the village

     I went into a store. The friendly clerk—

     I knew him always—said 'What will you have?

     I wait first always on the little boys.'

     I laughed and went my way. But in an hour

     His saying rankled, I began to brood

     On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last

     His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin,

     So devil tangled, tortured—which not prayer

     Nor watching could deliver. So I thought

     To save my soul from murder I must fly—

     I felt an urging as one does in sleep

     Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly

     From terror, death, from blankness on the scene,

     From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world

     Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps

     Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme

     Impels all steps. So packing up my kit,

     My Bible in my pocket, secretly

     I disappeared. Next day took up my life

     In Barrington, a village thirty miles

     From all I knew, besides a lovely lake,

     Reached by a road that crossed a bridge

     Over a little bay, the bridge's ends

     Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here

     Night after night I fished, or stood and watched

     The star-light on the water.

                                  I grew calmer

     Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived

     Under a widow's roof, who was devout

     And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor,

     To every word: I was now twenty-five,

     In perfect health, no longer persecuted,

     At peace with all the world, if not my soul

     Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell

     It had an ache which sometimes I could feel,

     And yet I had this soul awakening.

     I know I have been counted mad, so watch

     Each detail here and judge.

                                 At four o'clock

     The thirtieth day of June, my work being done,

     My kit upon my back I walked this road

     Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon

     Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle

     Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence

     Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot

     I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy

     The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats

     Along the bay, the blueness of the lake,

     The ripple of the water at my feet,

     The rythmic babble of the little boats

     Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing,

     Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds

     Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down

     Over the waters gloriously to rest.

     So as I stared upon the sun on the water,

     Some minutes, though I know not for how long,

     Out of the splendor of the shining sun

     Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth

     Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow,

     His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view,

     And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise

     And come with me.'

                        "And in an instant there

     Something fell from me, I became a cloud,

     A soul with wings. A glory burned about me.

     And in that glory I perceived all things:

     I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets

     Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns

     And I knew God, and knew all things as God:

     The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom,

     Truth, love and purity. And in that instant

     Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces,

     And how they are arranged order to order,

     With no break in the order, one harmonious

     Whole of universal life all blended

     And interfused with universal love.

     And as it was with Shelley so I cried,

     And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose

     And started back to climb the hill again,

     Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did,

     Nor where I went, and thinking if this be

     A fancy only of the Saviour then

     He will not follow me, and if it be

     Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall

     After the revelation. As I reached

     The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me

     And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son,

     Who knowest me, when they who walked with me

     Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told

     All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses,

     Who knew me not till I brake bread and then,

     As after thought could say, Did not our heart

     Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell,

     Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed

     With visions and my Father's love, this walk

     Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked,

     Expounding all the scriptures, telling me

     About the race of men who live and move

     Along a life of meat and drink and sleep

     And comforts of the flesh, while here and there

     A hungering soul is chosen to lift up

     And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet

     Must seek and must find God to keep the race

     Awake to the divine and to the orders

     Of universal and harmonious life,

     All interfused with Universal love,

     Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism,

     Which sees no order, reason, no intent

     Beat down the race to welter in the mire

     When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God,

     The leaders of the race from age to age

     Are chosen for their separate work, each work

     Fits in the given order. All who suffer

     The martyrdom of thought, whether they think

     Themselves as servants of my Father, or even

     Mock at the images and rituals

     Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize

     The mystery they sensed, or whether they be

     Spirits of laughter, logic, divination

     Of human life, the human soul, all men

     Who give their essence, blindly or in vision

     In faith that life is worth their utmost love,

     They are my brothers and my Father's sons.'

     So Jesus told me as we took my walk

     Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned

     And walked through heading rye and purple vetch

     Into an orchard where great rows of pears

     Sloped up a hill. It was now evening:

     Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west,

     And a half moon was hanging just above

     The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening!

     We came back to the boats at last and loosed

     One of them and rowed out into the bay,

     And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said

     'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.'

     A haziness came on me now. I seem

     To find myself alone there in that boat.

     At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk,

     The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home

     Back to the village in a silence, peace,

     A happiness profound.

                           "And the next morning

     I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet

     With spiritual vision so intense I looked

     Through things material as if they were

     But shadows—old things passed away or grew

     A lovelier order. And my heart was full.

     Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved.

     My landlady looked at me sharply, asked

     What hour I entered, where I was so late.

     I only answered fishing. For I told

     No person of my vision, went my way

     At carpentry in silence, in great joy.

     For archangels and powers were at my side,

     They led me, bore me up, instructed me

     In mysteries, and voices said to me

     'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John.

     I wrote and printed and the village read,

     And called me mad. And so I grew to see

     The deepest truths of God, and God Himself,

     The geniture of all things, of the Word

     Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages,

     Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness

     Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained,

     And how the search for something (it is God)

     Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts

     Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries

     Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth

     At harvest time have praise or reverence.

     I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God

     Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains

     Are but the wires in the bulb which stays,

     Resists the current and makes human thought.

     As the electric current is not light

     But heat and power as well. Our little brains

     Resist God and make thought and love as well.

     But God is more than these. Oh I heard much

     Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels,

     Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still.

     That is the axis of profoundest life

     Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry

     And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages,

     The epochs of this earth as it were the feet

     Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew

     The agony of genius and the woe

     Of prophets and the great.

                                "From that next morning

     I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal

     Than I had ever done. I could not open

     Its pages anywhere but I could find

     Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to.

     I could not doubt my destiny was bound

     With man's salvation. Jeremiah said

     'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words

     To me were spoken, and to no one else.

     And so I searched the scriptures. And I found

     I never had a thought, experience, pang,

     A state in human life our Saviour had not.

     He was a carpenter, and so was I.

     He had his soul's illumination, so had I.

     His brethren called him mad, they called me mad.

     He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph.

     For I could, I can feel my way along

     Death's stages as a man can reach and feel

     Ahead of him along a wall. I know

     This body is a shell, a butterfly's

     Excreta pushed away with rising wings.

     "I searched the scriptures. How should I believe

     Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see

     At mid-day in the way a light from heaven

     Above the brightness of the sun and hear

     The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,'

     Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus,

     Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself,

     Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake

     Such words as none but men inspired can speak,

     As well as words of truth and soberness,

     Such as myself speak now.

                               "And from the scriptures

     I passed to studies of the men who came

     To great illuminations. You will see

     There are two kinds: One's of the intellect,

     The understanding, one is of the soul.

     The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh

     To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men

     In their illumination see the frame-work

     Of life or see its spirit, so align

     Themselves with Science, Satire, or align

     Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy.

     So being Aristotle, Rabelais,

     Paul, Swedenborg.

                       "And as the years

     Went on, as I had time, was fortunate

     In finding books I read of many men

     Who had illumination, as I had it. Read

     Of Dante's vision, how he found himself

     Saw immortality, lost fear of death.

     Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect

     At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven

     Before he quitted life and saw behind

     The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth.

     Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest

     My manhood's visionary meditations

     Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge.

     Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable

     Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.'

     Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth

     Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused,

     Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

     And the round ocean and the living air,

     And the blue skies, and in the mind of man—

     A motion and a spirit that impels

     All thinking things, all objects of all thought

     And rolls through all things.'

                          "And at last they called me

     The mad, and learned carpenter. And then—

     I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..."

                                      At this point

     He fainted, sank into a stupor. There

     I watched him, to discover if 'twas death.

     But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke.

     There was some other talk, but not of moment.

     I had to change the cylinder—the talk

     Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things,

     Throws no light on the case, being sane enough.

     He died next morning.

                           Students who desire

     To examine the skull and brain may do so now

     At their convenience in the laboratory.

FRIAR YVES

     Said Friar Yves: "God will bless

     Saint Louis' other-worldliness.

     Whatever the fate be, still I fare

     To fight for the Holy Sepulcher.

     If I survive, I shall return

     With precious things from Palestine—

     Gold for my purse, spices and wine,

     Glory to wear among my kin.

     Fame as a warrior I shall win.

     But, otherwise, if I am slain

     In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn

     Immortal life washed white from sin."

     Said Friar Yves: "Come what will—

     Riches and glory, death and woe—

     At dawn to Palestine I go.

     Whether I live or die, I gain

     To fly the tepid good and ill

     Of daily living in Champagne,

     Where those who reach salvation lose

     The treasures, raptures of the earth,

     Captured, possessed, and made to serve

     The gospel love of Jesus' birth,

     Sacrifice, death; where even those

     Passing from pious works and prayer

     To paradise are not received

     As those who battled, strove, and lived,

     And periled bodies, as I choose

     To peril mine, and thus to use

     Body and soul to build the throne

     Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care

     Lay Jesus under a granite stone."

     Then Friar Yves buckled on

     His breastplate, and, at break of dawn,

     With crossboy, halberd took his way,

     Walked without resting, without pause,

     Till the sun hovered at midday

     Over a tree of glistening leaves,

     Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws

     My stomach," whispered Friar Yves.

     "If I," he sighed, "could only gain,

     Like yonder spring, an inner source

     Of life, and need not dew or rain

     Of human love, or human friends,

     And thus accomplish my soul's ends

     Within myself! No," said the friar;

     "There is one water and one fire;

     There is one Spirit, which is God.

     And what are we but streams and springs

     Through which He takes His wanderings?

     Lord, I am weak, I am afraid;

     Show me the way!" the friar prayed.

     "Where do I flow and to what end?

     Am I of Thee, or do I blend

     Hereafter with Thee?"

                           Yves heard,

     While praying, sounds as when the sod

     Teems with a swarm of insect things.

     He dropped his halberd to look down,

     And then his waking vision blurred,

     As one before a light will frown.

     His inner ear was caught and stirred

     By voices; then the chestnut tree

     Became a step beside a throne.

     Breathless he lay and fearfully,

     While on his brain a vision shone.

     Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone:

     "The time has come when I must take

     The form of man for mankind's sake.

     This drama is played long enough

     By creatures who have naught of me,

     Save what comes up from foam of the sea

     To crawling moss or swimming weeds,

     At last to man. From heaven in flame,

     Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly,

     And take a mortal's form and name,

     And labor for the race's needs."

     Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky

     Flushed like a bride's face rosily,

     And shot to lightning from its bloom.

     The world leaped like a babe in the womb,

     And choral voices from heaven's cope

     Circled the earth like singing stars:

     "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope,

     O passion realized at last;

     O end of hunger, fear, and wars,

     O victory over the bottomless, vast

     Valley of Death!"

                       A silence fell,

     Broke by the voice of Gabriel:

     "Music may follow this, O Lord!

     Music I hear; I hear discord

     Through ages yet to be, as well.

     There will be wars because of this,

     And wars will come in its despite.

     It's noon on the world now; blackest night

     Will follow soon. And men will miss

     The meaning, Lord! There will be strife

     'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite,

     Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean,

     'Twixt Christian and the Saracen.

     There will be war to win the place

     Where you bend death to sovereign life.

     Armed kings will battle for the grace

     Of rulership, for power and gold

     In the name of Jesus. Men will hold

     Conclaves of swords to win surcease

     Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace.

     The seed is good, Lord, make the ground

     Good for the seed you scatter round!"

     Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone:

     "The gardener sprays his plants and trees

     To drive out lice and stop disease.

     After the spraying, fruit is grown

     Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes

     Of men can see this end, although

     Leaves wither or a whole tree dies

     From what the gardener does to grow

     Apples and plums of sweeter flesh.

     The gardener lives outside the tree;

     The gardener knows the tree can see

     What cure is needed, plans afresh

     An end foreseen, and there's the will

     Wherewith the gardener may fulfil

     The orchard's destiny."

                            So He spake.

     And Friar Yves seemed to wake,

     But did not wake, and only sunk

     Into another dreaming state,

     Wherein he saw a woman's form

     Leaning against the chestnut's trunk.

     Her body was virginal, white, and straight,

     And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm,

     Behind a robe of writhing green:

     As when a rock's wall makes a screen

     Whereon the crisscross reflect moves

     Of circling water under the rays

     Of April sunlight through the sprays

     Of budding branches in willow groves—

     A liquid mosaic of green and gold—

     Thus was her robe.

                        But to behold

     Her face was to forget the youth

     Of her white bosom. All her hair

     Was tangled serpents; she did wear

     A single eye in the middle brow.

     Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth

     Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough

     O'ershadowed her the while she gripped

     A pail in either hand. One dripped

     Clear water; one, ethereal fire.

     Then to the Graia spoke the friar:

     "Have mercy! Tell me your desire

     And what you are?"

                       Then the Graia said:

     "My body is Nature and my head

     Is Man, and God has given me

     A seeing spirit, strong and free,

     Though by a single eye, as even

     Man has one vision at a time.

     I lift my pails up; mark them well.

     With this fire I will burn up heaven,

     And with this water I will quench

     The flames of hell's remotest trench,

     That men may work in righteousness.

     Not for the fears of an after hell,

     Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless

     The soul with when the mountains nod

     And the sun darkens, but for love

     Of Man and Life, and love of God.

     Now look!"

                She dashed the pail of fire

     Against the vault of heaven. It fell

     As would a canopy of blue

     Burned by a soldier's careless torch.

     She dashed the water into hell,

     And a great steam rose up with the smell

     Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch

     All things which on the good earth grew.

     "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer,

     Awake from slumber, rise and speed

     To fight for the Holy Sepulcher—

     Nothing is left but Life, indeed—

     I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell."

     Friar Yves no longer slept;

     Friar Yves awoke and wept.

THE EIGHTH CRUSADE

     June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs,

     And every day it rained. And every morning

     I heard the wind and rain among the leaves.

     Try as I would my spirits grew no better.

     What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind?

     I spent the whole day working with my hands,

     For there was brush to clear and corn to plant

     Between the gusts of rain; and there at night

     I sat about the room and hugged the fire.

     And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered

     For cold and it was June. I ached all through

     For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not

     To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body,

     Or soul if it were soul?

                              But there at night

     As I sat aching, worn, before the hour

     Of sleep, and restless in this interval

     Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors,

     Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap

     Of cards upon a table by a boarder

     Who passed the time in playing solitaire,

     Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe,

     And scrape away the dust of long past years

     To show me what had happened in his life.

     And as he smoked and talked his aged wife

     Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches

     Formed by a slender island, flow together.

     Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch,

     An episode or version. And sometimes

     He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend

     While she went on to what she wished to finish,

     When he'd resume. They talked together thus.

     He found the story and began to tell it,

     And she hung on his story, told it too.

     This night the rain came down in buckets full,

     And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath

     Between the opening of the outer door

     And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air.

     And my host who had hoed the whole day long,

     Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe

     Reading the organ of the Adventists,

     His wife beside him knitting.

                                   On the table

     Are several magazines with their monthly grist

     Of stories and of pictures. O such stories!

     Who writes these stories? How does it happen people

     Are born into the world to read these stories?

     But anyway the lamp is very bad,

     And every bone in me aches—and why always

     Must one be either reading, knitting, talking?

     Why not sit quietly and think?

                                     At last

     Between the clicking needles and the slap

     Of cards upon the table and the swish

     Of rain upon the window my host speaks:

     "It says here when the Germans are defeated,

     And that means when the Turks are beaten too,

     The Christian world will take back Palestine,

     And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so."

     "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live

     To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back

     From Jaffa if the Allies win."

                                     To me

     The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk,

     At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and

     It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back,

     But his trunk never came."

                                And then the husband:

     "What are you saying, mother, you go on

     As if our friend here knew the story too.

     And then you talk as if our hope of the war

     Was centered on recovering that trunk."

                                         "Oh, not at all

     But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there

     In Jaffa you might get it back. You know

     You'll never get it back while infidels

     Rule Palestine."

                      The husband says to me:

     "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine,

     Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago,

     Is in existence yet, when chances are

     They kept it for awhile, and sold it off,

     Or threw it away."

                        "They never threw it away.

     Why I made him a dozen shirts or more,

     And knitted him a lot of lovely socks,

     And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained

     Everything that a man might need in absence

     A year from home. And yet they threw it away!"

     "They might have done so."

                             "But they never did,

     Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?"

     "They were too valuable."

                               "Too valuable,

     Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes."

     "Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable."

     He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools

     Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this:

     To work at cabinet making while observing

     Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready

     To drive the Turks from Palestine."

                                   What's this?

     I rub my eyes and wake up to this story.

     I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house

     Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in.

     And in a moment Turks and Palestine,

     And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise

     And show me how the world is small, and a man

     Native to Illinois may travel forth

     And mix his life with ancient things afar.

     To-day be raising corn here and next month

     Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenæ,

     Digging for Grecian relics.

                                 So I asked

     "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick:

     "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it."

     And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke.

     You see it was this way, myself and the bishop,

     He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains,

     Had planned to meet in Switzerland."

                        "Montreaux"

     The wife broke in.

                       "Montreaux" the husband added.

     "You said you two had planned it," she went on.

     Now looking over specks and speaking louder:

     "The bishop came to him, he planned it out.

     My husband didn't plan the trip at all.

     He knows the bishop planned it."

                                     Then the husband:

     "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first,

     And I acceded and we worked it out.

     He was to go ahead of me, I was

     To come in later, soon as I could raise

     What funds my congregation could afford

     To spare for this adventure."

                                 "Guess," she said,

     "How much it was."

                      I shook my head and she

     Said in a lowered and a tragic voice:

     "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe

     It strapped his church to raise so great a sum.

     And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come

     Scarcely before the plan could be put through

     Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum

     Had never been made up and put in gold

     For him to carry in a chamois belt."

     And then the husband said: "Mother, be still,

     I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me."

     "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that.

     Go on," she said.

                       And so he started over:

     "The bishop came to me and said he thought

     The Advent would be June of seventy-six.

     This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one.

     He said he had a dream; and in this dream

     An angel stood beside him, told him so,

     And told him to get me and go to Jaffa,

     And live there, learn the people and the country,

     We were to live disguised the better to learn

     The people and the country. I was to work

     At my trade as a cabinet maker, he

     At carpentry, which was his trade, and so

     No one would know us, or suspect our plan.

     And thus we could live undisturbed and work,

     And get all things in readiness, that in time

     The Lord would send us power, and do all things.

     We were the messengers to go ahead

     And make the ways straight, so I told her of it."

     "You told me, yes, but my trust was as great

     As yours was in the bishop, little the good

     To tell me of it."

                        "Well, I told you of it.

     And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so

     You must obey.' And so she knit the socks

     And made that trunk of things, as she has said,

     And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia."

     "'Twas nearer two months," said the wife.

                                           "Perhaps,

     Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop

     Left Springfield in a month from our first talk.

     I knew, for I went over when he left.

     And I remember how his poor wife cried,

     And how the children cried. He had a family

     Of some eight children."

                              "Only seven then,

     The son named David died the year before."

     "Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then.

     The oldest was not more than twelve, I think,

     And all the children cried, and at the train

     His congregation almost to a man

     Was there to see him off."

                               "Well, one was missing.

     You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly.

     "I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still.

     Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks,

     Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux

     To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk

     To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now

     I must tell you my dream. The night before

     I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream:

     I saw the bishop on the station platform

     His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing

     His gold head cane. And sure enough next day

     As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop

     His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing

     His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong,

     And still I didn't act upon the thought."

     "I should say not," the wife broke in again.

     "Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought

     More clearly than I did that things were wrong.

     You can't uproot the confidence of years

     Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms

     I knew his face was red, but didn't know,

     Or think just then, that brandy made it red.

     And so I went up to the house he lived in—

     A mansion beautiful, and we sat down.

     And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker,

     Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger

     Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me

     Silently for a moment, when he said:

     'What money did you bring?' And so I told him.

     And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So

     I took my belt off, counted out the gold

     And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it

     With this hand in this pocket, that in that,

     And sat there and said nothing more, just looked!

     And then before a word was spoke again

     I heard a step upon the stair, the stair

     Came down into this room where we were sitting.

     And I looked up, and there—I rubbed my eyes—

     I looked again, rose from my chair to see,

     And saw descending the most lovely woman,

     Who was"—

                 "A lovely woman," sneered the wife

     "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop,

     That's what she was."

                           "Affinity is right—

     You see she was the leader in the choir,

     And she had run away with him, or rather

     Had gone abroad upon another boat

     And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time

     For forty hours or so all is a blank.

     I just remember trying to speak and choking,

     And flying from the room, the bishop clutching

     At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that

     I can't recall a thing until I saw

     A little cottage way up in the Alps.

     I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick,

     The door was opened and they took me in,

     And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me

     In a good bed where I slept half a week.

     It seems in my bewilderment I wandered,

     Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so

     By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes."

     "He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed.

     "These were the kindest people in the world,

     A French family. They gave me splendid food,

     And when I left two francs to reach the place

     Where lived the English Consul, who arranged

     After some days for money for my passage

     Back to America, and in six weeks

     I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains."

     "Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said.

     And I who heard this story through spoke up:

     "The thing about this that I fail to get

     Concerns this woman, the affinity.

     If, as seems evident, she and the bishop

     Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith,

     And you, the congregation to get money

     To do it with, or used you in particular

     To get the money for themselves to live on

     After they had arrived there in Montreaux,

     If all this be" I said, "why did this woman

     Descend just at the moment when he asked you

     For the money that you had. You might have seen her

     Before you gave the money, if you had

     You might have held it back."

                                   "I would indeed,

     You can be sure I should have held it back."

     And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting.

     "Now, James, you let me answer that, I know.

     She was done with the bishop, that's the reason.

     Be still and let me answer. Here's the story:

     We found out later that the bishop's trunk

     And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa

     There to Montreaux, were there that very day,

     Which means the bishop never meant to go

     To Palestine at all, but meant to meet

     This woman in Montreaux and live with her.

     Well, that takes money. So he used my husband

     To get that money. Now you wonder I see

     Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme,

     Descend into the room before my husband

     Had given up this money, and this money,

     You see, was treated as a common fund

     Belonging to the church and to be used

     To get back Palestine, and so the bishop

     As head of the church, superior to my husband,

     Could say 'give me the money'—that was natural,

     My husband could not be surprised at that,

     Or question it. Well, why did she descend

     And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat!

     I know what she did, as well as I had seen

     Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing.

     And when she heard my husband tell the sum

     Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her,

     And Satan entered in her heart, and she

     Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets

     Clink with the double eagles, then descended

     To expose the bishop and disgrace him there

     And everywhere in all the world. Now listen:

     She got that money or the most of it

     In spite of what she did. For in six weeks

     After my husband had returned, she walked,

     The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield

     As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon

     The bishop died and all the papers printed

     The story of his shame."

                              She had scarce finished

     When the man at solitaire threw down the deck

     And make a whacking noise and rose and came

     Around in front of us and stood and looked

     The old man and old woman over, me

     He studied too. Then in an organ voice:

     "Is there a single verse in the New Testament

     That hasn't sprouted one church anyway,

     Letting alone the verses that have sprouted

     Two, three or four or five? I know of one:

     Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"?

     Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept."

     With that he went out in the rain and slammed

     The door behind him.

                            The old clergyman

     Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said,

     "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid."

THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

     A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner

     And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns

     Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle.

     I stand a moment listening, then my friend

     Who studies all religions, finds a wonder

     In orphic spectacles like this, lays hold

     Upon my arm and draws me to a door

     Through which we look and see a room of seats,

     A platform at the end, a table on it,

     And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting,"

     And "God is Love."

                        We enter, take a seat.

     The band comes in and fills the room to bursting

     With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard,

     The crowd has followed, half the seats are full.

     After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts

     The platform by the table and begins:

     "Praise God so many girls are here to-night,

     And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God

     Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you."

     So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform,

     A woman nearing forty, one would say.

     Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure

     Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last.

     She was a pretty woman in her time,

     'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence

     From living in the world shines in her face.

     We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey

     And in a moment she begins:

                                 "Young girls:

     I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me,

     I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour.

     No woman ever stained with redder sins.

     Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus!

     Praise God for blood that washes sins away!

     I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus

     Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean.

     My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you

     How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls,

     If there be one before me who can sing

     Beware the devil and beware your voice

     That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan."

     "I had a voice, was leader of the choir,

     But Satan entered in my voice to tempt

     The bishop of the church, and in my heart

     To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop

     Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path.

     He fell from grace for listening. And I

     Whose voice had turned him over to the devil

     Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him.

     No use to make it long, one word's enough:

     Old Satan is the first word and the last,

     And all between is nothing. It's enough

     To say the bishop and myself eloped

     Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children.

     And I poor silly thing with promises

     Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost

     Good name and all. And he lost all as well.

     Good name, his soul I fear, because he took

     The church's money saying he would use it

     To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact

     Intending all the while to use the money

     For travel and for keeping up a house

     With me as soul-mate. For he never meant

     To let me go to Paris for my voice,

     He never got enough to pay for that.

     On that point he betrayed me, now I see

     'Twas God who used him to deceive me there,

     And leave me to return to Springfield broken,

     An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned."

     "We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough

     As we looked at it passing, but within

     'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire:

     Engravings on the wall and marble mantels,

     Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs,

     Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china,

     Soft beds with canopies of figured satin,

     The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms.

     A little garden, vines against the wall.

     There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan

     Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop

     Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled.

     And every time his face came close to mine

     I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped

     Its venomed tail against his peace of mind.

     And so he took the brandy to benumb

     The sting of conscience and to dull the pain.

     He told me he had business in Montreaux

     Which would require some weeks, would there be met

     By people who had money for him. I

     Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked

     In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling

     In Paris—oh 'twas music, as I said.". ...

     "At last one day he said a friend was coming,

     And he went to the station. Very soon

     I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend.

     They entered. I was curious and sat

     Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear.

     And this is what I heard. The bishop asked:

     'You've brought some money, how much have you brought?'

     The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then

     The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment

     I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop

     Putting it in his pocket.'

                                "God forgive me,

     I never was so angry in my life.

     The bishop had been talking in big figures,

     We would have thousands for my voice and Paris,

     And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing

     Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see

     The American who brought the money—well,

     No matter what it was, I walked in view

     Upon the landing, stood there for a moment

     And saw our visitor, a clergyman

     From all appearances. He stared, grew red,

     Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose,

     Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door,

     Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked

     The door ajar, with open mouth backed out

     Upon the street and ran. I heard him run

     A square at least."

                         "The bishop looked at me,

     His face all brandy blossoms, left the room,

     Came back at once with brandy on his breath.

     And all that day was tippling, went to bed

     So drunk I had to take his clothing off

     And help him in."

                       "Young girls, beware of music,

     Save only hymns and sacred oratorios.

     Beware the theatre and dancing hall.

     Take lesson from my fate.

                               "The morning came.

     The bishop called me, he was very ill

     And pale with fear. He had a dream that night.

     Satan had used him and abandoned him.

     And Death, whom only Jesus can put down,

     Was standing by the bed. He called to me,

     And said to me:

                     "'That money's in that drawer.

     Use it to reach America, but use it

     To send my body back. Death's in the corner

     Behind that cabinet—there—see him look!

     I had a dream—go get a pen and paper,

     And write down what I tell you. God forgive me—

     Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman,

     To lie here dying and to know that God

     Has left me—hell awaits me—horrible!

     Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money,

     This man and I were walking from Damascus,

     And in a trice came down to Olivet.

     Just then great troops of men sprang up around us

     And hailed us as expecting our approach.

     And there I saw the faces—hundreds maybe,

     Of congregations who had trusted me

     In all the long past years—Oh, sinful woman,

     Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times,

     'And wreck my ministry.'

                              "'And so these crowds

     Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general,

     And shouted forward. So we ran like mad

     And came before a building with a dome—

     You know—I've seen a picture of it somewhere.

     And so the crowds yelled: let the bishop enter

     And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard.

     They pushed me in. But when I was inside

     There was no dome, above us was the sky,

     And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence.

     Before us was a stable with a stall

     Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer

     Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall.

     "Where is the holy sepulchre?" I asked—

     "My army's at the door." He kept at work

     And never raised his eyes and only said:

     "Don't know; I haven't time for things like that.

     You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that.

     We don't know where it is, nor do we care.

     We live here and we knew him, so we feel

     Less interest than you. But have you thought

     If you should find it it would only be

     A tomb like other tombs? Why look at this:

     Here is the very manger where he lay—

     What is it? Just a manger filled with straw.

     These cows are not the very cows you know—

     But cows are cows in every age and place.

     I think that board there has been nailed on since.

     Outside of that the place is just the same.

     Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother

     Lay in that corner there, what if she did?

     That lantern on the wall's the very one

     They came to see the child with from the inn—

     What of it? Take your army and go on,

     And leave me with my barn and with my cows."

     "'So all the glory vanished! Devil magic

     Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing,

     No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling,

     No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic

     Blood for sins' remission—just a barn,

     A stall, two cows, a lantern—all the glory—

     Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment:

     My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream,

     Which seems as real as life—to lie here dying

     Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there

     Behind that cabinet—there—see him look—

     By God forsaken—all theology,

     All mystery, all wonder, all delight

     Of spiritual vision swept away as clean

     As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see

     While dying, just a manger, and two cows,

     A lantern on the wall.

                            "'And thus to see,

     For blasphemy that duped an honest heart,

     And took the pitiful dollars of the flock

     To win you with—oh, woman, woman, woman,

     A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear

     In such a daylight of clear seeing senses

     That all the splendor, the miraculous

     Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child,

     The star that followed till it rested over

     The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked,

     All blotted from belief, all snatched away

     From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding

     The robes of God.'

                        "And so the bishop raved

     While I stood terrified, since I could feel

     Death in the room, and almost see the monster

     Behind the cabinet.

                          "Then the bishop said:

     "'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard

     And passed into a place of tombs. And look!

     Before I knew I stepped into a hole,

     A sunken grave with just a slab at head,

     And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else,

     No date, no birth, no parentage.'"

                                        "'I lie

     Tormented by the pictures of this dream.

     Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind

     Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven.

     The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with

     Are worth the care of all the days of life.

     All life should be directed to this end,

     Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop,

     And with their wings blot out the sun of faith,

     And with their croakings drown the voice of God.'

     "He ceased, became delirious. So he died,

     And I still unrepentant buried him

     There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained

     Went on to Paris.

                       "See how I was marked

     For God's salvation.

                          "There I went to see

     The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch,

     Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes,

     And face impassive, let me sing a scale,

     Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought,

     Came in just then. They talked in French, and I,

     Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored,

     Left standing like a fool, passed from the room.

     So music turned on me, but God received me,

     And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord

     Made life too hard for me without the fold.

     I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place

     Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers.

     Thus being in conviction, after struggles,

     And many prayers I found salvation, found

     My work in life: which is to talk to girls

     And stand upon this platform and relate

     My story for their good."

                               She ceased. Amens

     Went up about the room. The big drum boomed,

     And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals,

     The silver triangle and the singing voices.

     My friend and I arose and left the room.

NEANDERTHAL

     "Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry

     I woke from deeper slumber—was it sleep?—

     And saw a hooded figure standing by

     The bed whereon I lay.

                            "Why do you keep,

     O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard

     About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep

     Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard,

     As that unearthly shape was veiled to you

     At Casa Magni?"

                     Then the room was starred

     With light as I was speaking, and I knew

     The god, my brother, from whose face the veil

     Melted as mist.

                     "What mission fair and true,

     While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale

     Amid this solemn stillness, for your face

     Unutterably majestic."

                            As when the dale

     At midnight echoes for a little space,

     The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come,"

     And nothing more. I left my bed apace,

     And followed him with wings above the gloom

     Of clouds like chariots driven on to war,

     Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and swum.

     A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar

     Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near

     As we passed over pines, where many a star

     And heaven's light made every frond as clear

     As through a glass or in the lightning's flash. ...

     Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear,

     A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash

     My breast or side—which was myself, it seemed,

     The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash

     And violent, a brain soul unredeemed,

     Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death

     Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed

     Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath

     Said to the body, as it were a thing

     Separate and indifferent: "How uneath

     That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling

     Close to him, both another and the same."

     Now was this mood reversed: That self must wing

     Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim

     With fleshly hands my better, stronger part,

     As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. ...

     But as we passed o'er empires and athwart

     A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes

     And running tides which made the sinking heart

     Rise up again for breath, I felt how close

     The god, my brother, was, who would sustain

     My wings whatever dangers might oppose,

     And knowing him beside me, like a strain

     Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet

     Was spoken by him.

                        When as out of rain

     Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set

     Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see

     The Düssel river from a parapet

     Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously,

     As reaching, in a moment with his hand

     He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key

     Of harder granite, and at his command,

     When he had made an opening, I slid

     And sank, down, down through the Devonian land

     Until with him I reached a cavern hid

     From every eye but ours, and where no light

     But from our faces was, a pyramid

     Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night.

     Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful,

     He bent again and raked, and to my sight

     Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull—

     Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess.

     Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull

     Too fine and large to house the nakedness

     Of a beast's mind.

                        But as I looked the god

     Began these words: "Before the iron stress

     Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod

     The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made

     A granary for the east, or ere the clod

     In Babylon or India baked was laid

     For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years

     Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade

     Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears,

     Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept,

     Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears,

     And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept

     In terms of thought or vision as the proof

     Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept

     The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof

     Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead

     Even to lower ethers, no behoof

     Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred

     Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought,

     Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled

     Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought

     No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs

     Of hunger or of thirst."

                              As you have sought

     The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs

     In waking or in slumber just above

     The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs

     With poison of despair all moods but love,

     Behold its secret lettered on this brow

     Placed by your own!

                         This is the word thereof:

     Change and progression from the glazed slough,
     Where life creeps and is blind, ascending up
     The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow
     On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup
     Of martyrdom for truth's sake.

                                     It may be

     Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup,

     Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history

     Records the earliest day, and that the race

     Is what it was in virtue, charity,

     And nothing better. But within this face

     No light shone from that realm where Hindostan,

     Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace

     And inspiration to explore the plan

     Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test

     Is not five thousand years, which leave the van

     Just where it was, but this change manifest

     In fifty thousand years between the mind

     Neanderthal's and Shelley's.

                                  Man progressed

     Along these years, found eyes where he was blind,

     Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave,

     And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind

     Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave

     To mind a touch of divinity, making whole

     An undeveloped growth.

                            As ships that brave

     Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal

     From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed

     Somewhere with lightning and became a soul.

     Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed

     Than breath of life itself, and by a leap,

     As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed

     In man from the beginning broke the sleep

     That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes

     Awakened saw himself, out of the deep

     And wonder of the self caught the surmise

     Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through

     The flow of living.

                         And so man shall rise

     From this illumination, from this clue

     To perfect knowledge that this Power exists,

     And what man is to this Power, even as you

     Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists

     And ignorance of centuries untold.

     What would you say if learned geologists

     Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold

     The skulls of greater races, records, books

     To shame us for our day, could we behold

     Therein our retrogression? Wonder looks

     In vain for these, discovers everywhere

     Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks

     Far down and far away; a stalk more fair

     Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk

     The eye may see, at last the flowering flare

     Of man to-day!

                    I see the things which balk,

     Retard, divert, draw into sluices small,

     But who beholds the stream turned back to mock,

     Not just itself, but make equivocal

     A Universal Reason, Vision? No.

     You find no proof of this, but prodigal

     Proof of ascending Life!

                              So life shall flow

     Here on this globe until the final fruit

     And harvest. As it were until the glow

     Of the great blossom has the attribute

     In essence, color of eternal things,

     And shows no rim between its hues which suit

     The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings

     A gleaned and stricken field amid the void

     What matters it to you, a soul with wings,

     Whether it be replanted or destroyed?

     Has it not served you?"

                              Now his voice was still,

     Which in such discourse had been thus employed.

     And in that lonely cavern dark and chill

     I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke

     To find the moonlight on the window sill

     That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak,

     Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made

     The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke

     Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade.

     And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned

     The voice which left me calm and unafraid.

THE END OF THE SEARCH

     There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole,
     And the tiger banner, he cries.
     Pantagruel breaks into a laugh
     As the monarch dries his eyes.—The Search

     "The tiger banyer, that is what you call much
     Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer.
     That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call
     Nature. See! Nature!"—King Joy

     Said Old King Cole I know the banner

     Of dragon and tiger too,

     But I would know the vagrant fellows

     Who came to my castle with you.

     And I would know why they rise in the morning

     And never take bread or scrip;

     And why they hasten over the mountain

     In a sorrowed fellowship.

     Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not?

     One said he goes to Spain.

     One said he goes to Elsinore,

     And one to the Trojan plain.

     Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole,

     There is a word that's more:

     Who is it goes to Spain and Troy?

     And who to Elsinore?

     One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel,

     Out for the final joust.

     One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel

     And one I think is Faust.

     Whoever they be, said Pantagruel,

     Why stand at the window and drool?

     Let's out and catch the runaways

     While the morning hour is cool.

     Pantagruel runs to the castle court,

     And King Cole follows soon.

     The cobblestones of the court yard ring

     To the beat of their flying shoon.

     Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle,

     And King Cole clutches his crown.

     They throw the bolt of the castle gate

     And race them through the town.

     They cross the river and follow the road,

     They run by the willow trees,

     And the tiger banner and dragon banner

     Wait for the morning breeze.

     They clamber the wall and part the brambles,

     And tear through thicket and thorn.

     And a wild dove in an olive tree

     Does mourn and mourn and mourn.

     A green snake starts in the tangled grass,

     And springs his length at their feet.

     And a condor circles the purple sky

     Looking for carrion meat.

     And mad black flies are over their heads,

     And a wolf looks out of his hole.

     Great drops of sweat break out and run

     From the brow of Old King Cole.

     Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend,

     From the holy bottle, I pray.

     My breath is short, my feet run blood,

     My throat is baked as clay.

     Anon they reach a mountain top,

     And a mile below in the plain

     Are the glitter of guns and a million men

     Led by an idiot brain.

     They come to a field of slush and flaw

     Red with a blood red dye.

     And a million faces fungus pale

     Stare horribly at the sky.

     They come to a cross where a rotting thing

     Is slipping down from the nails.

     And a raven perched on the eyeless skull

     Opens his beak and rails:

     "If thou be the Son of man come down,

     Save us and thyself save."

     Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven:

     "How now blaspheming knave!"

     "Come down and of my bottle drink,

     And cease this scurvy rune."

     But the raven flapped its wings and laughed

     Loud as the water loon.

     Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend,

     I faint, a drink in haste.

     But when he drinks he pales and mutters:

     "The wine has lost its taste."

     "You have gone mad," said Pantagruel,

     "In faith 'tis the same old wine."

     Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle

     But the flavor is like sea brine.

     And there on a rock is a cypress tree,

     And a form with a muffled face.

     "I know you, Death," said Pantagruel,

     "But I ask of you no grace."

     "Empty my bottle, sour my wine,

     Bend me, you shall not break."

     "Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time

     Before I come and take."

     "You have lost everything in life but the bottle,

     Youth and woman and friend.

     Pass on and laugh for a little space yet

     The laugh that has an end."

     Pantagruel passes and looks around him

     Brave and merry of soul.

     But there on the ground lies a dead body,

     The body of Old King Cole.

     And a Voice said: Take the body up

     And carry the body for me

     Until you come to a silent water,

     By the sands of a silent sea.

     Pantagruel takes the body up

     And the dead fat bends him down.

     He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys

     With body, bottle and crown.

     And the wastes are strewn with skulls,

     And the desert is hot and cursed.

     And a phantom shape of the holy bottle

     Mocks his burning thirst.

     Pantagruel wanders seven days,

     And seven nights wanders he.

     And on the seventh night he rests him

     By the sands of the silent sea.

     And sees a new made fire on the shore,

     And on the fire is a dish.

     And by the fire two travelers sleep,

     And two are broiling fish.

     Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping,

     And Faust is stirring the fire.

     But the fourth is a stranger with a face

     Starred with a great desire.

     Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts,

     Pantagruel falls to his knees.

     He flings down the body of Old King Cole

     As a man throws off disease.

     And rolls his burden away and cries:

     "Take and watch, if you will.

     But as for me I go to France

     My bottle to refill."

     "And as for me I go to France

     To fill this bottle up."

     He felt at his side for the holy bottle,

     And found it turned a cup.

     And the stranger said: Behold our friend

     Has brought my cup to me.

     That is the cup whereof I drank

     In the garden Gethsemane.

     Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus

     Who dips it in sea brine.

     This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth,

     Whereof I make your wine.

     And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth,

     And his lips wear a purple stain.

     And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel

     With the dregs for him to drain.

     Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber,

     And Jesus strokes his hair.

     And Faust sings a song of Euphorion

     To hide his heart's despair.

     And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth,

     And they walk by the purple deep.

     Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers,

     And some grow tired and sleep."

BOTANICAL GARDENS

     He follows me no more, I said, nor stands

     Beside me. And I wake these later days

     In an April mood, a wonder light and free.

     The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain

     Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill,

     And watch the lights which fingers from the waters

     Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across

     The waste of bays and marshes to the woods,

     Under the prism colors of the air,

     Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds,

     Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky

     In terrible glory.

                        And earth charmed I lie

     Before the staring sphinx whose musing face

     Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes

     Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal

     Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws

     No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them:

     Since I have ceased to tease her.

                                       Then behold

     A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed,

     And as I see the multitudinous leaves

     Fluttered against the water and the light,

     And see this light unveil itself, reveal

     An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor,

     I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels;

     And I have fears of dieties shown or spun

     From nothingness. But when I look again

     The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake,

     The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods

     Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm

     A hand I know, and hear a voice I know—

     He has returned and brought with him the thought

     And the old pain.

                       The voice says: "Leave the sphinx.

     The garden waits your study fully grown."

     And I arise and follow down a slope

     To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone,

     And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing

     An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile

     Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love,

     As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching

     Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle

     Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn

     Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow.

     And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face

     Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat

     With feet of a Babylonian lion amid

     This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies

     And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems,

     Though here is our western moon as white and thin

     As an abalone shell hung under the boughs

     Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky between

     His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ...

     We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me

     Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs,

     That yield to trees beyond the levels, where

     The beech and oak have triumph; for along

     This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses,

     That builds the soil against the water's hands,

     All things are fierce for place and garner life

     From weaker things.

                         And then he shows me root stocks,

     And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawl

     Beneath the soil. Or as we leave the lake

     And walk the forest I behold lianas,

     Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunks

     Of giant trees that live and out of earth,

     And out of air make strength and food and ask

     No other help. And in this place I see

     Spiral bryony, python of the vines

     That coils and crushes; and that banyan tree

     Whose spreading branches drop new roots to earth,

     And lives afar from where the parent trunk

     Has sunk its roots, so that the healthful sun

     Is darkened: as a people might be darkened

     By ignorance or want or tyranny,

     Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith.

     Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak,

     That this should be to forests or to men;

     That water fails, and light decreases, heat

     Of God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent,

     Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well,

     Or migrate from the olden places, go

     In search of life, or if they cannot move

     Die in the ruthless marches.

                                  That is life, he said.

     For even these, the giants scatter life

     Into the maws of death. That towering tree

     That for these hundred years has leafed itself,

     And through its leaves out of the magic air

     Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root

     Out of an acorn which good chance preserved,

     While all its brother acorns cast to earth,

     To make trees, by a parent tree now gone,

     Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted

     Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell.

     All acorns but this one were lost.

                                        Then he reads

     My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus

     Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive.

     And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots

     That must have water where the river flows.

     And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven

     This way or that beyond a course begun,

     Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms

     To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves,

     Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem

     To fashion forth itself, produce its kind.

     Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not,

     Is only changed or buried, re-appears

     As other forms of life.

                             We had walked through

     A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines,

     And ancient oaks where I could see the trace

     Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured

     By the great Titans.

                          At last

     We reached my hill and sat and overlooked

     The garden at our feet, even to the place

     Of tiger lilies and of asphodel,

     By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser:

     As where the wounded surface of the shell

     Thickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coigns

     Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat

     Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite

     Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass.

     And here we sat and looked. And here my vision

     Was over all we saw, but not a part

     Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth

     As foreign to myself as something touched

     To learn the thing it is.

                               I might have asked

     Who owns this garden, for the thought arose

     With my surprise, who owns this garden, who

     Planted this garden, why and to what end,

     And why this fight for place, for soil and sun

     Water and air, and why this enmity

     Between the things here planted, and between

     Flying or crawling life and plants, and whence

     The power that falls in one place but arises

     Some other place; and why the unceasing growth

     Of all these forms that only come to seed,

     Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soil

     Where the new seed falls? But silence kept me there

     For wonder of the beauty which I saw,

     Even while the faculty of external vision

     Kept clear the garden separate from me,

     Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders,

     As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn,

     As the vast theatre of unceasing life,

     Moving to life and blind to all but life;

     As places used, tried out, as if the gardener,

     For his delight or use, or for an end

     Of good or beauty made experiments

     With seed or soils or crossings of the seed.

     Even as peoples, epochs, did the garden

     Lie to my vision, or as races crowding,

     Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races,

     Not only for a place to grow, but under

     A stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet,

     Or Jesus, like a vital change of air,

     Or artifice of culture, made the garden,

     Which mortals call the world, grow in a way,

     And overgrow the world as neither dreamed.

     Who is the Gardener then? Or is there one

     Beside the life within the plant, within

     The python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks,

     Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes,

     Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life,

     And praying to the urge within as God,

     The Gardener who lays out the garden, sprays

     For insects which devour, keeps rich the soil

     For those who pray and know the Gardener

     As One who is without and over-sees? ...

     But while in contemplation of the garden,

     Whether from failing day or from departure

     Of my own vision in the things it saw,

     Bereft of penetrating thought I sank,

     Became a part of what I saw and lost

     The great solution.

                         As we sat in silence,

     And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon,

     Amid the yellow sedges by the lake

     Began to twinkle, as a fire were blown—

     And it was fire, the garden was afire,

     As it were all the world had flamed with war.

     And a wind came out of the bright heaven

     And blew the flames, first through the ruined garden,

     Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at last

     Nothing was left but waste and wreaths of smoke

     Twisting toward the stars. And there he sat

     Nor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said

     "If it be comforting I promise you

     Another spring shall come."

                                 "And after that?"

     "Another spring—that's all I know myself,

     There shall be springs and springs!"