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Title: Starved Rock

Author: Edgar Lee Masters

Release date: July 5, 2014 [eBook #46197]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Dianne Nolan, Bryan Ness and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STARVED ROCK *** 


STARVED ROCK



logo




THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS

ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO





MACMILLAN & CO., Limited

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA

MELBOURNE






THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.

TORONTO




STARVED ROCK



BY

EDGAR LEE MASTERS



Author of "Spoon River Anthology," "Songs and

Satires," "The Great Valley," "Toward

the Gulf," etc.




New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1919

All rights reserved





Copyright, 1919

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY



Set up and electrotyped. Published, October, 1919





Certain of these poems first appeared in Reedy's Mirror,

Poetry, The Cosmopolitan, The Yale Review and The

New York Sun.






[Pg vii]


CONTENTS






 PAGE


Starved Rock1


Hymn to the Dead5


Creation10


The World's Desire13


Tyrannosaurus: or Burning Letters16


Lord Byron to Doctor Polidori22


The Folding Mirror29


A Woman of Forty33


Wild Birds34


A Lady36


The Negro Ward40


William Shakspeare44


For a Play47


Chicago49


The Wedding Feast54


By the Waters of Babylon58


The Dream of Tasso60


The Christian Statesman69


The Lament of Sophonia77


At Decapolis79


Winged Victory83


Oh you Sabbatarians!88


Pallas Athene90


[Pg viii]


At Sagamore Hill95


To Robert Nichols101


Bonnybell: The Butterfly103


Hymn to Agni109


Epitaph for Us111


Botticelli to Simonetta114


Flower in the Garden115


Inexorable Deities117


Arielle119


Sounds out of Sorrow121


Mournin' for Religion122


Thyamis124


I Shall Go Down into This Land126


Spring Lake128


The Barber of Sepo138


They'd Never Know Me Now145


Nel Mezzo Del Cammin156


The Oak Tree160


The House on the Hill162


Washington Hospital163


Neither Faith nor Beauty Can Remain170






[Pg 1]


STARVED ROCK








As a soul from whom companionships subside


The meaningless and onsweeping tide


Of the river hastening, as it would disown


Old ways and places, left this stone


Of sand above the valley, to look down


Miles of the valley, hamlet, village, town.




*****




It is a head-gear of a chief whose head,


Down from the implacable brow,


Waiting is held below


The waters, feather decked


With blossoms blue and red,


With ferns and vines;


Hiding beneath the waters, head erect,


His savage eyes and treacherous designs.




*****




It is a musing memory and memorial


Of geologic ages


Before the floods began to fall;


The cenotaph of sorrows, pilgrimages


Of Marquette and LaSalle.


The eagles and the Indians left it here


In solitude, blown clean

[Pg 2]

Of kindred things: as an oak whose leaves are sere


Fly over the valley when the winds are keen,


And nestle where the earth receives


Another generation of exhausted leaves.




*****




Fatigued with age its sleepless eyes look over


Fenced fields of corn and wheat,


Barley and clover.


The lowered pulses of the river beat


Invisibly by shores that stray


In progress and retreat


Past Utica and Ottawa,


And past the meadow where the Illini


Shouted and danced under the autumn moon,


When toddlers and papooses gave a cry,


And dogs were barking for the boon


Of the hunter home again to clamorous tents


Smoking beneath the evening's copper sky.


Later the remnant of the Illini


Climbed up this Rock, to die


Of hunger, thirst, or down its sheer ascents


Rushed on the spears of Pottawatomies,


And found the peace


Where thirst and hunger are unknown.




*****




This is the tragic and the fateful stone


Le Rocher or Starved Rock,


A symbol and a paradigm,


A sphinx of elegy and battle hymn,

[Pg 3]

Whose lips unlock


Life's secret, which is vanishment, defeat,


In epic dirges for the races


That pass and leave no traces


Before new generations driven in the blast


Of Time and Nature blowing round its head.


Renewing in the Present what the Past


Knew wholly, or in part, so to repeat


Warfare, extermination, old things dead


But brought to life again


In Life's immortal pain.




*****




What Destinies confer,


And laughing mock


LaSalle, his dreamings stir


To wander here, depart


The fortress of Creve Coeur,


Of broken heart,


For this fort of Starved Rock?


After the heart is broken then the cliff


Where vultures flock;


And where below its steeps the savage skiff


Cuts with a pitiless knife the rope let down


For water. From the earth this Indian town


Vanished and on this Rock the Illini


Thirsting, their buckets taken with the knife,


Lay down to die.




*****


[Pg 4]




This is the land where every generation


Lets down its buckets for the water of Life.


We are the children and the epigone


Of the Illini, the vanished nation.


And this starved scarp of stone


Is now the emblem of our tribulation,


The inverted cup of our insatiable thirst,


The Illini by fate accursed,


This land lost to the Pottawatomies,


They lost the land to us,


Who baffled and idolatrous,


And thirsting, spurred by hope


Kneel upon aching knees,


And with our eager hands draw up the bucketless rope.




*****




This is the tragic, the symbolic face,


Le Rocher or Starved Rock,


Round which the eternal turtles drink and swim


And serpents green and strange,


As race comes after race,


War after war.


This is the sphinx whose Memnon lips breathe dirges


To empire's wayward star,


And over the race's restless urges,


Whose lips unlock


Life's secret which is vanishment and change.










[Pg 5]


HYMN TO THE DEAD








O, you who have gone from the ways of cities,


From the peopled places, the streets of strife,


From offices, markets, rooms, retreats,


Pastoral ways, hamlets, everywhere from the earth,


And have made of the emptiness of your departure


A land, a country, a realm all your own,


Set above the hills of our vision, an empire


Within, around, above our empire of days,


Of pain and clamorous tongues;


An empire which out of a sovereign silence


Stretches its power over the restless multitude


Of our thoughts, and the ceaseless music of our beings,


And surrounds us even as the air we breathe—


O ye majestic Dead, hear our hymn!




*****




The clown, the wastrel and the fool in life


Are lifted up by you, O Death!


The least of these who has entered in


Your realm, O Death,


Is greater than the greatest of us,


And by a transfiguration has been clothed


With the glory and the wonder of nature.


He has drunk of the purple cup of apotheosis,


And passed through the mystical change,

[Pg 6]

And accomplished the cycle of being.


He has risen from the lowlands of earth


Into the air on wings of breath.


He has rejected the shell of the body, feet and hands,


He has become one with the majesty of Time,


And taken the kingdom of triumph


Whether it be cessation or bliss.


For he has entered into the kingdom of primal powers,


Being or ceasing to be,


Even as he has re-entered the womb of nature.


Or he has found peace,


States of wisdom, or vision—


Hail! realm of Silence,


Whence comes the unheard symphony too deep for strings,


Hail, infinite Light,


Darkness to eyes of flesh—


All hail!




*****




What are we, the living, beside you the dead?


We of daily hunger, daily food, daily ablutions,


The daily rising and lying down,


Waking and sleep;


The daily care of the body's needs;


And daily desire to pass the gift of life;


And daily fears of the morrow to come;


And daily pains for things that are gone;


And daily longing for things that fly us;


And sorrow that follows wherever we go;

[Pg 7]

And love that mocks us, and peace that breaks,


And shame that tracks us, and want that gnaws.


But O ye Dead! Ye great ones,


Triumphant over these, released


From the duties of dust, all chains of desire,


And made inhabitants of breathless spaces,


Immanent in a realm of calm,


Rulers of a sphere of tideless air,


Victors returned from the war of death in life,


Victors over death in death!




*****




For the growing soul turns in


Even as the seed turns in on itself,


And becomes hard, transparent,


An encased life, condensed


In the process of saving itself


From rains that beat in the fall,


And frosts that descend from skies grown cold.


And we who shed away old thoughts and hopes,


Days and dreams of life


Turn in, grow clear like grains of rice,


Until the realm of death


Is as snow delivered land


Luring the seed—


And it becomes our home, our country,


Our native land that calls us back


From this sojourn of adventure,


And place of profit;


For O ye majestic Dead, your absence draws us,

[Pg 8]

If it be naught but absence still you summon,


Your absence has become a very Presence,


A Power, a hierarchy of Life!




*****




Even as leaves enrich the earth


Layer on layer,


Even as bodies of men enrich the soil


Generation on generation,


So do the spirits of those departed


Enrich our soil of life


With delights, wisdoms, purest hopes,


And shapes of beauty.


But oh beyond all these, is our life enriched


With exalted contemplations


Of you, O glorious Dead,


Who have eaten of the tree of life and become gods,


Friendly divinities to us who remain,


Dear familiars, as you were with us


Fathers, children, lovers, friends.


Ye who sense with the inner eye,


Since nothing in our days of living


Moves uncolored of your splendors,


Presences to which all things relate!




*****




O realm of the Dead,


Black Mountain, if you be,


Which darkens heaven,


And shadows earth,

[Pg 9]

Round which our spirits flutter


Like startled moths.


Black mountain with whose blackness


The light of life is mixed,


Whereof all hues are made:


All thoughts, all lofty wanderings of the soul,


All meanings, divinations


Of briefest hours, and frailest joys,


All wonders of the spectrum of the soul


Out of life and death!




*****




Realm of the Dead! Supreme Reality


All Hail!










[Pg 10]


CREATION








Passion flower unfolding in darkness!


Glow-worm under a spray of lilac!


Flame on the altar of love!


Beloved in your chamber!


The phoenix moon rising from the ashes of day


Spreads her wings of saffron fire


Above the enchanted garden.


And I brush away the leaves of night


To find the star of my love.


I part the curtains about the altar,


I enter your chamber, beloved.




*****




I have entered your chamber, beloved,


I have found my star.


Between kisses and whispers


And the silken touch of flesh


Breast to breast, lips to lips,


Our souls are seeking and drifting!


As an albatross hovers and flies


With the running sea ...


Powers of body, powers of spirit,


Divinities


Awakened never before,


Hidden in nerves asleep, in veins without a tide

[Pg 11]

Flow through us.


I give you my life, beloved,


For life of you, given to me—


O bride of love!




*****




O hair of fire! O breasts of light,


Like double stars!


O voice like a lute that whispers


At midnight, in a bower of roses!


O body luminous as the nebulous waste


Across the midnight,


Pour on my breast, my hands, my brow


The sacred fire,


As our flesh becomes one


Upborne by your breasts,


White as bridal blossoms


Where there is yet no milk,


But only eddying blood


Circling in whirlpools of delirious ecstasy


In time with the blood of me.


Our lips together, our bodies together


While the yearning urn of porphyry


Waits to drink the silver stream,


And thirsts to drink,


And poises like a gold fish waiting


For the stream of silver fire....




*****




But oh, hands of me that clasp your sunny head,


Drawing it close to my breast,

[Pg 12]

In rapture of its beauty!


O temple of your spirit!


Spirit of you which I woo and would win,


In rapture without will,


In rapture blind, save for the inspired urge,


In rapture seeking further rapture,


In rapture to wed your spirit fully,


And all your spirit, which my spirit


Through the unity of flesh would reach


And win, and keep—


Bride of lightning!


Bride of Life!




*****




As when the butterfly slowly moves his wings


Drawing from the virgin core of honeysuckles


The sweetest drop of dew:—


So pause his wings spread wide


When all is gained.




*****




Goddess of the white dawn,


Let my beloved sleep—


Robins that sing at dawn,


Wake not my beloved!


I sleep with my beloved,


And she sleeps with me,


And a life sleeps now


That will wake!










[Pg 13]


THE WORLD'S DESIRE








At Philae, in the temple of Isis,


The fruitful and terrible goddess,


Under a running panel of the sacred ibis,


Is pictured the dead body of Osiris


Waiting the resurrection morn.


And a priest is pouring water blue as iris


Out of a pitcher on the stalk of corn


That from the body of the god is growing,


Before the rising tides of the Nile are flowing.


And over the pictured body is this inscription


In the temple of Isis, the Egyptian:


This is the nameless one, whom Isis decrees


Not to be named, the god of life and yearning,


Osiris of the mysteries,


Who springs from the waters ever returning.






At the gate of the Lord's house,


Ezekiel, the prophet, beheld the abomination of Babylon:


Women with sorrow on their brows


In lamentation, weeping


For the bereavement of Ishtar and for Tammuz sleeping,


And for the summer gone.


Tammuz has passed below


To the house of darkness and woe,

[Pg 14]

Where dust lies on the bolt and on the floor


Behind the winter's iron door;


And Ishtar has followed him,


Leaving the meadows gray, the orchards dim


With driving rain and mist,


And winds that mourn.


Ishtar has vanished, and all life has ceased;


No flower blossoms and no child is born.






But not as Mary Magdalen came to the tomb,


The women in the gardens of Adonis,


Crying, "The winter sun is yet upon us,"


Planted in baskets seeds of various bloom,


Which sprouted like frail hopes, then wilted down


For the baskets' shallow soil.


Then for a beauty dead, a futile toil,


For leaves that withered, yellow and brown,


From the gardens of Adonis into the sea,


They cast the baskets of their hope away:


A ritual of the things that cease to be,


Brief loveliness and swift decay.






And O ye holy women, who at Delphi


Roused from sleep the cradled Dionysius,


Who with an April eye


Looked up at them,


Before the adorable god, the infant Jesus,


Was found at Bethlehem!






For at Bethlehem the groaning world's desire


For spring, that burned from Egypt up to Tyre,

[Pg 15]

And from Tyre to Athens beheld an epiphany of fire:


The flesh fade flower-like while the soul kept breath


Beyond the body's death,


Even as nature which revives;


In consummation of the faith


That Tammuz, the Soul, survives,


And is not sacrificed


In the darkness where the dust


Lies on the bolt and on the floor,


And passes not behind the iron door


Save it be followed by the lover Christ,


The Ishtar of the faithful trust,


Who knocks and says: "This soul, which winter knew


In life, in death at last,


Finds spring through me, and waters fresh and blue.


For lo, the winter is past;


The rain is over and gone.


I open! It is dawn!"










[Pg 16]


TYRANNOSAURUS: OR BURNING
LETTERS








Trees of the forest ground to pulp,


Rolled into sheets and rabbit tracked


With nut-gall or with nigrosine—


Then look at spirits thrill, or gulp


A lost delight, a rising spleen


For love that grew intense or slacked ...






Here are the letters, torn in bits,


Crammed in the basket, look how full!


Our little fireplace scarce admits


So much that once was beautiful.


Here where we sat and dreamed together


In March, and now when we should be


Friends in the glory of June weather,


We tear our letters up—oh, me!


Call Jane to take the basket down,


And throw these on the furnace fire.


Let ashes drift about the town


Of what was our desire!






What are we to the gods, I wonder?


Perhaps two crickets in the grass,


Who meet and drop their stomachs' plunder


To touch antennæ as they pass.

[Pg 17]

So kissing in such soul communion


The gardener's step is heard, and quick


The crickets break their spirits' union,


Hide under logs or bits of brick.


Does guilty conscience stir the crickets?


What does he care? Why not a snap.


He's trimming out the hazel thickets


For a tennis court and shooting trap....


You are afraid of God! Not that?


Some step has frightened you, I know.


Well, then it's gossip the alley-cat.


At least our hands grow cold as snow,


Relax their touch, and then we come,


Tear up the letters, sit and stare


Some moments, wholly dumb!






If we are crickets, still our breasts


Contain for us things real enough.


The gods may laugh, their interests


Are what? I wonder—not the love


Such as we knew. To be a god


Through love is what I hoped, and rise


Above the level of the clod.


They said it can't be, who are wise,


That's not the way to win the prize:


Or if it be, I don't know how;


Or you are not the one with whom


I might have won it. Well, my brow


Is turned into a whitened tomb


With all uncleanness in it; dreams

[Pg 18]

Rotting away with hopes as fair ...


To me, the liver, nothing seems


Won that is lost. I can't invert,


Sophisticate the facts, or swear


My evil good. A hurt's a hurt,


A loss a loss, a scar a scar,


A spirit frustrate is inert.


To stretch your hands toward a star


And lose the star, or have it die


To ashes like a rocket, alters


The aspect of your being's sky.


You've learned no praise from earthly psalters


Can win the star, or else you've learned


The star you touched was quickly turned


To ashes while it burned.






Hell! Let us face it. Here it is


We had some walks, some precious talks,


Some hours of paradise and bliss.


Our blossom opened, we inhaled


All of its fragrance, now I scowl


Because our wonder blossom paled


For lack of water in the bowl


Tipped over by the alley-cat,


Or what not, change, distrust or fear;


Your pride, your will, a hovering gnat


I struck at striking you, a blear


Of eyes a moment, making blind


My vision, yours.... Or there's the age,


The age is frightful to my mind,

[Pg 19]

Nothing to do but stand it—well


I sit here and say "hell."






For it's really hell to have a will,


It's hell to hope and to believe,


That good can swallow up the ill,


That gods are working, will achieve.


They may be, yet they disregard


Our cricket feelings, so we shrill


Sonnets and elegies round the yard...


Let's talk a bit of chlorophyll:


The sun was useless for our life,


No wine, no beef, no watercress


Until this chlorophyll grew rife


Millions of years since, more or less.


And if no wine or beef, no love,


No pulp, no paper, nigrosine,


No letters which are made thereof.


Think! All we found and lost has been


Through chlorophyll.






And just suppose


Nature should lose the secret power


For making chlorophyll, the rose


We cherished would not come to flower.


No other man and woman more


Would burn their letters grieving—yet


We may be rising, for who knows


There may be something vastly better


Than love to flame and flay and fret,

[Pg 20]

And hate this letter and that letter,


Once rid of chlorophyll, in case


A subtler substance could be given


To this poor globe out of heaven—


We are a weak, if growing race!






Here, then, I think is a moral for us,


Another is tyrannosaurus—


Tyrannosaurus, what of him,


The monarch of this world one time,


Back in the æons wet and dim?


He faded like a pantomime.


And he could, well, step over trees,


Crunch up bowlders like cracking nuts,


Flip horses away like bumble-bees,


Stretch out in valleys as if they were ruts;


And hide a man in his nostril's hole,


And crush young forestry just like weeds.


He came and went, and what's your soul,


And what is mine with their crying needs?


And love that seemed eternal once,


Given of God to lift, inspire,


Well—now do we see? Was I dunce


Drunk with the wine of soul's desire?


Who made that wine, why did I drink it?


Why did I want it? What's the game?


Are spirits chaos? I scarce can think it.


Why fly for the light and get the flame?


Is love for souls of us chlorophyll


That makes us eatable, sweet and crisp

[Pg 21]

For Gods that raise us to feed their fill?


Who lives, the dreamer, the will o' the wisp?


Do Gods live, vanish, return again?


Who in the devil has love or luck?


One thing is true, there's rapture and pain.


As for the rest, I pass the buck.


Something occurs, and God knows what,


Tyrannosaurus fades like a ghost.


That throws a light on our little lot,


Love that is won, love that is lost.


Even a hundred years from now,


If this poor earth is rolling still,


Hearts will quiver, break or bow—


Provided the plants have chlorophyll.






Oh well! Oh hell! We must be heroic,


And it helps to scan a million of years.


And to think of monstrous beasts mesoic,


Brightens, though it dries no tears.


I'll dream for life of our walks by the river—


That was March and it's now July.


And this remains: I'll love you forever—


Burn up the letters now—Good by!










[Pg 22]


LORD BYRON TO DOCTOR POLIDORI








No more of searching, Doctor—let it go.


It can't be lost. I have a memory


I put it in a drawer, or again


I seem to see me tuck it in a pocket


Of some portmanteau. If you find the letter


Deliver it to Moore. But if it's lost,


The story is not lost. I tell you this


To save the story from my side. Attend!


It was this way:






Allegra had become


A child requiring care, and nutritive


Instruction in religion, morals, well,


They call me blasphemer and sensualist,


But read my poems. Christianity


Was never of rejected things with me.


The Decalogue is good enough, I think.


And Shelley's theories, atheist speculations


I never shared—nor social dreams. The scheme


Of having all things, women, too, in common


Means common women. I have sinned, I know—


I call it sin. The marriage vow I honor,


And woman's virtue. Though I stray, I hold


That women should be chaste, though man is not.


That's why I placed Allegra in a convent....




[Pg 23]


Now to the letter, and my story of it.




The mother, Claire, Claire Claremont, as you know—


Pined for Allegra; would possess the child


And take her from the convent—where? No doubt


To Shelley's nest, where William Godwin's daughter


Raised on free love, and Shelley preaching it,


And Claire in whom 'tis bred, hold sway, who read,


Talk, argue, dream of freedom, all the things


Opposed to what is in the present order.


You know the notes to "Queen Mab." Well, I say


This suits me not.






So Shelley and his wife,


Mary, the planet of an hour, since quenched,


Conceive I keep Allegra where she is


From wounded pride, or pique. Hell fire! They think


I'm hurt for thinking Claire and Shelley join


Their lips in love, and masque my jealousy


By just this pose of morals, make reprisal


Under a lying flag, and keep Allegra


To punish Claire and sate my jealousy


By this hypocrisy—It makes me laugh.






But to pursue. A maid who was discharged


From Shelley's household told the credible tale


That Claire was Shelley's mistress, and the Hoppners


Heard and believed—why not? As she is fair,


And Shelley wrote "Love is like understanding


Which brighter grows gazing on many truths,

[Pg 24]

Increases by division," that himself


Could not accept the code, a man should choose


One woman and leave all the rest, why not?


As for myself, I have not preached this doctrine,


Though living it as men do in the world....






Oh yes, I know this love called spiritual,


Of which old maids, whose milk has gone to brain


And curdled in the process, and who hate me


For taking men and women as they are,


Talk to create belief for self and others.






Denial makes philosophies, religions.


Indulgence leaves one sane, objectifies


The eternal womanly, freeing brain of fumes,


To work with master hands with love and life.




The story rose, however.




Then comes Shelley


Bearing a letter from his wife, denying


That Claire and Shelley loved, you understand—


By the flesh. Sweet, was it not? Naïve!


This letter I should hand the Hoppners, who


Believed the story, and who held a place


Persuasive touching poor Allegra. Well,


So Shelley comes and makes the point, the child


Is in ill health, Claire, too, in a decline,


And hands this letter to me for the Hoppners.




[Pg 25]




And I've misplaced it. Frankly, from the first,


Had no fixed purpose to deliver it.


What principle makes me collaborator


With such fantastic business? To resume:


He acted like the boy he was. I smiled—


Against the flaming rage that burned his face—


My mocking smile, he thought, the Don Juan


Upcurved my lips. I read his very thought


Between words spoken; words that he suppressed:


It was that I was glad that Claire was ill


Because of that male mood when love of man


Finds sustenance where suffering lays low


The object of desire: If she suffers,


The man subdues, devours her. She escapes


If free of love. Oh yes, and this he thought:


That I was glad she suffered, since my glory


Had failed to hold her, failed to satisfy


Her noble heart! God's wounds! Why Shelley thought


She turned to him and with his spirit found


A purity of peace and sweetest friendship,


And faith that saves and serves, as men and women


Are to each other souls to serve and save!


Poor fool! I read it all, or pieced it out


With words that I picked up from time to time....






There was this further thing: I am a man,


So say they, who accepts the dying creed


That woman's love is lawless and a toy


When given if no priest has sanctified it—


Not quite, perhaps. The point is further on.




[Pg 26]




In any case 'tis this: that this belief,


Mine or part mine, and coloring my acts,


Shadowed no whit the brow of Lady Claire.


And that I, greatest lover of my time,


Had won this lady's body but to lose


The lady's soul, a soul that slipped and fled


Out of the hands that clasped her flesh, because


She knew me through her gift, thought less of me,


And no wise felt herself bound to my life


Because she gave her body. Kept her mind,


Soul, free, untouched by that gift, by the gift


Was cognizant of what is false and poor—


(I use some words I heard) in me. And thus


I lost her soul, though earlier I had gained


What seemed all to me, all I had the genius


To comprehend in woman! Then comes Shelley


And finds her soul, the genuine prize, and I


Grow sullen with a consciousness of vision


Inferior to his. All this they thought.


Oh Jesus, what a lie!






I have loved Nature, love her now: and woman


Is Nature, and my love for nature means


Inclusion of the sex. I have not soared


To heights that sickened me and made me laugh


At what I sought—or turned from it. No moons


Behind the clouds; no terrors and no symbols,


No Emilia Vivianni's have I had.


I know, believe me, love for woman calls

[Pg 27]

A man's soul up to heights too rare to live in.


I have not risen, therefore, will not rise


Where thinking stops, because the blood leaves brain


Therefore have had no falls, and no recoils


Chasing the Plato vision, the star, the wonder,


The beauty and the terror, harmony


Of nature's art; the passion that would make


The loved one of the self-same womb with me,


A sister, spouse or angel, dæmon, pilot


Of life and fate.




How much of truth is here?




Dreams seen most vividly by Petrarch, Dante,


Who loved without achievement, balking nature,


Till Passion, like an involute, pressed in


Harder and harder on its starving leaves,


Becomes a fragrance—sublimate of self


Sucked out of sorrow's earth, at last becomes


A meditative madness. All is written


Fairly across my page. "She walks in beauty:"


"When we two parted," "Could love like a river,"


"Bright be the place of thy soul." Lines, lines


In "Harold," "Don Juan." Yes, I have loved,


But saw how far love lures, how far to venture,


Knowing what can and what cannot be made


Of the mystery, the wonder, therefore never


Have had to laugh at self; find Vivianni


A housemaid shelling corn—not threading pearls.

[Pg 28]

Or sit, with idiot eyes, my bones half broken,


Icarus bumped amid a field of stones.






I know the hour of farewell. I have said it


When my heart trembled, stopped as when a horse


Braces its terrored feet to keep from plunging


Over the precipice. Farewell! Farewell!


I know to say, and turn, and pass my way.






Why! For that matter, even now behold!


Do I feel less than Shelley would in this?


I leave the Countess for the war in Greece.


What's done is done. What's lived is lived. Come, Doctor,


Let's practice with the pistols. Mother of God,


What is this thing called Life?










[Pg 29]


THE FOLDING MIRROR








A folding mirror! What may it be?


Nothing? Or something? Let me see!


Its silver chain is hung to the sky


On a planet nail. And it fronts my eye.


No stars reflect themselves at first,


The mirrors are dustless, vacant and clean.


Not even my face shows—am I cursed?


What may the mirrors mean?




*****




I watch like a cat that waits to mangle


A breathless rat in an alley nook.


And a little figure steps into the angle


Made by the folding mirrors. Look!


His thin legs wobble, bend and dangle


Like radish roots. He takes the crook


Out of his arms and raises them up,


As if in panic, or supplication.


He bends and peers, whines like a pup,


Walks to and fro in his desperation,


Pinches his arms and beats his breast;


Runs quivering fingers between his hair,


Wavers for weariness, sighs for rest,


Looks up to the planet that seems to bear


The silver chain like a brad in the wall.

[Pg 30]

Upsprings, searches the mirrors again;


Sees for the first the prodigal


Waste of stars in the black inane.


Stamps with his feet upon the void


He stands on, paces on, why, he wonders


Is he upborned like an asteroid?


Hark! The limitless blackness thunders:


The Infinite growls, he whirls and shivers,


Runs to cover the mirrors to climb.


They yield like the waters of phantom rivers.


He acts like a soul new born that quivers


Before the mirrors of Space and Time.




*****




Now what's to do? He must fill in.


This emptiness with horror is shod.


When did this pageant of things begin?


Somewhere hiding there is a God.


Some one drove that planet nail


Into the blue wall; some one hung


The silver chain. And what is the tale


Of the mirrors here in the blackness swung?


The soul is naked, weak and alone,


And sees its nakedness in the glass.


It must create from wood and stone,


Wire and reeds, color and brass.


It must create though it be but a mime,


Make a reality all its own


Before the mirror of white called Time,


Before the mirror of blue called Space.

[Pg 31]

Clasp the vastness between their folds,


Find laws, raise altars, dream of a face—


Make that real which the hope beholds.




*****




Our terrored manikin commences,


Fattens his littleness with clothes.


With crowns and miters puffs his senses,


Crushes the grape to drown his woes.


Fills full the mirrors with faces. Now


They are dancing before them, age and youth,


Laurels or thorns are bound on a brow.


They hunt and slay for a thing called Truth.


Dig for treasure, toil for riches,


Struggle for place—it is well enough!


Some lift their busts into chosen niches.


All are hungry for peace and love.


And only a few are blind, dispute


The thing is a dream. If there be worth


It lies in the strings of the lyre or lute,


Sounds that never return to earth;


Dreams to seeing eyes reflected,


Caught from infinite realms afar.


How could they be seen, or recollected


Except for the Real—except for a Star?




*****




God in the blackness, whirlwind, lightning,


God in the blinding fire of the sun


Before these empty mirrors brightening


See what we do, what we have done!

[Pg 32]

Out of an astral substance molding


Music and laws for our hearts' control,


Yes, and a hope that the mirrors' folding


Lets slip through a growing soul.


Are you not proud of us, do you not pity?


Is all the glory thine alone?


Then if it be, you must take the city


Builded, demolished stone from stone.


All of our madness, weariness, error,


Blindness, weakness, pain and loss,


Fumbling feebly before the mirror,


Yours is the crown, but yours the cross!


Yours is the juice of grape or poppies


To fill the void with a make believe;


Yours the hope where never a prop is,


The opiates, too, that dull, deceive,


No less than nature that lifts eternal


Vision of Life to quiet the heart:


Verse and color that stamp the infernal


Dragon of Fear with the feet of Art.


Yours and ours the consolations


In loneliness and in terror wrought


Out of our spirits' desolations,


Out of our spirits' love and thought!










[Pg 33]


A WOMAN OF FORTY








Eyes that have long looked on the world,


Taken and stored the soul of outward things,


Dread to look on themselves,


In the mirror to gaze upon their mirrorings!






There to behold what time has done, what thought


Has changed their look and light.


I have lost my face through sorrow and dreams


And dare not find it, lest it smite






This self to-day, since I may not restore


My old self who in gladness without terror


Beheld and knew myself


Each morning in the mirror!






In the long quest of love I may have found


A spirit after whom my passion lusted.


But I had trust not giving love,


I have given love to hearts I have not trusted.






One thing has come that I would never see,


Hidden or trembling in my eyes:


Love in the mirror shown fatigued and mild,


Hopeless and wise.










[Pg 34]


WILD BIRDS








The wild birds among the reeds


Cry, exult and stretch their wings.


Out of the sky they drift


And sink to the water's rushes.


But the wild birds beat their wings and cry


To the newcomer out of the sky!






Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky?


Or do they cry to him because of remembered places


And remembered days


Spent together


In the north-land, or the south-land?






Is this the ecstasy of renewal,


Or the ecstasy of beginning?


For the wild bird touches his bill


Against a mate;


He brushes her wing with his wing;


He quivers with delight


For the cool sky of blue,


And the touch of her wing!






The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water,


Some for the south,

[Pg 35]

Some for the north.


They are gone—


Lost in the sky!






In what water do these mates of a morning


Exult on the morrow?


What wild birds will cry to them as they sink


Out of an unknown sky?


To whose cry will she quiver


Through her burnished wings to-morrow,


In the north-land,


In the south-land,


Far away?










[Pg 36]


A LADY








She sleeps beneath a canopy of carnation silk,


Embroidered with Venetian lace,


Between linens that crush in the hand


Soft as down.


Waking, she looks through a window


Curtained with carnation silk,


Embroidered with Venetian lace,


The walls are hung with velvet


Embossed with a fleur de lis,


And around her is the silence of richness,


Where foot-falls are like exhalations


From carpets of moss.


Little clocks tinkle.


Medallions priceless as jewels


Lie by jars suspiring like coals of fire.


And a maid prepares the bath,


Tincturing delicious water with exquisite essences.


And she is served with coffee


In cups as thin as petals,


Sitting amid pillows that breathe


The souls of freesia!






All things are hers:


Fishes from all seas,

[Pg 37]

Fruits from all climes.


The city lies at her command,


And is summoned by buttons


Which are pressed for her.


Noiselessly feet move on many floors,


Serving her.


Wheels that turn under coaches


Of crystal and ebony,


And yachts dreaming in strange waters,


And wings—all are hers!


And she is free:


Her husband comes and goes


From his suite below hers.


She never sees him,


Nor knows his ways, nor his days.






But she is very weary


And all alone amid her servants,


And guests that come and go.


Her lips are red,


Her skin is soft and smooth—


But the page blurs before her eyes.


Her eyelids are languid,


And droop from weariness,


Though she will not rest


From the long pursuit of love!


Her hair is white;


The skin of her faultless neck


Edges in creases

[Pg 38]

As she turns her perfect head.


And the days dawn and die.


What day that dawns will bring her love?


And day by day she waits for the dawn


Of a new life, a great love!






But every morning brings its remembrance


Of the increasing years that are gone.


And every evening brings its fear


Of death which must come,


Until her nerves are shaken


Like a woman's hair in the wind—


What must be done?


Some one tells her that God is love.


And when the fears come


She says to self over and over,


"God is love! God is love!


All is well."


And she wins a little oblivion,


Through saying "God is love,"


From the truth in her heart which cries:


"Love is life,


Love is a lover,


And love is God!"






She is a flower


Which the spring has nourished,


And the summer exhausted.


Fall is at hand.


Weird zephyrs stir her leaves and blossoms;

[Pg 39]

And she says to herself, "It is not fall,


For God is love!"






My poor flower!


May this therapy ease you into sleep,


And the folding of jewelless hands!


You are beginning to be sick


Of the incurable disease of age,


And the weariness of futile flesh!










[Pg 40]


THE NEGRO WARD








Scarce had I written: it were best


To crush this love, to give you up,


Drink at one draught the bitter cup,


And kill this new life in my breast,


Than Parker's breathing seemed to give


Ominous sound the end was near.


I did so want this man to live—


This negro soldier, dear.






'Twas three in the morning, all was still


But Parker's rattle in the throat,


Outside I heard the whippoorwill.


The new moon like an Indian boat


Hung just above the darkened grove,


Where you and I had pledged our love,


When you were here. Such precious hours,


Such fleeting moments then were ours ...


Alone here in the silent ward,


With Parker dying, I was scared.


His breath came short, his lips were blue.


I asked him: "Is there something more,


Parker, that I can do for you?"


"Please hold my hand," he said. Before


I took it, it was growing cold—


Death, how quick it comes!

[Pg 41]


Then next I seemed to hear the drums—


For I had fainted for his eyes


That stared with such a wide surprise,


As the lids fell apart they stared,


As if they saw what to behold


Had startled his poor soul which fared


Where it would not. I heard the drums,


The bugle next, lay there so faint


With Parker's eyes still in my view,


Like bubble motes which flit and paint


Themselves upon the heaven's blue.


An orderly had mailed meanwhile


That letter, to you, there I lay


Too weak to write again, unsay


What I had written.






Down the aisle,


Between our beds a step I heard,


A voice: "Our order's here, we leave


In half an hour for France." I stirred


Like a dead thing, could scarce conceive


What tragedy was come. No chance


To write you or to telegraph.


In twelve hours more, as in a trance


I looked from Ellis Island, where


My chums could gayly talk and laugh.


In two hours more we sailed for France.


All this was hard, but still to bear


The knowledge of you, your despair,

[Pg 42]


Or change, or bitterness, if you thought


That letter came from me, was wrought


Out of a heart that could not stake


Its own blood for your sake.






I will come back to you at length


If I but live and have the strength.


How will you like me with hair white,


And wasted cheeks, deep lined and pale?


It all began that dreadful night


Of Parker's death, the strain and fright,


The letter it seemed best to write—


From then to now I have been frail.


Our ship just missed a submarine,


And here the hardships, gas-gangrene,


The horrors and the deaths have stripped


My life of everything. Is it to prove


For duty, you, though bloody-lipped,


And fallen my unconquerable love


For country and for you through all,


Whatever fate befall?






What is my soul's great anguish for?


For what this tragedy of war?


For what the fate that says to us:


Part hands and be magnanimous?


For what the judgment which decrees


The mother love in me to cease?


For separation, hopeless miles


Of land and water us between?

[Pg 43]


For what the devil force that smiles


At man's immedicable pain?






I have not lost my faith in God.


Life has grown dark, I only say:


Dear God, my feet have lost the way.


Religion, wisdom do not give


A place to stand, a space to live.


I have not lost my faith in love,


That somehow it must rise above


The clouds of earth, I still can rest


In dreams sometimes upon your breast.


But, oh, it seems sometimes a play


Where gods are picking a bouquet:


The blossom of war, my soul or yours


More fragrant grown as it endures....










[Pg 44]


WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE








Homer saw nations, armies, multitudes—


You saw them in the intimate interludes


Of Brutus' soul at midnight in a tent


When the infection festers the event.


Ulysses' course is changed by the sea's trough.


You saw an epoch when a hat blows off.


Orestes fled the Furies, won his peace


Through Apollo in old Greece.


But who unbars the mouse traps of your world,


Or kills the ambushed serpent where it's curled?


Your Fates return, and Fortinbras draws in


On Hamlet's impotence and Gertrude's sin.


All oceans in a raindrop, drops of dew


Containing perfect heavens starred and blue;


Angels who mother Calibans, and hopes


Are of your vision—great mosaics hued


With thoughts of princes, poets, misanthropes,


Reveal their minute colors closer viewed.


Atomies, maggots, worms or gilded flies,


Nothing too small or foul is for your eyes.


You made a culture of dreams lost or won


Like Robert Browning, Emily Dickinson.


You looked in heaven when the lightning shone,


Then saw a fairy's whip of cricket bone.


For gods and men bacteriologist

[Pg 45]

Of spiritual microbes hidden which subsist


In moments of red joy—calm satirist


Of worlds forsaken for a woman's hair,


Kings slain, states crumbled, heroes false or fair,


The madness of the flesh, love on the wrack,


A white maid married to a soldier black.


Incests, adulteries and secret sins,


The fall of monarchs and of manikins.


All men at last a rattling empty pod,


All men destroyed like flies for sport of God.


All Life at last an idiot's furious tale—


You had the strength to say this and not quail!


For you what were the unities, the rules


Of Plautus, Corneille or the Grecian schools?


Flame through a pipe will sing, perhaps, when blown


Against the craftsman's silver, but the tone


Of worlds in conflagration, that's to be


The sacred fire with wings outspread and free,


Wherein an Athens falls, a Sidon stands,


And where a freezing clown may warm his hands.






If you could empty out a tiger's brain


And wire up its spinal cord again


To Sappho's brain, it would no doubt devour


The tiger's nerves and sinews in an hour.


Such muscles and such bones could not endure


The avid hunger of a fire so pure.


And you, Will Shakspeare, spirit sensitive,


You lived past fifty, that is long to live


And feed a flame like yours, and let the flame

[Pg 46]

Remake itself and lap at flesh and frame.


I say with Jesus, wisdom's eyes are blind


To seek a poet out and think to find


A slender reed that's shaken by the wind.


Come cyclops of the counter, millionaires,


Lawyers and statesmen in the world's affairs,


And thin away like flesh which acid eats


Under the passion even of John Keats.


But if you felt and saw love, agony,


As Shakspeare knew them you would quickly die.


There is no tragedy like the gift of song,


It keeps you mortal but demands you strong;


It gives you God's eyes blurred with human tears,


And crowns a thousand lives in fifty years.


Enter the breathless silence where God dwells,


See and record all heavens and all hells!










[Pg 47]


FOR A PLAY








Love began with both of them so gently


Meeting, neither thought nor looked intently.


Afterward her breath invoked the fire—


Breath to breath set burning their desire.






Is there aught in flesh or is it spirit


Conscious of its kindred soul when near it?


Woe to flesh or soul that's wholly wakened


While the other's soul-depths lie unshakened!






How could she give him all sacred blisses,


Long embraces, in the darkness kisses,


If she was not his, all else forgetting,


Lovers gone and other loves' regretting?






That was just the place her gold was leadened—


Flesh there too alive, to him all deadened.


She could harp not to his playing wholly,


Yet his heart strings trembled for her solely.






So this love play hastened to the curtain.


Each one spoke his lines in accents certain,


While at times behind the wings her glances


Warmed the prompter's treasonous advances.




[Pg 48]




Is there greater martyrdom than this is?


You have staked your soul where the abyss is.


You have given all—oh sorry barter


You have lit the fire for you the martyr.






You will still love on, or turn to hating,


Days depart, your heart stays in its waiting,


Where's the blame? She gave her heart's half measure,


All she had, for all your soul's full treasure.






What's the half to keep, could you achieve it?


What your treasure if you could retrieve it?


Never more shall you again bestow it ...


Now you have a song if you're a poet.






Now you're ever dumb if song's denied you,


You shall be more dumb than all beside you,


While your soul is shaken by its torrents—


Dante songless in a Dante Florence.






Age shall not make strong, nor deeper learning.


Grief grows clearer with your eye's discerning.


Pass the years, but oh the soil grows faster—


Richer for the roots of your disaster.






Ends the play—for what is life but dying?


What is love but fire forever crying?


What your soul but love's pure carbon fuel?


Love and life make ashes of the jewel!










[Pg 49]


CHICAGO






I




On the gray paper of this mist and fog


With dust for the erasure and with smoke


For drawing crayons, be this charcoal scrawl:


The breed of Gog in the kingdom of Magog,


Skyscrapers, helmeted, stand sentinel


Amid the obscuring fumes of coal and coke,


Raised by enchantment out of the sand and bog.


This sky-line, the Sierras of the lake,


Cuts with dulled teeth,


Which twist and break,


The imponderable and drifting steam.


And restlessly beneath


This man-created mountain chain,


Like the flow of a prairie river


Endlessly by day and night, forever


Along the boulevards pedestrians stream


In a shuffle like dancers to a low refrain:


Forever by day and night


Pursuing as of old the lure of delight,


And the ghosts of pleasure or pain.


Their rhythmic feet sound like the falling of rain,


Or the hush of the waves, when the roar


Is blown by a wind off shore.




[Pg 50]


II




From a tower like a mountain promontory


The cesspool of a railroad lies to view


Fouling the marble of the city's glory:


A crapulous sluice of garbage and of cars


Where engines rush and whistle, smudge the blue


With filth like the trail of slugs.


It is a trench of steel which bars


Free access to the common shore, and hugs


In a coil of lazar arms the boulevard.


Cattle and hogs delivered here for slaughter


Corrupt the loveliness of the water front.


They low and grunt,


Switched back and forth within the tangled yard.


But from this tower the amethystine water,


The water of jade or slate,


Is visible with its importunate


Gestures against the sky to still retreats


In Michigan, of quiet woods and hills


Beyond the simmering passion of these streets,


And all their endless ills....




III




But over the switch yard stands the Institute


Guarded by lions on the avenue,


Colossal lions standing for attack;


Between whose feet luminous and resolute


Children of the city passing through

[Pg 51]

To palettes, compasses, the demoniac


Spirit of the city shall subdue.


Lions are in the loop and jackals too.


They have no trainers but the alderman,


Who uses them to hunt with, but in time


The city shall behold its nobler plan


Achieved by hands that rhyme,


Workers who architect and build,


And out of thought its substance re-arrange,


Till all its prophecies shall be fulfilled.


Through numbers, science and art


The city shall know change,


And win dominion over water and light,


The cyclop's mastery of the mart;


The devils overcome,


Which stalk the squalid ways by night


Of poverty and the slum,


Where the crook is spawned, the burglar and the bum.


These youths who pass the lions shall assuage


The city's thirst and hunger,


And save it from the wastage and the wage


Of the demagogue, the precinct monger.




IV




This is the city of great doges hidden


In guarded offices and country places.


The city strives against the things forbidden


By the doges, on whose faces


The city at large never looks;

[Pg 52]

Doges who could accomplish if they would


In a month the city's beauty and good.


Yet this city in a hundred years has risen


Out of a haunt of foxes, wolves and rooks,


And breaks asunder now the bars of the prison


Of dead days and dying. It has spread


For many a rood its boundaries, like the sprawled


And fallen Hephaestos, and has tenanted


Its neighborhoods increasing and unwalled


With peoples from all lands.


From Milwaukee Avenue to the populous mills


Of South Chicago, from the Sheridan Drive


Through forests where the water smiles


To Harlem for miles and miles.


It reaches out its hands,


Powerful and alive


With dreams to touch tomorrow, which it wills


To dawn and which shall dawn....


And like lights that twinkle through the stench


And putrid mist of abattoirs,


Great souls are here, separate and withdrawn,


Companionless, whom darkness cannot quench.


Seeing they are the chrysalis which must feed


Upon its own thoughts and the life to be,


Its flight among the stars.


Beauty is here, like half protected flowers,


Blooms and will cast its multiplying seed,


Until one mass of color shall succeed


The shaley places of these arid hours.




[Pg 53]


V




Chicago! by this inland sea


In the land of Lincoln, in the state


Of souls who held the nation's fate,


City both old and young, I consecrate


Your future years to truth and liberty.


Be this the record frail and incomplete


Of one who saw you, mingled with the masses


Along these magical mountain passes


With restless yet with hopeful feet.


Could they return to see you who have slept


These fifty years, who laid your first foundations!


And oh! could we behold you who have kept


Their promises for you, when new generations


Shall walk this boulevard made fair


In chiseled marble, looking at the lake


Of clearer water under a bluer air.


We who shall sleep then nor awake,


Have left the labor to you and the care


Ask great fulfillment, for ourselves a prayer!










[Pg 54]


THE WEDDING FEAST








Said the chief of the marriage feast to the groom,


Whence is this blood of the vine?


Men serve at first the best, he said,


And at the last, poor wine.






Said the chief of the marriage feast to the groom,


When the guests have drunk their fill


They drink whatever wine you serve,


Nor know the good from the ill.






How have you kept the good till now


When our hearts nor care nor see?


Said the chief of the marriage feast to the groom,


Whence may this good wine be?






Said the chief of the marriage feast, this wine


Is the best of all by far.


Said the groom, there stand six jars without


And the wine fills up each jar.






Said the chief of the marriage feast, we lacked


Wine for the wedding feast.


How comes it now one jar of wine


To six jars is increased?




[Pg 55]




Who makes our cup to overflow?


And who has the wedding blest?


Said the groom to the chief of the feast, a stranger


Is here as a wedding guest.






Said the groom to the chief of the wedding feast,


Moses by power divine


Smote water at Meribah from the rock,


But this man makes us wine.






Said the groom to the chief of the wedding feast,


Elisha by power divine


Made oil for the widow to sell for bread,


But this man, wedding wine.






He changed the use of the jars, he said,


From an outward rite and sign:


Where water stood for the washing of feet,


For heart's delight there's wine.






So then 'tis he, said the chief of the feast,


Who the wedding feast has blest?


Said the groom to the chief of the feast, the stranger


Is the merriest wedding guest.






He laughs and jests with the wedding guests,


He drinks with the happy bride.


Said the chief of the wedding feast to the groom,


Go bring him to my side.




[Pg 56]




Jesus of Nazareth came up,


And his body was fair and slim.


Jesus of Nazareth came up,


And his mother came with him.






Jesus of Nazareth stands with the dancers


And his mother by him stands.


The bride kneels down to Jesus of Nazareth


And kisses his rosy hands.






The bridegroom kneels to Jesus of Nazareth


And Jesus blesses the twain.


I go a way, said Jesus of Nazareth,


Of darkness, sorrow and pain.






After the wedding feast is labor,


Suffering, sickness, death,


And so I make you wine for the wedding,


Said Jesus of Nazareth.






My heart is with you, said Jesus of Nazareth,


As the grape is one with the vine.


Your bliss is mine, said Jesus of Nazareth,


And so I make you wine.






Youth and love I bless, said Jesus,


Song and the cup that cheers.


The rosy hands of Jesus of Nazareth


Are wet with the young bride's tears.




[Pg 57]




Love one another, said Jesus of Nazareth,


Ere cometh the evil of years.


The rosy hands of Jesus of Nazareth


Are wet with the bridegroom's tears.






Jesus of Nazareth goes with his mother,


The dancers are dancing again.


There's a woman who pauses without to listen,


'Tis Mary Magdalen.






Forth to the street a Scribe from the wedding


Goes with a Sadducee.


Said the Scribe, this shows how loose a fellow


Can come out of Galilee!










[Pg 58]


BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON








By the waters of Babylon by the sea,


On the sand where the waters died,


The sea wind and the tide


Drowned the words you spoke to me.






The sea fell at our feet. The sand


Hushed the whispering waters, near


The babble of boats by the pier


Was the ictus to the roar on the strand.






By the waters of Babylon a grief to be,


The waiting ships in the bay,


Awed the words we would say


Against the sound of the sea:






For France was below the waters, and the west


Behind me where the rains


Come in November on the window panes,


And the blast shakes the ruined nest






Under the dripping eaves. What then remains


But memory of the waters of Babylon,


And the ships like swan after swan,


Under the drone of angry hydroplanes?




[Pg 59]




By the waters of Babylon we did not weep,


Though love comes and is gone,


As the wind is, as waters drawn


In spray from the deep.






Neither for things foreseen and ominous,


For newer hands that somewhere wait


To thrill afresh, the reblossomed fate


Did we surrender dolorous....






Change now is yours beyond the waters, nights


Of waiting and of doubt have dimmed desire.


Our hands are calm before the dying fire


Of lost delights.






Babylon by the sea knows us no more.


Between the surge's hushes


When on the sand the water rushes


There is no voice of ours upon the shore.










[Pg 60]


THE DREAM OF TASSO








O Earth that walls these prison bars—O Stones


Which shut my body in—could I be free


If these fell and the grated door which groans


For every back scourged hither oped for me?


Freedom were what to travel you, O Earth,


When my heart makes its daily agony?


And longing such as mine cannot ungirth


Its bands and its mortality o'erleap.


Our life is love unsatisfied from birth,


Our life is longing waking or asleep,


And mine has been a vigil of quick pain.


O Leonora, thus it is I keep


Grief in my heart and weariness of brain.






How did I know these chains and bars are wrought


Of frailer stuff than space, that I could gain


In earth no respite, but a vision brought


The truth, O Leonora? It was this:


I dreamed this hopeless love, so long distraught


Was never caged, but from the first was bliss,


And moved like music from the meeting hour


To the rapt moment of the earliest kiss


Bestowed upon your hands, to gathering flower


Of lips so purely yielded, the embrace


Tender as dawn in April when a shower

[Pg 61]

Quenches with gentleness each flowering place;


So were your tears of gladness—so my hands


Which stroked your golden hair, your sunny face,


Even as flying clouds o'er mountain lands


Caress with fleeting love the morning sun.






Now I was with you, and by your commands.


Your love was mine at last completely won,


And waited but the blossom. How you sang,


Laughed, ran about your palace rooms and none


Closed doors against me, desks and closets sprang


To my touch open, all your secrets lay


Revealed to me in gladness—and this pang


Which I had borne in bitterness day by day


Was gone, nor could I bring it back, or think


How it had been, or why—this heart so gay


In sudden sunshine could no longer link


Itself with what it was.






Look! Every room


Had blooms your hands had gathered white and pink,


And drained from precious vases their perfume.


And fruits were heaped for me in golden bowls,


And tapestries from many an Asian loom


Were hung for me, and our united souls


Shone over treasure books—how glad you were


To listen to my epic, from the scrolls


Of Jerusalem, the holy sepulcher.


Still as a shaft of light you sat and heard


With veilèd eyes which tears could scarcely blur,

[Pg 62]

But flowed upon your cheek with every word.


And your hand reached for mine—you did not speak,


But let your silence tell how you were stirred


By love for me and wonder! What to seek


In earth and heaven more? Heaven at last


Was mine on earth, and for a sacred week


This heaven all of heaven.






So it passed


This week with you—you served me ancient wine.


We sat across a table where you cast


A cloth of chikku, or we went to dine


There in the stately room of heavy plate.


Or tiring of the rooms, the day's decline


Beheld us by the river to await


The evening planet, where in elfin mood


You whistled like the robin to its mate,


And won its answering call. Then through the wood


We wandered back in silence hand in hand,


And reached the sacred portal with our blood


Running so swift no ripples stirred the sand


To figures of reflection.






Once again


Within your room of books, upon the stand


The reading lights are brought to us, and then


You read to me from Plato, and my heart


Breathes like a bird at rest; the world of men,


Strife, hate, are all forgotten in this art


Of life made perfect. Or when weariness

[Pg 63]

Comes over us, you dim the lamp and start


The blue light back of Dante's bust to bless


Our twilight with its beauty.






So the time


Passes too quickly—our poor souls possess


Beauty and love a moment—and our rhyme


Which captures it, creates the illusion love


Has permanence, when even at its prime


Decay has taken it from the light above,


Or darkness underneath.






I must recur


To our first sleep and all the bliss thereof.


How did you first come to me, how confer


On me your beauty? That first night it was


The blue light back of Dante, but a blur


Of golden light our spirits, when you pass


Your hand across my brow, our souls go out


To meet each other, leave as wilted grass


Our emptied bodies. Then we grow devout,


And kneel and pray together for the gift


Of love from heaven, and to banish doubt


Of change or faithlessness. Then with a swift


Arising from the prayer you disappear.


I sleep meanwhile, you come again and lift


My head against your bosom, bringing near


A purple robe for me, and say, "Wear this,


And to your chamber go." And thus I hear,


And leave you; on my couch, where calm for bliss

[Pg 64]

I wait for you and listen, hear your feet


Whisper their secret to the tapestries


Of your ecstatic coming—O my sweet!


I touched your silken gown, where underneath


Your glowing flesh was dreaming, made complete


My rapture by upgathering, quick of breath,


Your golden ringlets loosened—and at last


Hold you in love's embrace—would it were Death!...


For soon 'twixt love and sleep the night was past,


And dawn cob-webbed the chamber. Then I heard


One faintest note and all was still—the vast


Spherule of heaven was pecked at by a bird


As it were to break the sky's shell, let the light


Of morning flood the fragments scattered, stirred


By breezes of the dawn with passing night.


We woke together, heard together, thrilled


With speechless rapture! Were your spirit's plight


As mine is with this vision, had I willed


To torture you with absence? Would I save


Your spirit if its anguish could be stilled


Only among the worms that haunt the grave?






My dream goes on a little: Day by day,


These seven days we lived together, gave


Our spirits to each other. With dismay


You watched my hour's departure. On you crept


Light shadows after moments sunny, gay.


But when the hour was come, you sat and wept,


And said to me: "I hear the rattling clods


Upon the coffin of our love." You stepped

[Pg 65]

And stood beside the casement, said "A god's


Sarcophagus this room will be as soon


As you have gone, and mine shall be the rod's


Bitterness of memory both night and noon


Amid the silence of this palace." So


I spoke and said, "If you would have the boon—


O Leonora, do I live to know


This hope too passionate made consummate?—


Yet if it be I shall return, nor go


But to return to you, and make our fate


Bound fast for life." How happy was your smile,


Your laughter soon,—and then from door to gate


I passed and left you, to be gone awhile


Around Ferrara.






In three days, it seemed,


I came again, and as I walked each mile


Counting to self—my feet lagged as I dreamed—


And said ten miles, nine miles, eight miles, at last


One mile, so many furlongs, then I dreamed


Your reading lamps were lighted for me, cast


Their yellow beams upon the mid-night air.


But oh my heart which stopped and stood aghast


To see the lamp go out and note the glare


Of blue light set behind the Dante mask!


Who wore my robe of purple false and fair?


Who drank your precious vintage from the flask


Roman and golden whence I drank so late?


Who held you in his arms and thus could ask?


Receive your love? Mother of God! What fate

[Pg 66]

Was mine beneath the darkness of that sky,


There at your door who could not leave or wait,


And heard the bird of midnight's desolate cry?


And saw at last the blue light quenched, and saw


A taper lighted in my chamber—why


This treachery, Leonora? Why withdraw


The love you gave, or eviler, lead me here,


O sorceress, before whom heaven's law


Breaks and is impotent—whose eyes no tear


Of penitence shall know, whose spirit fares


Free, without consequence, as a child could sear


Its fellow's hands with flame, or unawares,


Or with premeditation, and then laugh and turn


Upon its play. For you, light heart, no snares


Or traps of conscience wait, who thus could spurn


A love invited.






Thus about your lawn


I listened till the stars had ceased to burn,


But when I saw the imminence of the dawn


And heard our bird cry, I could stand no more,


My heart broke and I fled and wandered on


Down through the valley by the river's shore.


For when the bird cried, did you wake with him?


Did you two gaze as we had gazed before


Upon that blissful morning? I was dim


Of thought and spirit, by the river lay


Watching the swallows over the water skim,


And plucking leaves from weeds to turn or stay


The madness of my life's futility,

[Pg 67]

Grown blank as that terrific dawn—till day


Flooded upon me, noon came, what should be?


Where should I go? What prison chains could rest


So heavily on the spirit, as that free,


But vast and ruined world?






O arrowed breast


Of me, your Tasso! And you came and drew


The arrows out which kept the blood repressed,


And let my wounds the freer bleed: 'Twas you


By afternoon who walked upon an arm


More lordly than mine is. You stopped nor knew,


I saw him take your body lithe and warm


Close to his breast, yes, even where we had stood


Upon our day, embraced—feed on the charm


Of widened eyes and swiftly coursing blood.


I watched you walk away and disappear


In the deep verdure of the river wood,


Too faint to rise and fly, crushed by the fear


Of madness, sudden death!






This was my dream,


From which I woke and saw again the sheer


Walls of my prison, which no longer seem


The agony they did, even though the cell


Is the hard penalty and the cursed extreme


Hate in return for love. But oh you hell,


You boundless earth to wander in and brood—


Great prison house of grief in which to dwell,


Remembering love forgotten, pride subdued,

[Pg 68]

And love desired and found and lost again.


That is the prison which no fortitude


Can suffer, and the never dying pain


From which the spacious luring of the earth


Tempts flight for spirit freedom, but in vain!






Ah Leonora! Even from our birth


We build our prisons! What are walls like these


Beside the walls of memory, or the dearth


Of hope in all this life, the agonies


Of spiritual chains and gloom? I suffer less,


Imprisoned thus, than if the memories


Of love bestowed and love betrayed should press


Round my unresting steps. And I send up


To heaven thanks that spared that bitterness,


That garden of the soul's reluctant cup!










[Pg 69]


THE CHRISTIAN STATESMAN








He hears his father pray when he's a boy:


"Jesus we know, the Savior, and we ask,


In Thy great plenitude of mercy, grace,


Forgiveness for our waywardness; we invoke


Thy blessing, and may righteousness and peace


Prevail in all the earth. Meekly we rest


Upon the precious promise of Thy word.


Gather us home with Thine own people, Lord,


And all the glory shall be Thine."






So much


To show the father's prayer which he heard.


The father is a saint, a quietist,


Save that he has his hatreds, strong enough:


Turns face of stone and silence to the men


Whose ways of life are laid in sin, he thinks


And calls them dirty dogs and scalawags,


Because they vote a ticket he dislikes,


Or love a game of cards, a glass of beer,


Or go to see the County Fair, where once


A drunken bus-man drives upon a boy


And kills him. Then the saint is all aflame,


And tries to have the fair put out for good.

[Pg 70]

And so the son, who will become at last


The Christian Statesman, hears his father pray,


And prays himself, and takes the lesson in


Of godliness, the Bible as the source


Of truth infallible, divine.






This boy


Is blessed with health, a body without flaw,


His forehead is a little low, perhaps,


And has a transverse dent which keeps the brain


Shaped to the skull; a perfect brain is sphered,


As perfect things are circles; but a brain


Something below perfection, which is fed


By a great body and an obdurate will,


And sense of moral purpose will go far,


Farther than better brains in craft of states,


For some years anyway, if a voice be given


Which reaches to the largest crowded room,


To speak the passionate moralities


Which come into that brain creased straight across


The forehead with a dent.






He goes to school,


And from the first believes he has a mission


To make the world a better place, avows


His mission in the world, bends all his strength


To make his armor ready: health of body,


A blameless life, hard studies, practices


With word and voice.



[Pg 71]



It is a country college


Where he matriculates—the father wished it;


A college where the boys are mostly poor,


And waste no time, have not the cash to buy


Delight, if they desired.






He ruminates


Upon the pebbles and Demosthenes,


And sets his will to be an orator


That he may herald truth and save the world.


After much toil, re-writing, he delivers


A speech he calls, "Ich Dien," and loses out


Against a youth who speaks on Liberty.


And then he uses Gladstone for his theme,


The Christian Statesman; for exordium


Tells of the ermine which will die before


It suffers soilure—that was Gladstone—yes!


But still he cannot win the prize; a boy


Who talks about the labors of Charles Darwin,


His suffering and sacrifice, is awarded


The prize this time—a boy who had the wit


To speak in praise of Darwin's virtues—saying


Nothing about his hellish doctrines, thus


Winning the cautious judges to his theme.






But is our little Gladstone crushed, dismayed?


He plucks up further strength and takes a hint:


A larger subject may bring down the prize.


He thinks of Thomas Jefferson—but then


Jefferson was a deist, took the Bible

[Pg 72]

And cut out everything but Jesus' words.


"Yet I can speak on what was good in him,


His work for liberty, the Declaration,


And close my eyes to all his heterodoxy."


Then something of this plan crept like a snake


Into his brain, he petted it with hands:


Be ye as wise as serpents, and as doves


Harmless, he smiled—and went to work again,


And won the prize.






And now he has stepped forth


Into the world's arena to become


A Savior, an evangel, as he thinks,


In truth a pest. He runs for Congress first


And when his manager takes out a check


And shows him, given by the local brewery,


Another check a bank gives, he maintains


A smiling silence, thinking to himself,


Jesus accepted gifts from publicans,


And if I am elected then this money,


However dirty, will be purified


By what I do.






But then he was defeated.


He thinks the banks and breweries did the trick.


In truth they knew the Christian Statesman, knew


The oleaginous smile and silver voice


Concealed the despot. Did he scourge them then?


Well, scarcely then—he wrote a public letter


And said the people had decided it.

[Pg 73]

And what the people said was law. He nerved


His purpose for another trial—that body


So big and flawless could not be exhausted—


That voice still carried to the farthest corner,


That oily smile deceived the multitude


That he was hurt, embittered, only waited


To see if body, voice and oily smile


Could win by any means; if not, the scourge


Would be brought forth, the smile dropped, the complaints


Against the breweries, what not, opened up,


Unmasked. For when your hope is gone, you're free


To scold and tell your bitterness.






And then


He made a third and last attempt, though edging


Toward the sophistry that moral questions


Make those political, and by this means


Trying to win the churches. Still he stuck


To matters economic, as before


Took what the breweries gave to help his cause,


His campaign fund. By this time many more


Had found him out, and knew him for a voice


And tireless body nourishing a brain


As mediocre as the world contained,


And only making louder noise because


Of body strong and voice mellifluous.


They put him down for good: the Christian Statesman


Had cause to think he was no statesman, or


No Christian, or the electorate not Christian.

[Pg 74]

And so he took the mask off, dropped the smile,


And let his mouth set like a concrete crack


And went about to punish men, while seeming


To save the world.






Out of that indentation,


That fosse of mediocrity, came up


A crocodile with wagging tail upreared,


And smile toothed to the gullet—it was this:


Questions political are moral questions,


And moral questions are political,


And terms convertible are equipollent,


And wholly true. Therefore, I rise to preach


To moral America, draw audiences


In churches, of the churches. If I win


Majorities upon—no matter what—


A law will blossom; as all moral questions


Are equally political, procure


For their adoption the majority.


Upon this fortress I can stand and shoot—


Who can attack me, since I seek for self


Nothing, but for my country righteousness?


And as an instrument of God I punish


My enemies as well.






Who are my enemies?


The intelligencia, as they call themselves,


Who flaunt the Bible wholly or in part,


Or try to say that Darwin's evolution


Honors the Deity more than Genesis.

[Pg 75]

Who are my enemies? The thinkers, yes,


The strivers for a higher culture, yes,


The scorners of old fashioned ways, the things


Really American!—I know the crowd—


That smart minority I overwhelm,


Blot out, drown out, by massing under me


The great majority, the common folk,


Believers in the Bible—first for them!


And on the way the vile saloon I crush,


The abominable brewery—then I take away


From banqueters and diners, diners out,


The seekers after happiness, not God,


The cocktail and the wine they love so well.


This is a moral question, being so


Is also a political—the majority


Can do what they desire. I am consistent,


For from the first I've preached the people's rule,


Abided by the people's voice and taken


Defeat with grace because the people gave it.


So now I say the people have the right


To pass upon all questions. As I said


When starting as a public man, the people


Could have what Government they desired, in fact


A King, or despotism, if they voted for it.


For all this talk of rights, or realms of right,


Or individual preferences, beliefs


And courses in the world is swallowed up


By right of the majority—the serpent


Of Moses, so to speak, which swallowed up


All other serpents.




[Pg 76]




If he thought so much


The Christian Statesman thought this way—at least


He acted out a part which seemed to say


He analyzed so far. He went to work


To make his country just a despotism


Not governed by a King, but by the people


Laying the hand of law on everything


Most intimate and private, having thought


For moral aspects, as all politics


Are moral in their essence, to repeat.






Did not the Christian Statesman have revenge


In building his theocracy, who saw


All bills of right and fruit of revolution


Ground into mortar, made into a throne


For Demos?






And behold King Demos now!


A slouch hat for a crown upon his brow,


Stuffed full of bacon and of apple pie,


The Christian Statesman leaning on his shoulder


A tableau of familiarity.


The Christian Statesman having lost his hair


Betrays the Midas ears—the oily smile


Beams on the republic he has overthrown!










[Pg 77]


THE LAMENT OF SOPHONIA








You who have wasted this June for me,


Bitter be the seed of your love.






Long midnights by the sea


Have I waited for your return,


Counting the stars—


Bitter be the seed of your love.






And as stars go out in the crocus light of dawn,


As waters drip from a failing fountain,


So passed these days of June.


As a boy strips from a stalk of snap-dragons


The perfect blossoms,


And treads them into the earth,


So you have taken the June days from me—


Bitter be the seed of your love.






On my couch by the sea,


My golden curls loosened,


Resting after the cool ablution of evening waters,


My body white as whitecaps, under the moon,


My eyes large as the fox's lurking in darkness,


I have waited for your return.




[Pg 78]




May the scourge of Asia mar your beautiful body,


Beloved!


You have wasted my loveliest June.


As the unheeding wind


Drives the falling cherry blossoms


Into the purple waves,


So you have scattered my days of June—


Bitter be the seed of your love!






I have distilled henbane for you,


Beloved,


And put it in a crystal vial.


The moon of October will shine,


Then you will come to me,


Your wanderings and treasons finished!


And when you slip exhausted from my arms


I will give you wine from a golden cup,


And pour the henbane in it—


I shall give you henbane for the poison of defeated love;


I shall kiss your dead lips, Beloved.






Then I shall drink, too.


Our bodies shall feed the worms


As these June days have fed my writhing sorrow,


Beloved murderer of my June!










[Pg 79]


AT DECAPOLIS

Mark, Chap. V


I

THE ACCUSATION








I am a farmer and live


Two miles from Decapolis.


Where is the magistrate? Tell me


Where the magistrate is!






Here I had made provision


For children and wife,


And now I have lost my all;


I am ruined for life.






I, a believer, too,


In the synagogues.—


What is the faith to me?


I have lost my hogs.






Two thousand hogs as fine


As ever you saw,


Drowned and choked in the sea—


I want the law!






They were feeding upon a hill


When a strolling teacher

[Pg 80]

Came by and scared my hogs—


They say he's a preacher,






And cures the possessed who haunt


The tombs and bogs.


All right; but why send devils


Into my hogs?






They squealed and grunted and ran


And plunged in the sea.


And the lunatic laughed who was healed,


Of the devils free.






Devils or fright, no matter


A fig or straw.


Where is the magistrate, tell me—


I want the law!








II

JESUS BEFORE MAGISTRATE AHAZ








Ahaz, there in the seat of judgment, hear,


If you have wit to understand my plea.


Swine-devils are too much for swine, that's clear,


Poor man possessed of such is partly free,






Is neither drowned, destroyed at once, his chains


May pluck while running, howling through the mire


And take a little gladness for his pains,


Some fury for unsatisfied desire.




[Pg 81]




But hogs go mad at once. All this I knew,—


But then this lunatic had rights. You grant


Swine-devils had him in their clutch and drew


His baffled spirit. How significant,






As they were legion and so named, the point


Is, life bewildered, torn in greed and wrath.


Desire puts a spirit out of joint.


Swine-devils are for swine, who have no path.






But man with many lusts, what is his way,


Save in confusion, through accustomed rooms?


He prays for night to come, and for the day


Amid the miry places and the tombs.






But hogs run to the sea. And there's an end.


Would I might cast the swinish demons out


From man forever. Yet the word attend.


The lesson of the thing what soul can doubt?






What is the loss of hogs, if man be saved?


What loss of lands and houses, man being free?


Clothed in his reason sits the man who raved,


Clean and at peace, your honor. Come and see.






Your honor shakes a frowning head. Not loth,


Speaking more plainly, deeper truth to draw;


Do your judicial duty, yet I clothe


Free souls with courage to transgress the law




[Pg 82]




By casting demons out from self, or those


Like this poor lunatic whom your synagogues


Would leave to battle singly with his woes—


What is a man's soul to a drove of hogs?






Which being lost, men play the hypocrite


And make the owner chief in the affair.


You banish me for witchcraft. I submit.


Work of this kind awaits me everywhere.






And into swine where better they belong,


Casting the swinish devils out of men


The devils have their place at last, and then


The man is healed who had them—where's the wrong






Save to the owner? Well, your synagogues


Make the split hoof and chewing of the cud


The test of lawful flesh. Not so are hogs.


This rule has been the statute from the flood.






Ahaz, your judgment has a fatal flaw.


Is it not so with judges first and last—


You break the law to specialize the law?—


This is the devil that from you I cast.










[Pg 83]


WINGED VICTORY








Icarus, Daedalus, Medea's dragons,


Pegasus, Leonardo, Swedenborg,


Cyrano de Bergerac, with dew-filled flagons,


Bacon, who schemed with chemicals and forge,


Lana, of copper spheres of air exhausted,


Therefore made light to rise


Up where the pathless ways are frosted


In the blue vitriol of the skies.






Montgolfier, Franklin, von Zeppelin, Watt,


Edison, an engine must be, spiral springs,


Nor steam move not these more than condor wings


Of heaven's Argonaut,


Gathering the sun-set clouds for golden fleece.


Santos Dumont and Langley, over these


The Americans, the brothers Wright.


America finds wings for flight.


At last out of the New World wings are born


To wheel far up where cold is, and a light


Dazzling and immaculate,


In the heights where stands the temple of the Morn.


Winged Victory more beautiful than Samothrace's


For the New World opening the gate


Of heaven at last, where mortals enter in


Unconquerably and win

[Pg 84]

The great escape from earth, the measureless spaces


Of air across the inimical abyss


Between ethereal precipice and precipice.


Hail! spirits of the race's


Courage to be free, adventurers


Of infinite desire!


Hail! seed of the ancient wars,


Of burning glasses, catapults, Greek fire!


Hail! final conquerors,


Out of whose vision greater vision springs—


America with wings!






The vulture lags behind, the Gorgones,


Revealed or ambushed in the thunder clouds,


Would tear from heaven these audacities


Of deathless spirit, shatter them and spill


The blasphemy of genius from the sky.


Gods are you, flyers, whom no danger shrouds,


No terror shakes the will.


Gods are you though you suffer and must die,


Men winged as gods who fly!






Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,


With feathers made him wings, but steel


Soars for the petrol demon's toil,


Fed by the sap of trees far under earth


In the long eons past turned into oil.


The petrol demon in the enchanted coil


Of lightning howls and spins the invisible wheel


Which had its birth

[Pg 85]

In the rapt vision of Archimides.


Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,


With feathers made him wings. But now a swan,


A steel-borne beetle cleaves the immensities,


Fed with fire of amber and oil of trees,


And soars against the sun,


And over mountains, seas!






Flight more auspicious than the flight of cranes


In Homer's Troyland, or than eagles flying


Toward Imaus when the midnight wanes.


Victorious flight! symbol of man defying


Low dungeons of the spirit, darkness, chains.


Flight beyond superstition and the reigns


Of tyrannies where thought of man should be


Swift as his thought is free.


Flight of an era born to-day


That puts the past and all its dead away.






Locusts of the new Jehovah sent to scourge


All Pharaohs who enslave.


Hornets with multiple eyes,


Scorning surprise,


And armed to purge


The despot and the knave


Out of the fairer land where men shall live,


Winning all things which were so fugitive


Of wisdom, happiness and peace,


Of hope, of spiritual release

[Pg 86]

From fear of life, life's mean significance,


Till life be ordered, not a thing of chance.






The hopelessness of him who cried


Vanity of Vanities


Was justified,


But now no longer must abide.


Failure was his, and failure filled the hours


Of our fathers in the past—let it depart.


Triumph is come, and triumph must be ours.


The archangels of earth through Israel,


Through India and Greece


Shall find us wings for life and for increase


Of living, and shall battle down the hell


Whose fires still smolder and profane.


Life and the human heart


In living must become the aeroplane,


Not the yoked oxen and the cart.


Let but the thought of East and West be blent,


Europe, America, the Orient,


To give life wings as Time's last great event:


The final glory of wings to the soul of man


In an order of life human, but divine,


Fashioned in carefulest thought, powerful but of delicate design,


As the wings of the aeroplane are.


Where spirit of man is used to the full, but saved,


As the petrol demon, in this dragon of war,


Uses and saves his power.

[Pg 87]

Where neither thought, truth, love nor gifts, nor any flower


Of spirit of man, so mangled or enslaved


In the eras gone, is wasted or depraved.






Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised


With winning of his wings.


Dust he no more shall eat,


Who crawls not, but from feet


Has risen to wings!


Man shall no longer python be.


These wings are prophecies of a world made free!


Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised.


He has soared to the gate of heaven and gazed


Into the meadows of infinity,


Winged and with lightning shod,


Beyond the old day's lowering cloud and murk.


The heavens declare the glory of God,


Man shows His handiwork!










[Pg 88]


OH YOU SABBATARIANS!








Oh you sabbatarians, methodists and puritans;


You bigots, devotees and ranters;


You formalists, pietists and fanatics,


Teetotalers and hydropots,


You thin ascetics, androgynous souls,


Chaste and epicene spirits,


Eyes blind to color, ears deaf to sound,


Fingers insensitive,


Do what you will,


Make what laws you choose—


Yet there are high spaces of rapture


Which you can never touch,


They are beyond you and hidden from you.






We leave you to the dull assemblies,


Charades, cantatas and lectures;


The civic meetings where you lie and act


And work up business;


The teas of forced conversation,


And receptions of how-de-dos,


And stereotyped smiles;


The church sociables;


And the calls your young men of clammy hands


And fetid breath


Pay to anæmic virgins—



[Pg 89]



These are yours;


Take them—


But I tell you


In places you know not of,


We, the free spirits, the livers,


Guests at the wedding feast of life,


Drinkers of the wine made by Jesus,


Worshipers of fire and of God,


Who made the grape,


And filled the veins of His legitimate children


With ethereal flame—


We the lovers of life in unknown places


Shall taste of ancient wine,


And put flowers in golden vases,


And open precious books of song,


And look upon dreaming Buddhas,


And marble masks of genius.


We shall hear the sound of stringed instruments,


Voicing the dreams of great spirits.


We shall know the rapture of kisses


And long embraces,


And the sting of folly.


We shall entwine our arms in voluptuous sleep,


And in the misery of your denials


And your cowardice and your fears


You shall not even dream that we exist.






Unintelligible weeds! We, the blossoms of life's garden,


Flourish on the hills of variable winds—


We perish, but you never live.










[Pg 90]


PALLAS ATHENE








Athene! Virgin! Goddess! Queen! descend,


Come to us and befriend.


Set up your shrine among us and defend


Our realm against corruptions which impend.




*****




Divinity of order and of law,


Most powerful and wise,


Our land reclaim.


Patron of the assemblies of the free,


Our cities shame!


Dethrone our bastard Demos, partisans


Of Moody, Campbell, all the Wesleyans.


Come down with awe,


Enceladus and Pallas strike, who rise


Against your father and his hierarchy.


Smite the giants Superstition, Force,


Fanaticism, Ignorance and Faith


In village gods, and bury them beneath


Volcanic mountains. Yoke them to the course


And labor of your wisdom. Fling your shield,


Medusa faced, before the brows of clay,


Who rule our clattering day;


Flash it before their brows and make


Stones for the pavement of the way

[Pg 91]

Whereon you drive your chariot, golden-wheeled.


Descend, O Goddess, for the memory's sake


And for the hope's sake of your son,


Franklin, your herald, Washington,


Who dreamed to make perpetual


Our Parthenon, column, court and hall.


And save it from the donjon, minaret,


The cross, the spire, the vane, the parapet!




*****




We have no god but Jesus,


No god but Billiken.


Nature and Dionysius


Come back again!


Jehovah is an alien tyrant, rules us


From arid Palestine,


Who mouths a heaven that fools us,


And curses the olive and vine,


And the smiles of the lyric nine.


Gods are they, hard and full of wrath


Who drive us on the unintelligible path.


Gods are they, and unreckoning of their work


Too puerile or despotic, or with feet


That drip blood on a mercy seat.


They nerve our hands with hatred's dirk,


Or weaken us with poison sweet.


Drug us to mumble this is life, who feel


In our delirium, no less, that life


Is an ocean that breaks the grist stones and the wheel


Set up to feed this world of strife

[Pg 92]

By Mary's son, Mary the wife——


Come from the Islands of the Blest,


Goddess, and give us wisdom, vision, rest.


Reveal a Beauty for our hearts to love.


The wooden ark of Moses, overlaid


With strips of gold,


And all the spurious covenant thereof


By which our life is obelised


We would no more behold,


Who have so vainly with it temporized.


Fruitless our spirits have these centuries prayed


Before the Janus cross,


The oracle that speaks in riddles, asks


Penitence, obedience, tasks


Which nature interdicts.


We are the body on the crucifix,


Not Jesus; we, the race, are crucified,


And die upon the cross,


For centuries have died.


Come and restore our loss


Of truth, the eyes of spirits undeceived,


Courage with nature, strike the opiate joss


To ruin with your sword,


O most adored!


Give us Reality, O lover of men,


Republics, cities, lands.


Uplift our eyes to Beauty, once perceived


We may rebuild the Areopagus,


With wiser eyes and hands.


Bring Thought, the Argus, consciousness

[Pg 93]

That looks before and after,


And grace perpetual of Mnemosyne—


Remembering we shall be free!


Save us, O Goddess, from the drifting crowd,


Wondering, witless, loud,


The lovers of the minute who possess


No reverence and no laughter!




*****




Goddess! with silver helmet, guardian


You may be, if we worship at your shrine,


Before the gates of Boston and New York,


Chicago, San Francisco, through the span


Of continents and isles; your heart incline


Toward our turbulent blood from many climes,


Worships and times.


Lift from our necks the brass and jeweled torque


Of restless zealots and of idiot mouths;


The locusts swarm, the land is cursed with drouths,


Bring rain and dew,


Plant olive trees,


Set on our hills the emblem of the vine;


Bring to our hearts the lofty purities


Of song and laughter, wisdom, and renew


Temples of beauty and academies!




*****




Set up your golden altar


In Parthenons in every village and shire.


The crucifix and psalter,


The ikons and the toys of vain desire

[Pg 94]

We cast into the fire.


We keep the lover Jesus, for his hope,


His humanism and his flaming zeal.


He will approach your altar, he will kneel


At last before you, for the horoscope


Of life misread in youth


And youthful dreams and faith.


Goddess! our globe that hungers for the truth


Between the roar of life, silence of death


Cannot be stayed or cowed. But, oh, descend


First to our soil, Atlantis, and befriend.


Make us a light across the fathomless sea


Of centuries to be,


Even as Athens is, divinity!










[Pg 95]


AT SAGAMORE HILL








All things proceed as though the stage were set


For acts arranged. I have not learned the part,


The day enacts itself. I take the tube,


Find daylight at Jamaica, know the place


Through some rehearsal, all the country know


Which glides along the window, is not seen


For definite memory. At Oyster Bay


A taxi stands in readiness; in a trice


We circle strips of water, slopes of hills,


Climb where a granite wall supports a hill,


A mass of blossoms, ripening berries, too,


And enter at a gate, go up a drive,


Shadowed by larches, cedars, silver willows.


This taxi just ahead is in the play,


Is here in life as I had seen it in


The crystal of prevision, reaches first


The porte cochere. This moment from the door


Comes Roosevelt, and greets the man who leaves


The taxi just ahead, then waits for me,


Puts a strong hand that softens into mine,


And says, O, this is bully!






We go in.


He leaves my antecessor in a room


Somewhere along the hall, and comes to me

[Pg 96]

Who wait him in the roomy library.


How are those lovely daughters? Oh, by George!


I thought I might forget their names, I know—


It's Madeline and Marcia. Yes, you know


Corinne adores the picture which you sent


Of Madeline—your boy, too? In the war!


That's bully—tea is coming—we must talk,


I have five hundred things to ask you—set


The tea things on this table, Anna—now,


Do you take sugar, lemon? O, you smoke!


I'll give you a cigar.






The talk begins.


He's dressed in canvas khaki, flannel shirt,


Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps;


A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeks


Drained slightly of their fat; gash in the neck


Where pus was emptied lately; one eye dim,


And growing dimmer; almost blind in that.


And when he walks he rolls a little like


A man whose youth is fading, like a cart


That rolls when springs are old. He is a moose,


Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones;


Some finest tips of antlers broken off,


And eyes where images of ancient things


Flit back and forth across them, keeping still


A certain slumberous indifference


Or wisdom, it may be.



[Pg 97]



But then the talk!


Bronze dolphins in a fountain cannot spout


More streams at once: Of course the war, the emperor,


America in the war, his sons in France,


The dangers, separation, let them go!


The fate has been appointed—to our task,


Live full our lives with duty, go to sleep!


For I say, he exclaims, the man who fears


To die should not be born, nor left to live.


It's Celtic poetry, free verse. He says:


You nobly celebrate in your Spoon River


The pioneers, the soldiers of the past,


Why do you flout our Philippine adventure?


No difference, Colonel, in the stock, the difference


Lies in the causes. Well, another stream:


Mark Hanna, Quay and others, what I hate,


He says to me, is the Pharisee—I can stand


All other men. And you will find the men


So much maligned had gentle qualities,


And noble dreams. Poor Quay, he loved the Indians,


Sent for me when he lay there dying, said,


Look after such a tribe when I am dead.


I want to crawl upon a sunny rock


And die there like a wolf. Did he say that,


Colonel, to you? Yes! and you know, a man


Who says a thing like that has in his soul


An orb of light to flash that meaning forth


Of heroism, nature.






Time goes on,


The play is staged, must end; my taxi comes

[Pg 98]

In half an hour or so. Before it comes,


Let's walk about the farm and see my corn.


A fellow on the porch is warming heels


As we go by. I'll see him when you go,


The Colonel says.






The rail fence by the corn


Is good to lean on as we stand and talk


Of farming, cattle, country life. We turn,


Sit for some moments in a garden house


On which a rose vine clambers all in bloom,


And from this hilly place look at the strips


Of water from the bay a mile beyond,


Below some several terraces of hills


Where firs and pines are growing. This resembles


A scene in Milton that I've read. He knows,


Catches the reminiscence, quotes the lines—and then


Something of country silence, look of grass


Where the wind stirs it, mystical little breaths


Coming between the roses; something, too,


In Vulcan's figure; he is Vulcan, too,


Deprived his shop, great bellows, hammer, anvil,


Sitting so quietly beside me, hands


Spread over knees; something of these evokes


A pathos, and immediately in key


With all of this he says: I have achieved


By labor, concentration, not at all


By gifts or genius, being commonplace


In all my faculties.




[Pg 99]




Not all, I say.


One faculty is not, your over-mind,


Eyed front and back to see all faculties,


Govern and watch them. If we let you state


Your case against you, timid born, you say,


Becoming brave, asthmatic, growing strong:


No marksman, yet becoming skilled with guns;


No gift of speech, yet winning golden speech;


No gift of writing, writing books, no less


Of our America to thrill and live—


If, as I say, we let you state your case


Against you as you do, there yet remains


This over-mind, and that is what—a gift


Of genius or of what? By George, he says,


What are you, a theosophist? I don't know.


I know some men achieve a single thing,


Like courage, charity, in this incarnation;


You have achieved some twenty things. I think


That this is going some for a man whose gifts


Are commonplace and nothing else.






We rise


And saunter toward the house—and there's the man


Still warming heels; my taxi, too, has come.


We are to meet next Wednesday in New York


And finish up some subjects—he has thoughts


How I can help America, if I drop


This line or that a little, all in all.




[Pg 100]


*****




But something happens; I have met a loss;


Would see no one, and write him I am off.


And on that Wednesday flashes from the war


Say Quentin has been killed: we had not met


If I had stayed to meet him.






So, good-by


Upon the lawn at Sagamore was good-by,


Master of Properties, you stage the scene


And let us speak and pass into the wings!


One thing was fitting—dying in your sleep—


A touch of Nature, Colonel, you who loved


And were beloved of Nature, felt her hand


Upon your brow at last to give to you


A bit of sleep, and after sleep perhaps


Rest and rejuvenation; you will wake


To newer labors, fresher victories


Over those faculties not disciplined


As you desired them in these sixty years.










[Pg 101]


TO ROBERT NICHOLS








England has found another voice in you


Of beauty and of truth,


True to their soul, as you are true—


Singer and soldier, yet a youth.






Out of the trenches and the rage of blood,


The hatred and the lies


You, like a wounded sky-lark, in a flood


Pour forth these melodies,






Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soared


Above the stench of hell and death's defeats.


I look at you, as often I have pored


On the death mask of Keats.






Or the face of him quickly and gladly going


The waves of the sea under,


To the land of man's unknowing,


Or the land of wonder.






And the war had you! what can it give


In return for souls like yours


Mangled or blotted out?—who shall forgive


The war while time endures?




[Pg 102]




Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands,


The soldiers marching well,


Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's hands


Clutch in a hemorrhage of hell.






Yet you found God through this? through war,


Through love found vision, perhaps peace?


Keep them in your breast like the morning star—


May their light increase.






Waves on the sea's breast catch the light


While the hollows between


Are dark—you are a wave whose height


Is smitten by the Light unseen,






Urged by the Sea's power to the glory


Of the christening sun.


When the calm comes and darkness, transitory


Be your doubt, or none.






These words from me who have the hard way traveled


Of pain and thought,


In a weaving never wholly unraveled,


Or wholly wrought,






For your spirit and your songs, gladness


For the hope of you, and praise


To life, who gave you out of the world's madness


In these our days.










[Pg 103]


BONNYBELL: THE BUTTERFLY








As I shall die, let your belief


Find in these words too poor and brief


My soul's essential self.






My grief


Down to the day I knew you locks


Its secret word in paradox:


I who loved truth could not be true,


Could only love the truth and glow


With words of truth who loved it so,


Even while I dishonored you.


I who loved constancy was false,


And heeded but in part the calls


Of loveliness for love and you.


I am but half of that I hoped,


And that half hardly more than words


I cheered my soul with as it groped:


As from their bowers of rain the birds


Sing feebly, pining for the sun.


As I am all of this, by fate


Lose what I could so well have won,


Life leaves me half articulate,


My failure, nature half-expressed,


Or wholly hidden in my breast.


Yes, dear, the secret of me lies

[Pg 104]

Where words scarce come to analyze.


Yet who knows why he is this or that?


What moves, defeats him, works him ill?


What blood ancestral of the bat


Narrows his music to the shrill


Squeak of a flitting thing that hunts


For gnats, which never singing, fronts


The full moon flooding down the vale,


The perfect soul, the nightingale!






You have wooed music all your life,


And I have sought for love. I think


My soul was marked, dear, by a wife


Who loved a man immersed in drink,


Who crushed her love which would not die.


If this be true, my soul's great thirst


Was blended with a fault accursed.


My mother's love is my soul's cry.


My father's vileness, lies and lusts,


His cruel heart, inconstancy


That kept my mother with the crusts


Of life to gnaw, are in my blood.


My rainbow wings I scarce can loose,


Or if I free them, there's the mud


That weighs and mars their use.






You have wooed music. But suppose


The hampered hours and poverty


Broke down your spirit's harmony,


Then if you found you could achieve

[Pg 105]

The music in you, if you could


But pick a pocket or deceive,


Which would you call the greater good—


The music or a sin withstood?


Suppose you passed a window where


The violin of your despair


Lay ready for your hands! At last


You stole it as you hurried past,


And hid it underneath your rags


Until you reached your attic room,


Then tuned the strings and burned the tags.


And drew the bow till lyric fire


Should all your thieving thoughts consume:


In such case what is your desire—


The music or the violin?


And what in such case is your sin?


And if they caught you in your theft,


Would you, just to be honest, dear,


Forefront your thief-self as your deft


And dominant genius, or the ear


Which tortured you?






Would you not say,


Music intrigues me night and day?


My soul is the musician's. First


In my soul's love is music. Would


You falsify to keep your good?


Deny your theft, or put the worst


Construction on your soul, obscure


Thereby your soul's investiture

[Pg 106]

Of music's gift and music's lure?


If you were flame you would pretend


What you would fain be to the end,


Keep your good name and keep as well


The violin. May this not be


In some realm an integrity?






Now for myself, dear, though I lack


The gift of utterance to explain


My life's pursuit and passion, pain,


Or why I acted thus, concealed


Thoughts that you hold were best revealed,


Your eyes to heal themselves must track


And find my soul's way in its quest


Followed from girlhood without rest.


Music is not its hope, but love....


And I saw somehow I could lift


My life through you, and rise above


What I had been. And since your gift


Of love saw me as truthful, true


I kept that best side to your view,


And hoped to be what you desired


If I but struggled, still aspired.


And as for lapses, even while


I fooled you with the wanton's smile,


He was my lover till you came


To light my life with purer flame.


Was it, beloved, so great a sin?


He was a practice violin.


Oh, how I knew this when your strings

[Pg 107]

Sang to me afterward when I slept


Upon your breast again. I wept,


Do you remember? I was grieving


Neither for him, nor your deceiving,


Rather (how strange is life) that he


Was prelude to your harmony;


Rather that while I walked with him,


With you I found the cherubim,


Left my old self at last with wings,


Saw beauty clear where it was dim


Before through my imaginings.






Do you suppose the primrose knows


What skill adds petals to its crown?


How many failures laugh and frown


Upon the hand that crosses, sows?


The hand is ignorant of the power


Obedient in the primrose flower


To the hand's skill that toils to add


New petals till the flower be clad


In fuller glory. What's the bond


Between us two, that I respond


To what you are? Nor do you know


What lies within me fain to grow


Under your hand.






But if the worm


Should call itself the butterfly,


Since it will soon become one, I


Better to be myself affirm

[Pg 108]

That I am Beauty, Truth—for you


I would be Beauty, Truth, imbue


Your life with love and loveliness.


And you can make me Beauty, Truth,


And I can bring you soul success


If you but train my flower whose youth


Still may be governed, keep erect


My hope in this poor earthen sod.


I think this is a task which God


Appoints for us. We may neglect


The task in this life, but to find


It is a task we leave behind,


Only to meet it, till we see


Our fate worked out in lives to be.






O, from my lesser self to spread


My golden wings above your head,


Through love of love and you discard


The sting, the rings of green, the shard.


Oh, to be Psyche, passion tried


Through flesh, desire, purified!


Love is my lode-star, music yours—


Souls must go where the lode-star lures.










[Pg 109]


HYMN TO AGNI








God of fire,


God of the flame of our love,


Beyond whose might no God is,


And none in the realm of birth,


Agni! Adored one,


May we never suffer in thy friendship!






Thou, who art re-born each day,


And whose symbol is the sacred drill


Wherewith fire is made for the temple,


Morning by morning,


Freshly create our love as the sun awakes,


Preserve our love, O Agni!






The crocuses, the dandelions,


The golden forsythia


Perished in May.


But roses burn on the altar of earth,


Bridal blossoms, whitest of fire,


Dance in the winds of June.


Agni, remember us,


Remember our love!






We have prayed to you, powerful one—


Thou whose name is first

[Pg 110]

In the first of the sacred hymns;


Thou to whom sacrifices pass


To the Gods, thou messenger of the Gods,


Thou who art born a little lower than the most high Indra


Hast heard our prayer—


Hear still our prayer:


Abide with us, O Agni, and befriend;


Make our hearts as temples,


And our desire as the drill,


Wherewith fire is created


For the sacred sacrifice of love,


And for a light to our spirits—


Turn not away from our prayers,


O Agni!






Here before the fire of the Sun of June


Kneeling


Hand in hand,


Our eyes closed before the splendor of your spirit


Hear our prayer, O Agni:


May we never suffer in thy friendship.










[Pg 111]


EPITAPH FOR US








One with the turf, one with the tree


As we are now, you soon shall be,


As you are now, so once were we.






The hundred years we looked upon


Were Goethe and Napoleon.


Now twice a hundred years are gone,






And you gaze back and contemplate,


Lloyd George and Wilson, William's hate,


And Nicholas of the bloody fate;






Us, too, who won the German war,


Who knew less what the strife was for


Than you, now that the conqueror






Lies with the conquered. You will say:


"Here sleep the brave, the grave, the gay,


The wise, the blind, who lost the way."






But for us English, for us French,


Americans who held the trench,


You will not grieve, though the rains drench




[Pg 112]




The hills and valleys, being these.


Who pities stocks, or pities trees?


Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas?






We are with nature, we have grown


At one with water, earth, and stone—


Man only is separate and alone,






Earth sundered, left to dream and feel


Illusion still in pain made real,


The hope a mist, but fire the wheel.






But what was love, and what was lust,


Memory, passion, pain or trust,


Returned to clay and blown in dust,






Is nature without memory—


Yet as you are, so once were we,


As we are now, you soon shall be,






Blind fellows of the indifferent stars


Healed of your bruises, of your scars


In love and living, in the wars.






Come to us where the secret lies


Under the riddle of the skies,


Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes.






Sink into nature and become


The mystery that strikes you dumb,


Be clay and end your martyrdom.




[Pg 113]




Rise up as thought, the secret know.


As passionless as stars bestow


Your glances on the world below,






As a man looks at hand or knee.


What is the turf of you, what the tree?


Earth is a phantom—let it be.










[Pg 114]


BOTTICELLI TO SIMONETTA








I would give you all my heart, and I have given


All my heart to you to have and keep


With your heart, where my heart has found its heaven


In a light immortal, and a peace like sleep.


Here is my heart, for you to have and treasure,


Your woman's heart will treasure it,


For a love that only love may find a measure,


And only love like yours can measure it.






In absence and in separation praying


Before your love, my heart receive,


My heart which kneels to you, so gently laying


Hands of deep prayer, too reverent to grieve


For lives divided, yet compassionate,


As my poor heart is pitiful for yours.


These hearts of ours, that know so deep a fate,


Even as a heart that silently endures,


Lie on an altar of consuming fire,


Our hearts together, taking life thereof.


Ashes must come of two hearts which aspire


To God, who has given love.










[Pg 115]


FLOWER IN THE GARDEN








Flower in the garden,


Wholly itself and free,


Yearning and joyous,


Breathing its charm


To the passer-by


On the sighing air—


Beloved flower!


Flower desired for something beyond


Itself as a flower;


Giving the promise of ecstasy


Beyond its own being,


Its place in the garden—


A shadowed flame


Of an absolute!






Flower that I have taken


From its place in the garden


To realize the ultimate Beauty;


Flower in the vase at my side,


Breathing a sweeter life


Into the air I breathe,


A spirit that makes me faint,


Sorrowful with a strange languor.


Flower no less beautiful,


But revealing an essence

[Pg 116]

That changes my flower.


O, my flower that is with me but lost,


Lost in the disclosure of other hues,


Other scents!






Flower of passion, flower of love,


Flower that I have won and lost,


Mystical flower!










[Pg 117]


INEXORABLE DEITIES








Deities!


Inexorable revealers,


Give me strength to endure


The gifts of the Muses,


Daughters of Memory.


When the sky is blue as Minerva's eyes


Let me stand unshaken;


When the sea sings to the rising sun


Let me be unafraid;


When the meadow lark falls like a meteor


Through the light of afternoon,


An unloosened fountain of rapture,


Keep my heart from spilling


Its vital power;


When at the dawn


The dim souls of crocuses hear the calls


Of waking birds,


Give me to live but master the loveliness.


Keep my eyes unharmed from splendors


Unveiled by you,


And my ears at peace


Filled no less with the music


Of Passion and Pain, growth and change.




[Pg 118]


*****




But O ye sacred and terrible powers,


Reckless of my mortality,


Strengthen me to behold a face,


To know the spirit of a beloved one


Yet to endure, yet to dare!










[Pg 119]


ARIELLE








Arielle! Arielle!


Gracious and fanciful,


Laughing and joyous!


Arielle girlish, queenly, majestical;


Deep eyed for memory,


Pensive for dreams.


Arielle crowned with the light of thought,


Mystical, reverent,


Musing on the splendor of life,


And the blossom of love


Pressed into her hands—


Arielle!






Music awakes in the hall!


Shadowy pools and glistening willows,


And elfin shapes amid silver shadows


Are made into sound!


Arielle listens with hidden eyes,


Sitting amid her treasures,


A presence like a lamp of alabaster,


A yearning gardenia


That broods in a shaft of light...


Arielle clapping hands and running


About her rooms,


Arranging cloths of gold and jars of crystal,

[Pg 120]

And vases of ruby cloisonne.


Arielle matching blues and reds:


Pomegranates, apples in bowls of jade.


Arielle reposing, lost in Plato,


In the contemplation of Agni.


Arielle, the cup to her lips,


A laughing Thalia!


Arielle!






The breath of morning moves through the casement window—


Arielle taking the cool of it on her brow,


And the ecstasy of the robin's song into her heart.


Arielle in prayer at dawn


Laying hands upon secret powers:


Lead me in the path of love to my love.


Arielle merging the past and the present,


As light increases light—


Arielle adored—


Arielle!










[Pg 121]


SOUNDS OUT OF SORROW








Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrow


These I would hear no more:


The cry of a new-born child at midnight;


The sound of a closing door,






That hushes the echo of departing feet


When the loneliness of the room


Is haunted with the silence


Of a dead god's tomb;






The songs of robins at the white dawn,


Since I may never see


The eyes they waked in the April


Now gone from me;






Music into whose essence entered


The soul of an hour:—


A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,


The scent of a flower.










[Pg 122]


MOURNIN' FOR RELIGION








Brothers and sisters, I'm mournin' for religion,


But I can't get religion, it's my woman interferin'.


I sing and I pray, and I'm real perseverin',


But I can't get religion,


That's all I have to say.


I know there is a fountain, a Jesus, a comforter,


A heaven, a Jerusalem, a day of Pentecost,


Salvation for the wishin', blood for sin's remission,


A covenant, a promise for souls that are lost.


But I can't get religion, the salvation feelin',


The vision of the Lamb, forgiveness and healin'.


I have a sort of numbness


When I see the mourners kneelin'.


I have a kind of dumbness


When the preacher is appealin'.


I have a kind of wariness, even contrariness,


Even while I'm fearin'


The bottomless pit and the shut gates of heaven.


It's my woman interferin'—






For you see when they say:


Come to the mercy seat, come, come,


The spirit and the bride


Say come, come,

[Pg 123]

I think of my woman who bore so many children;


I think of her a cookin' for harvesters in summer;


I think of her a lyin' there, a dyin' there, the neighbors


Who came in to fan her and how she never murmured;


And then I seem to grow number and number,


And something in me says:


Why didn't Jesus help her for to die,


Why did Jesus always pass her by,


Let her break her health down as I was growing poorer,


Let her lie and suffer with no medicine to cure her,


I wouldn't treat a stray dog as Jesus acted to her.


If these are devil words, I'm a child of the devil.


And this is why I'm dumb


As the spirit and the bride say come!




*****




I am old and crippled—sixty in December.


And I wonder if it's God that stretches out and hands us


Troubles we remember?


I'm alone besides, I need the Comforter,


All the children's grown up, livin' out in Kansas.


My old friend Billy died of lung fever....


But the worst of it is I'm really a believer,


Expect to go to hell if I don't get religion.


And I need this religion to stop this awful grievin'


About my woman lyin' there in the cemetery,


And you can't stop that grievin' simply by believin'.


So I mourn for religion,


I mourn for religion,


My old heart breaks for religion!










[Pg 124]


THYAMIS








Thyamis, a gallant of Memphis,


Where melons were served


Iced with snow from the Mountains of the Moon;


Thyamis, a philanderer in Alexandris


Rich in parchments and terebinth,


Lies here in the museum.


His lips are brown as peach leather,


Through which his teeth are sticking,


White as squash seeds.




*****




Knowing that he must die and leave her


He slew the lovely Chariclea


Who sailed with him on the Nile


Under the moon of Egypt.


This is the body of Chariclea


Undesiring the arms of Thyamis.


This is the remnant of Chariclea,


Wrapped in a gunny sack,


Rotted with gums and balsams.




*****




As the sands of the desert are stirred


By the wind when the sun sets,


The open door of the museum


Lets in the wind to shake

[Pg 125]

The cerements of Chariclea,


And the stray hairs on the forsaken head


Of Thyamis.




*****




Of desire long dead;


Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh;


Of Thyamis dying who took to death


The lovely Chariclea;


Of Chariclea who shrank


From the love death of Thyamis


The multitude passes, unknowing.










[Pg 126]


I SHALL GO DOWN INTO THIS LAND








I shall go down into this land


Of the great Northwest:


This land of the free ordinance,


This land made free for the free


By the patriarchs.




*****




Shall it be Michigan,


Or Illinois,


Or Indiana?


These are my people,


These are my lovers, my friends—


Mingle my dust with theirs,


Ye sacred powers!




*****




Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions,


Bound for infinite harbors


Float over the length of this land.


And in the centuries to come


The rocks and trees of this land will turn,


These fields and hills will turn


Under unending convoys of clouds—


O ye clouds!


Drench my dust and mingle it


With the dust of the pioneers;

[Pg 127]

My mates, my friends,


Toilers and sufferers,


Builders and dreamers,


Lovers of freedom.




*****




O Earth that looks into space,


As a man in sleep looks up,


And is voiceless, at peace,


Divining the secret—


I shall know the secret


When I go down into this land


Of the great Northwest!




*****




Draw my dust


With the dust of my beloved


Into the substance of a great rock,


Upon whose point a planet flames,


Nightly, in a thrilling moment


Of divine revelation


Through endless time!










[Pg 128]


SPRING LAKE



Βη δἑ κατ'Ουλὑμπιο καρἡνων χωομενυς κηρ.


—Iliad.








I




Some thought a bomb hit


Trotter's garage.


Some thought a comet


Blew up the Lodge.


Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge,


Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing,


And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow;


And heard a great banging and a howling clanging


Of a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow.




II




Milem Alkire became a changed man,


So the thing began, guess it if you can.


He turned in an hour from a man who was sour


To a singing, dancing satyr like Pan.


He hobbled and clattered as if nothing mattered


Down in his cellar for any strange fellow,


Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking,


For the crowd that was drinking.


All against the statutes in such case provided.




[Pg 129]




Drew well water to cool the wine off,


Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough.


Milem Alkire for years had resided


A quiet, pious, law abiding citizen


Turned in an hour to a wag who derided


The feelings of the people, the village steeple,


And the ways that befit a man—


This Spring Lake citizen.




III




And about the time


That Milem Alkire


Became a wine seller,


And begetter of crime,


With parties on his lawn


From mid-night to dawn,


Making the wine free


Under the pine tree,


Starling Turner's wife ran away,


A woman who before was anything but gay.


Never had a lover in her life, so they say,


But like other clay, had the longing to stray.


She saw a cornet player,


An idler, a strayer,


And left her husband furious threatening to slay her,


And cursing musicians who have no honest missions.


So Starling Turner, a belated learner


Of life as music, laughter, folly,


Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy,

[Pg 130]

Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers,


Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers,


With prizes for fiddling from best to middling:


A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling.


Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad,


Mad about music, the preachers looked sad


For music, the like of which the village never had....


The children in the street were shockingly bad,


And danced like pixies scantily clad;


Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers,


Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers,


Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers,


Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers,


Roasted hooked geese in front of the police.


Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use,


The devil had let a thousand devils loose.




IV




Then folks began to read old books forbidden.


Carpenters orated and expatiated


On Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden,


A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek.


There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark.


And wild talk of razing the village, effacing


The plain little houses and the town replacing


With carved stone, columns and temples gracing


Gardens and vistas the water front embracing.


And others would create a brand new state.


So fire broke out in the strangest places.

[Pg 131]

The belated traveler beheld elfin faces


Springing from nothing, to vanish in a second.


Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners.


Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned,


Till all the wise ones, doubters and scorners


Although they winced, in some way evinced


That their minds were convinced.


Something was wrong,


The evidence was strong,


The air was full of song:


You woke out of sleep and heard a violin,


A harp or a horn;


And rose up and followed the sound growing thin


At the break of morn.




V




Music, music, music was blown


Over the waters, out of the woodlands,


Grassy valleys and sunny meadow lands


In the mid spaces, tone on tone.


The pasturing flocks were sleeker grown


And multiplied in a way unknown....


And little Alice bright of eye


Dreamed and began to prophesy:


And said the strayer, the cornet player,


Who took Starling Turner's wife away,


Is coming back at an early day:


Look out, said Alice, to Imogene,


Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen,

[Pg 132]

You have danced too much on the village green.


Look out for the cornet player, I mean.


I know who he is for my eyes are keen.


Your blood is desiring, but yet serene.


I know his face and his bright desire,


Laurel leaves are around his brow;


He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre.


His eyes are blue and his face is fire.


Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire,


Keep to the house, or the church's spire.




VI




And what was next? The girl disappeared.


As Alice feared, no fate interfered.


A posse collected, hunted and peered,


Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared,


And looked for Imogene, cried and cheered


When a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared.


A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes,


Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles,


Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes,


Runs over meadows for luring trifles:


The wave of grain or a weed that tosses;


And curse and say what a terrible loss is


Come to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed,


And then this fairest maid is abducted.


Why are the innocent sacrificed?


We are a people well conducted.


What is the curse, or is it the war?

[Pg 133]

Why is it every one here is housing


Fiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers.


At Milem Alkire's why carousing;


Everything that the good abhor


In lovers and romancers?


The world is mad, the village is mad,


Even the cattle bellow and run.


Old maid, young maid, man and lad


Have eaten of something half insane;


Such antics never before were done


And never it seems may be again


Under the shining sun.


And now comes villainy out of the fun.


Come with the torch, come with the halter,


Gather the posse, stay nor falter,


Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peace


And hang him up in the maple tree's


Highest branch. For what is the law


If it can't slip the noose and draw


This minstrel man to a thing of awe?




VII




Then the pastor said: Talk of the gallows


Is just the thing for it's righteous malice;


And we need hearts with piety callous


For work like this, I might say salus


Populi, but bright-eyed Alice


Can help us in this matter kinetic


Who has grown psychic and grown prophetic,

[Pg 134]

Sees round corners, and looks through doors


And spies old treasure under the floors.


And I have heard that Alice averred,


The cornet player's the self-same bird


Who enticed the wife of Starling Turner


And kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn her


Later for some one else, unless we


Capture and hang the vile sojourner;


So now for Alice, he said, and bless me!




VIII




Alice came out to lead the mob


Catch the scoundrel and finish the job.


Down to Fruitport before it is dark


Come, said Alice, Joan of Arc.


Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists,


Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggists


Hustled and ran in the afternoon,


Following Alice who led the way


Chanting an ancient roundelay,


A wild and haunting tune.


Her hair streamed over her little shoulders


Back in the wind for all beholders.


And her little feet were as swift and white


As waves that dance in the noonday light.


Youths were panting, middle aged men


Had to rest and resume again.


She ran the posse almost to death,


All were gasping and out of breath.

[Pg 135]

At last they halted upon the ridge.


There! said Alice, beside the bridge


Under its shadow. Look, he's there


Weaving lilies in Imogene's hair;


His musical instrument laid aside


Now he has charmed the maiden pride


Of Imogene who is not his bride,


Come, said Alice, before they hide.




IX




They ran from the ridge,


Looked under the bridge.


There! he escapes, said Alice, the fay.


Where? Howled the mob! which is the way?


There's Imogene wrapped as if in a trance,


Said the preacher, there where the waters dance.


I saw as it were a shaft of light


Steal from her side, vanish from sight.


The cobbler said: it was like a comet;


The druggist, water by a bomb hit.


Yes, said the lawyer, I heard a splashing


And saw a light as of waters flashing


Or a thousand arrows of splendor flying


I heard a booming, banging, clanging


Of a bull's hide string, it was terrifying.


No, said Alice, this form of light,


That stole away and vanished from sight,


That was the fellow, said Alice, the sprite.

[Pg 136]

Go after him, follow through meadow and hollow


The God Apollo, the great Apollo!




X




They went to Imogene then and took her,


Spoke to her, slapped her hands and shook her,


Asked her who it was that forsook her,


Why she had left her home and wandered,


What was the dream she sat and pondered,


And Imogene said, it's a dream of dread,


Now that the glory of it is fled.


Where am I now, where is my lover?


God of my dreams, singer and rover.


I danced with the muses in flowering meadows;


We lay on lawns of whispering shadows;


We walked by moonlight where pine trees stood


Feathery clear in the crystal flood;


He gave me honey and grapes for food.


We rode on the clouds and counted the stars.


He sang me songs of the ancient wars.


He told me of cities and temples builded


Under his hand, we waded rivers


By star-light and by sun-light gilded;


By shades where the green of the laurel shivers.


But it came to this, and this I see:


Life is beautiful if you are free,


If you live yourself like the laurel tree.




[Pg 137]


XI




Then some of them teased her, the posse seized her,


They tore the lilies out of her hair.


Back to the village, exclaimed the preacher,


Back to your home, exclaimed the teacher.


You've been befooled, said Alice, the fay,


And back went Imogene in despair,


Weeping all the way!










[Pg 138]


THE BARBER OF SEPO








Trimmed but not cut too short; the temples shaved,


Neck clipped around, not shaved, an oil shampoo,


You have a world of time before the train


And when it comes it stops ten minutes—then


The depot's just a block away.






Oh yes,


This is my own, my native town. But when


I earn the money to get out, I go.


I've had my share of bad luck—seems to me


Without my fault, as least life's actinism


Makes what we call our luck or lack of luck....






Go down this street a block, find Burney Cole


And ask him why I was not graduated


From Sepo's High School at the time he was.


It was this way: I fell in love that spring


With Lillie Balzer, and it ended us,


Lillie and me, for finishing that year.


I thought of Lillie morning, noon and night


And Lillie thought of me, and so we flunked.


That thinned the class to Burney Cole, and he


Stood up and spoke twelve minutes scared to death.


Progress of Science was his theme, committed

[Pg 139]

To memory, the gestures timed, they trained him


Out in the woods near Big Creek.






Lil and I


Sat there and laughed—the town was in the hall,


Applause terrific, bouquets thick as hops.


And when they handed Burney his diploma


The crowd went wild.


How does this razor work?


Not shaving you too close? I try to please ...


Burney was famous for a night, you see.


They thought his piece was wonderful, such command


Of language, depth of thought beyond his years.


Next morning with his ears and cheeks still burning,


Flushed like a god, as Keats says, Burney stood


Behind the counter in the grocery store


Beginning then to earn the means to take


A course in Science—when a customer


Came in and said: a piece of star tobacco,


Young fellow, hurry! Such is fame—one night


You're on a platform gathering in bouquets,


Next morning without honor and forgotten,


Commanded like a boot-black.






Five years now


Burney has clerked, some say has given up


The course in science, and I hate to ask him ...


But as for me, there was a lot of talk,


And Lillie went away, began to sport.


She's been around the world, is living now

[Pg 140]

In Buenos Ayres. Love's a funny thing:


It levels ranks, puts monarch or savant


Beside the chorus girl and in her hands.


I stayed here, did not have to leave for shame,


But Lillie changed my life.






When she was gone


My conscience hurt me, and that very fall


When I was most susceptible, responsive,


And penitent, we had a great revival.


And just to use the lingo: after much


Wrestling at the Seat of Mercy, prayers


And ministrations then I saw the light,


Became converted, got the ecstasy.


I wrote to Lillie who was in Chicago


To seek salvation, told her of myself.


She wrote back, you are cracked—go take a pill....


I know you've come to get your hair trimmed, shaved,


Also to hear my story—you shall hear.


The elders saw in me a likely man


And said there is a preacher. First I knew


They had a purse made up to send me off


To learn theology, and so I went.






I plunged into the stuff that preachers learn:


The Hebrew language, Aramaic and Syriac;


The Hebrew ideas—rapid survey—oh, yes,


Rapid survey, that was the usual thing.


Histories of Syria and Palestine;


Theology of the Synoptics, eschatology.

[Pg 141]

Doctrine of the Trinity, Docetism,


And Christian writings to Eusebius.


Well, in the midst of all of this what happens?


A fellow shows me Draper and this stuff


Went up like shale and soft rock in a blast.


My room mate was John Smith, he handed me


This book of Draper's. What do you suppose?


This scamp was there to get at secret things,


Was laughing in his sleeve, had no belief.


He used to say: "They'd never know me now."


By which he meant he was a different person


In some round dozen places, and each place


Was different from the others, he was native


To each place, played his part there, was unknown


As fitted to another, hence his words


"They'd never know me now."






And so it was


This John Smith acted through the course, came through


A finished preacher. But they found me out


As soon as Draper gnawed my faith in two.


The good folks back in Sepo took away


The purse they lent and left me high and dry.


So I came back and learned the barber's trade,


And here I am. But when I save enough


I mean to start a little magazine


To show what is the matter. Do you know?






It's something on the shelf—not booze or jam:


It's that old bible, precious family bible,

[Pg 142]

That record of the Hebrew thought and life—


That book that takes a course of years to study,


Requires Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and Coptic


And epigraphy, metaphysics, not


Because the book itself is rich in these


But just because when you would know a book


In every character and turn of phrase


And know what's back of it and went into it


You draw the learning of the world, that's all.


Take Plato, if you will, and study him


After this manner, you will travel far


In every land and realm. But this is nothing.


The preachers are a handful to the world.


They eat this dead stuff like bacteria


That clean away decay. The harm is here


Among the populace, the country, all


That makes for life as life.






See what I mean?


We have three thousand people in this town.


Say in this state there are a thousand towns,


And say in every town on every Sunday


In every year this book is taught and preached


To every human being from the time


It's five years old as long as it will stand


And let itself be taught—what have you done?


You have created, kept intact a body,


An audience and voting strength—for whom,


The reformer, the fanatic, non-conformist,


The man of principle who wants a law

[Pg 143]

And those who, whether consciously or not,


Live in the illusion that there is an end,


A consummation, fifth act to this world,


Millennium, as they say; and at the last


When you get rid of sin (but they must say


What sin is) then the world will be at peace,


Life finished, perfect, nothing more to do


But tend to business and enjoy yourself


And die in peace, reach heaven. Don't you see?


These people are deluded. For this stuff


Called life is like a pan of bread you knead:


You push it down one place and up it puffs


In another place. And so while they control


The stuff of life through Hebrew influence


Of duty, business, fear, ascetism


And yes, materialism, for it is that,


The dough escaped, puffs out, the best of it,


Its greater, part escapes us. So I say


That bible taught in every village, hamlet


And all its precepts, curses, notables,


Preached fifty times a year creates the crowd


That runs the country at the bidding of


Your mediocrities, your little statesmen,


Your little editors and moralists.


And that's your culture, your American


Kultur....






I'll finish you with eggs, it's better


Than soap is for the hair. You've lots of time.


I think I'll start my magazine next year.

[Pg 144]

Step down this way—over the bowl, that's it—


A moment while I ring this money up.


As I was saying—is the water cold?—


Now back into the chair—as I was saying


That book upon the shelf has made our culture.


We must undo it....


Yes, your train is whistling—so long!










[Pg 145]


THEY'D NEVER KNOW ME NOW








Let's sit here very quiet, self-controlled,


Talk quietly, under this glorious tree,


The internes are too far away to hear.


They will stand there if we are calm.






You look


Much better than you did. And as for me,


Since I tried leaping from my window, I


Seem on the mend, sleep better, do not feel


So much like running, flying from the fears


As I did three weeks since. Here is my tale:






My first step in this world was as a soldier,


Turned seventeen and off to free the Cubans.


I landed at Matanzas, served my time.


Oh Liberty! Oh! struggles to make free


All peoples, everywhere! And when I saw


The American republic move to strike


The chains of tyranny, I said: I die


For such a cause, or live to see it won—


How glorious! My youthful mind was full


Of Byron, Shelley, Paine, and many more—


And when I saw my republic go to war,


Just as a good Samaritan, I said,

[Pg 146]

This is my hour, I'm on the pinnacle,


Life is divine at last.






But on a sudden


A north wind froze my waters, caught my stars


To points of vision which before had been


Mixed in the fluent time. We up and stole


The Philippines, spit on our sacred charter,


Turned all the thing to guts, until I heard


Their growl alone which I thought spirit voices


When we had warred for Cuba! 'Twas enough;


What was my country? Just a mass of slickers


Talking philanthropy and five per cent,


A pious, blundering booby lodged at last


In a great cæcum mouthing Destiny.


God, with a leader just an actor-man,


Clean shaven, shifty, shallow, whored upon


By mercantilists and their butcher creed.


I mean McKinley, Hanna. Write it down:


They barbarized our Grecian temple, placed


Cheap colored windows in its marble walls—


May history be their hell.






But as for me,


They talked of God so much, I said at last


I'll learn all they can teach concerning God.


This restless soldier spirit led me on,


And just because I sensed the faithless age,


Loveless and purposeless except for gold,


The adventurer in me began to crop.

[Pg 147]

Oh yes, the Cuban business started me.


And so I went to college to prepare


For the ministry, as they thought, go through the course


Called theological, saying for the first:


"They'd never know me now."






I see at last


I am not one but many minds at once,


And many personalities. As a boy


I took the color of the leaves or wall


Where I was resting, climbing. If in truth


I lived three months with an uncle, then they said


You look just like your uncle. When I worked


Under a lawyer's tutelage, they said:


How much your face resembles his. I knew


My face and voice and gestures simulated


Those I admired or lived with. But besides


I took a certain pleasure, impish, maybe,


In egging on, agreeing with, the souls


Whom I sought out; I used to tell my uncle,


A man of firmest piety, what I heard


Of blasphemy about the village, just


To hear him deprecate it, look with dark


And flashing eyes upon such sin, while I,


With serious face and earnest sympathy


With what he felt, was laughing in my sleeve.


Here is the germ then of my after life:


The faculty that harmonized my hue


Of spirit with the place, the person, while

[Pg 148]

Something in me, perhaps supremest self,


Stood quite aloof and smiled.






But, as I said,


When our Republic left its hill of vision,


Descended to the place of herding hogs,


This self of me, the adventurer, rose up


And led me forth to play with life, and first


To try theology, as I have said ...


I was a wonder bred among the crew


Of quiet, gate-toothed, crook-nosed psychopaths,


The foul-breathed, thick-lipped onanists who filled


The seminary, stared at me to see


How I learned Sanscrit, could defend and rout


The atheistic speculations. Well,


What I enjoyed most was to get a crowd


Of celibates and talk of chastity,


And get them in a glow, and say to them:


The mind is fortified by abstinence,


The spirit clarified and lifted up—


I got a thrill somehow. But all the time


I knew a girl named Ella. Oftentimes


Lying beside her I would shriek with laughter


And she would ask, what is the matter, John?


And I would say: I'm thinking of a song


I heard one time: "They'd never know me now."


And Ella said: If Dr. Simpson knew


That you were here with me, you'd take a fall


Out of the Seminary's second floor....




[Pg 149]




But I went through and didn't fall. And thought


This is a way to live, I'll preach awhile,


And see what comes. I took a church and preached,


Was known as Smith the eloquent, the earnest.


But all the time I heard a voice that said:


"They'd never know me now." When I came in


The Sunday School and little children flocked


About my knees and patient teachers looked


With white, pure faces at me, then that voice


"They'd never know me now" was in my ear....






Well, to go on, a widow in my church


Young, beautiful and rich began to beat


Her wings around my flame, and on the Sunday


I preached about the rich young man, she came,


Invited me to dinner. We commenced,


Were married in six months. And to conserve


Her properties I studied law, at last


Was spending days with brokers, business men,


Began to tell her that my health was failing,


Saw doctors frequently to play the part.


And then she said: You must resign your charge,


Your health is breaking, dear. And I resigned


To spend the time in checking mortgages,


Collecting rents:—"They'd never know me now"...






We went the round of summer places, travel,


Saw Europe, China, India and the Isles.


Near Florence had a villa for a time,


Met people of all kinds, when I was forty

[Pg 150]

I had a thousand selves, but if I had


A self in truth it was submerged or scrawled


Like a palimpsest all over and so lost.


I didn't know myself, was anything


To every one, and everything to all.


I felt the walking age come on me now:


A polar bear in a terrible rhythm swings


His body back and forth behind the bars,


And I would walk in restlessness or think


Of other skies and places, teased and stung


By memories of my other selves, by wonder


About what may be happening here or there;


What are they doing now? What is she doing?


There were a dozen shes to wonder about,


And if you think of one you wish to see,


And dream she knows delight apart from you,


You simply thrill, the wings you lost revolve,


Like thumbs, vestigial stubs—but there you sit.


Thank God the aeroplane came on to help,


And wipe out distance, for you find at last


Distance is tragedy, terrifies the soul


With space which must be mastered by the soul.






And so I bought a hydroplane. Perhaps


Would be upon my lawn at sun-down holding


These children on my knees, a lovely picture!


Then as a fish darts out of darkened water


Into a water sun-lit, there would come


A thought—we'll say of Alice—in two hours


I'd be upon her little sleeping porch

[Pg 151]

Two hundred miles away, beneath the stars


Of middle summer, having killed that space,


And found the hour I wanted—hearing too


"They'd never know me now" sung in my ears.






And I remember when we were in Florence


My tribe had gone to Milan for some weeks,


And I was quite alone, too bored to live.


One listless afternoon who should come in?


My wife's friend Constance—but to tell the truth


More friend of mine than hers, for all my life


I seemed to have these secret understandings,


And was two persons to a twain who thought


They were the bond, whereas the bond existed


Between myself and one, and to the other


Was not so much as dreamed.






And Constance brought


A certain Countess with her. In a glance


We two, the Countess and myself, beheld


A flame that joined our hands. And in a week


The Countess took me on her yacht to Capri,


And round the Mediterranean. No one knew,


Not Constance, nor my wife, for I returned


Before she came from Milan.






Oh that week!


That breeze that sung the port-holes, waters blue


And stars at night and music; and the Countess


Whose voice was like a lute of gold, who lived,

[Pg 152]

Knew life, was unafraid. She heard me say


"They'd never know me now." And softly murmured


Smiling the while: il lupo cangia


Il pelo ma non il vizio


Adding, Qual matto! Something yet remains


That makes you charming! Oh the feasts and wine,


The songs and poems, till at last too soon


We anchored in the bay of Naples. When


I saw Vesuvius, then I felt again


That sinking of the heart that I had known,


That sickness, strange, nostalgia, from a boy,


Of which a word again. But now it was


Precursive of the end, the finished idyll.


The Countess took my hand, with misty eyes—


They let me off and rowed me to the dock,


I caught the train to Florence, magically


Before I had forgotten, seemed to be


Upon the yacht still, was in truth alone


Amid the silence of my dining room,


Supping alone—"They'd never know me now!"






Later I had the fever, was delirious


And saw myself receding as if backing


Into a funnel toward the little end,


And growing smaller as the funnel narrowed


Until I was so small I held myself


Within the palm's hand of my other self,


Laughed like a devil, scared the nurse to death,


Saying "They'd never know me now—just look!"


My wife too had the fever. I awoke

[Pg 153]

Out of this illness, found that she was gone,


Had died a week before and for a week


Had been entombed while I was raving—then


If any real self of me ever was it came


Back to me then. I bowed my head and wept


And scanned my life back:






What was that in me


Which made me homesick from a boy right through


This life of mine, not for my home, for something,


Some place, some hand, some scene, which made me dread


All partings, overwhelmed me with a grief


For ended raptures, kept my brain too full


Of memories, never lost, that grew until


I lost myself, and seemed a thousand selves


Wandering through a thousand years, how restless!






Then mutterings shook our skies! Another war,


France, Germany and England, so it seemed


Best to return here to America.


I gathered up the children—all but one,


The boy eighteen escaped me, ran away


And joined the English army. Now I saw


One self of me repeated, that which went


To free the Cubans! Curse these freedom wars!


They shipped him off to India, soon he had


His fill of liberty. But I came back


And here I am. "They'd never know me now!"




[Pg 154]




For what is left of me, what ever was


To be peeled off to realest core? The soldier


Gone out of me entirely; long ago,


The dreamer of a better world; the self


That said I'm on the pinnacle, took arms


To free the Cubans; self of me that hungered


For pyramids and mountains, ancient streams,


Nile and the Ganges; self of me that turned


To be a father holding on his knees


A romping bevy; self of me that dreamed


One heart, one hand enough, oh even the self


That dreamed there is a hand a heart for me,


Who found in truth no solace in the wife


But only a teasing, torturing recollection


That I had missed the one, or missed the many.






So I was in America again,


Had fled the war and plunged into the war:—


The waves roared yonder, but the shores were here


Where wreckage, putrid monsters were thrown up,


Corpses of ancient liberties and bones


Of treasured beauty; and I saw the Land


Don every despot weapon, as it did


When I fought for the Cubans, even worse.


They shipped my boy to Africa; in spite


Of censorship I pieced the picture out,


Knew what he suffered, how they took his faith


And dimmed its flame with ordure. Then came forth


That father self of me. I brooded on


His blue eyes, gentle ways, sat terrified

[Pg 155]

And tried to trace the days through and the years


When he had slipped from just a little boy


Into a stripling, soldier finally—


While I—what was I doing? Oh, my God,


Living these other selves, oblivious


That this boy was. I'd jump from soundest sleep


Thinking of him in Africa, and seized


With dreams that I must fly to him. O years


Wherein I lost that boy. How could I live


So many lives and not lose out of some,


Some precious thing? Well, then I broke at last,


They brought me here: "They'd never know me now."










[Pg 156]


NEL MEZZO DEL CAMMIN








You call this a world! Cloud cuckoo town,


Nephelo coccygia, warp and woof,


Now at the last I write it down,


Since I no longer have the proof


To show it isn't opera bouffe,


A moving picture film and scene;


Stage world, with the glue between


The angels' feathers, the devil's hoof


Neither violent nor venene.




*****




Eheu! The middle of the way too—


Gethsemane and left in the lurch.


Storms frowning up the dying day too,


Bending a weed that was a birch.


I can step right over the tallest church.


Trumpets have shrunk to trumpet toys,


Tottle-te-toot! I hear the clocks


Ticking in paper breasts. What noise!


Gorges and towering rocks


Are just the canvas He employs,


With gelatine rivers and candy lochs,


Shored in with painted blocks.






I passed through a jungle where smoky mosses


Hung from the trees, the crocodile

[Pg 157]

Slept or clambered about the fosses;


Buzzards roosting, not very vile;


Rivers of red-ink shed for crosses.


Centaurs with arrows file on file


Drew and shouted: he seems to smile


Let's make him weep a while.






Look out for the lion! Said I, with a scowl,


Let the lion growl:


Cat-gut scraped in the painted wings.


Does the terrible tiger howl:


Tin cans and resined strings.


Do the dead gibber and does the owl


Hoot where the shroud is slipping, clings?


Who pressed the squeaky springs


In the death bird that it sings?






And you, sir! Well, one time I was sure


You carried a poisoned dart!


And now you're empty space as pure


As the sky when clouds are blown apart.


Ether! Radium! Nothing! A cure


For grit and dust which start


Grief in this Waterbury heart.






For I had trod the cobra, found


He is but calico, cotton stuffed.


The boa chased me round and round,


Hyenas tracked me, licked and snuffed,

[Pg 158]

And made my poor heart flutter and pound,


Until I saw the mirror is all,


And the wood became a rare-bit dream


With monstrous faces and figures packed.


And then you ask: Is the mirror cracked,


Or is it so bright that it casts a beam


Through all the shadow scheme?






One time I saw a river's bank


Shaved down with spades as sheer as a wall,


Wasp holes, snake holes cut in two


Brought these molds of earth to view.


I turned away where the air was blank


And here was a thing fantastical:


Space was cored like the honey comb


With forms of things that crawl and roam,


Animals, men. As I am alive


I saw the form of a horse and cow


Edged with air and hollow as space.


But a horse and cow began to thrive


In just a second, a drifting mist


Flowed into the molds before my face.


And the animals moved, I don't know how,


Out of the all surrounding mesh,


Creatures of bone and flesh!






And it was just the same with men. I vow


I saw an astral stuff poured in


Pockets of air and men became


Voices talking of good and evil,

[Pg 159]

Virtue, courage, vice and sin,


God and the devil.






For the all unfolding Air is what?


The Great Idea, if so I may say,


A sort of Ocean leaping to waves.


And what do you care if they pass away?


They sink to their source, not into graves.


Beasts may vanish, races decay,


The Ocean will always remain the same;


With new waves rising, no two alike;


Waves that are little and waves that rise


In storms and touch the skies.






R. Browning, you were a man of power,


But I don't think much of your tower.


And I see no use of blowing a horn,


The tower is merely papier-maché,


And comes no higher than to my knees.


I step right over it—pick a flower,


Purple, it may be, called heart's ease


And go with the way of the seas.






For I am an optimist better than you:


This dream is hell, but it's all to the good:


The Ocean is water in calm or flood.


There's nothing wrecked, or wrongly wrought,


There's nothing real but Thought!










[Pg 160]


THE OAK TREE








The oak in later August,


Before his leaves are strewn,


And the sky is blue as June,


Trembles from trunk to branches


For frosts that will be soon


From the valleys of the moon!






For breezes blown in August


Veer north with cold and rain;


And the oak tree sighs and shivers


For lights that shift and wane:


As a strong man sees the specters


Of age, disease and pain,


The oak flings up to heaven


His branches in the rain.






September comes, September


Spreads out a sky that chills.


The owl hoots and the cricket


Beside the roadway shrills,


And on the stricken hills.


But the oak tree, the oak tree


Still flaunts his shining leaves.


No change has come but swallows


Who fled the summer eaves!




[Pg 161]




But when October breezes,


And cold November gales


Descend upon the oak tree


What strength of him avails,


Grown naked to the tempest,


For life that sleeps and fails?


O oak tree, oak tree,


The winter snow prevails!


It cannot be your branches,


It is the wind that wails!










[Pg 162]


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL








Eagle, your broken wings are tangled


Among the mountain ferns


On a ledge of rock on high.


Below the yawning chasm turns


To blackness, but the evening planet burns


Above the gulf in a gold and purple sky!






Vultures and kites


Fly to their rookeries


In the rocks


With swift and ragged wings against the lights.


From levels and from leas


Haste the returning flocks.


Foxes have holes and serpents the grass for flight.


Eagle, arise! It is night.






The world's wanderer finds you


As he climbs the mountains


In the unending quest.


Can you spread wings across the darkening chasm


To the craggy nest,


Where the foreboding mate lies still?


Croak for the evening star,


And beat your shattered wings against your breast!


Across the gulf the wanderer sees afar


A light in the house on the hill!










[Pg 163]


WASHINGTON HOSPITAL








That's right, sponge off his face. My name? Oh, yes,


James Frothingham, a reverend, have the church


At the corner of Ayer and Knox Streets, Methodist.


As I was passing by a vile saloon


Some men were entering the back room, saying


Is he dead or drunk, and such things. I looked in,


Went in at last and saw this fellow there,


Hunched, doubled down into a chair asleep,


Mud on his face as you saw, clothes bespattered,


The smell of drink upon him. Then we took him


And brought him here, I helped, a Christian duty.


But more important, if he wakes I'm here


To bring his soul to Christ before he dies—


And he is dying. Yes, it's plain enough


The snows of death are falling. Sponge his face,


And wash his hands! I never saw such hands


Slender and beautiful! Now you have sponged


His face, look at that brow—it terrifies—


He looks now like a god—who is this man?


I'll tell you all I know: These men were talking


And this is what they said: This is the fellow


They voted yesterday from booth to booth,


They voted him twenty times, and kept him drunk


To vote him. First they found him at the station,


A little tipsy, talking of his griefs.

[Pg 164]

The conductor put him off here, being drunk.


And so these fellows for election day


Took him in hand and voted him around,


This was the talk.






Look at the curse of drink!


If he had touched no drink, he had not been


Tipsy to fall into these ruffian hands,


Who gave him drink and drink and used him thus


To violate the suffrage, lose his life


Through drink, as he will lose it. He is dying,


Death comes of Sin—what plainer truth than this?


Sin blinds, too, for that brow could comprehend


All things by using what God gave to it.


I do not know his name, with your permission


I'll search his pockets—yes, here is a letter—


No signature, looks like a draught—I'll read:






"Why have you wounded me with words like these:


'He has great genius but no moral sense,'


And written to another! Oh my love!


By this love which I bear you, by the God


Who reigns in heaven do I swear to you


My soul is like a wandering star, consumed


By its own passion, fire, and the eternal


Longing for the eternal, wandering, erring,


But flaming, loving light, aspiring to


The Light of Lights, some sun, I do not know.


It is incapable of aught but honor.


And save for follies, trifles in excess,

[Pg 165]

Which I lament, but which in men of wealth,


Or worldly power would never raise a word,


I can recall no act of mine to bring


A blush to your cheek or to mine.






My love,


My erring which has counted, by the test


Of strength or weakness for the game of life,


Has been Quixotic honor, chivalry.


And to indulge this feeling I have paid,


Though it has been my true voluptuousness,


My highest, purest pleasure. Yes, for this


I threw away a fortune, glad to throw it,


Rather than suffer wrong, though trivial,


As worldly men would count it:—for a father's


Laughter at my writing turned away


To follow voices, and defied his will


To harness me to business. So it is


To keep my spirit spotless from the world,


As I have visioned things, I came at last


By this deserted shore, alone, alone,


Now quite alone since you withdrew yourself,


Took back your hand and left me to my way,


Traveled so long that I can see the tomb


At the vista's end not very far.






Oh, love,


Why is there not a heart that loves but mine?


If you had been a Magdalen, I had pressed


Your head against my breast and kept you there—

[Pg 166]

But you—my spirit drifts with stricken wings—


But you because of gossip, crawling words


About my drinking, lies as I shall prove,


Can hold a handkerchief upon your eyes


To hide tumultuous tears, extend your hand


And say farewell forever, cut our lives


Of days or months, fragile and trivial


Asunder—when your hand, your faith, your love


Had cured me of my spirit's desolation,


My terror of this solitude in life—


Or if it cured me not, I had been eased,


And you had gained for giving—what have you


For your decision? Sorrow, if you love me,


Perhaps a conscience whisper that you failed


In justice, sacrifice; perhaps the thought


Life with me drinking, to the excess you thought,


Is better than a life where I am not.


What have you gained? In a few years we two


Will be at one with earth—before it comes


Are not sweet hours together worth the cost


Of a little drink? You who have riches, need not


My labors for your bread, but need my love,


Which you crush out. But as to drink, I swear


I do not drink."






Ahem! the fellow stirs


But will not wake, I fear. You heard that last:


He swears he does not drink. Drink and untruth


Go always hand in hand. This letter's long—


Let's see what he comes up with at the last:




[Pg 167]




"But as to drink, I swear I do not drink—


How if I drank could I produce the works


I have produced? A giant's task, when drink


Sustains me not, is not my nutriment


As hock and soda water were for Byron,


But sets me flaming wild, a little drink


Will set me flaming, poisons me, I know.


And yet I must partake of drink sometimes


For life is flying, is recession, we


Are shrinking back into ourselves, at last


The arms we shrank from close about us—death's.


And there are souls born lonely; I am one.


And gifted with the glance of looking through


The shams, the opera bouffe, and I am one.


Often after a stretch of toil when I


Come out of the trance of writing spent and wracked,


I used to walk to High Bridge, sit and muse,


(For this brain never stops and that's my curse,)


Upon this monstrous world and why it is;


And why the souls who love the beautiful,


And love it only and are doomed to speak


Its wonder and its terror are alone,


Misunderstood and hunted, fouled by falsehood,


Have crumbs upon the steps, are licked by dogs,


Or else are starved. And why it is that I


Must go about, a beggar, with my songs


Exchanging them for bread. And then it is


When this poor brain like the creative stuff,


The central purpose, whirls, as I have written,


And will not stop—drink! for oblivion,

[Pg 168]

For rest, to get away from self, back faster


From the pursuing Nothing.






Yet, my love,


Think out what causes judgments, standards, tastes;


And why it was that Southey, Wordsworth won


The organic national praise and Shelley lost,


And Byron lost it—Southey the sycophant,


Wordsworth the dull adherent, renegade—


These two against these spirits who came here


To sing of Liberty—and look at me,


A wanderer and a poor, rejected man,


While usurers, slave owners rule the land,


And the cities reek with hypocrites, who step


On Freedom and on Beauty, are rewarded,


Praised, fed and honored for it. Then behold


Your friend who loves you, hunted, buffeted,


For a little drink, when in spite of drink and even


Because of drink, who knows? I have achieved,


Written these books. And what is life beside,


Whether with drink or whether with abstinence,


Except to sing your song and die, what course


Can stave the event, the wage of life, not sin?


Oh if you knew what love I have for you!


All of my powers are not enough to tell


How all my heart is yours, how I have found


Eternal things through you, cannot surrender


Your love, your heart, without I lose some life,


Some vital part of me—and yet farewell,


For you have willed it so, and I submit.

[Pg 169]

I rise up in my loneliness, seek the sun


To shine about me in my loneliness,


Submit and say farewell."






He spoke some words!


What was it that he said? His head rolls over.


The man is dead! What was it that he said?


Something about "no more" it seemed to me.


Whom shall we notify? Go tell the police!


Here! wait, I overlooked some writing—yes,


A name is on this letter—why, look here,


It's Edgar Allan Poe!—I know that name—


He wrote a poem once about sleigh bells—


His brow looks whiter, bigger than it did.


Cover him with a sheet—I'll tell the police!










[Pg 170]


NEITHER FAITH NOR BEAUTY CAN
REMAIN








Neither faith nor beauty can remain:


Change is our life from hour to hour,


Pain follows after pain,


As ruined flower lies down with ruined flower.




*****




Now you are mine. But in a day to be


Beyond the seas, in cities strange and new


To-day will be a memory


Of a day ephemerally true.




*****




Last night with cheek pressed close to cheek


Through the brief hours we slept.


It must be always so, I heard you speak,


Love found, forever must be kept.




*****




But already we were changed, even as the day


Invisibly transforms its light.


We prayed together then for dawn's delay,


Praying, praying through the night.




*****




Against the change which takes all loveliness,


The truth our desperate hearts would keep,

[Pg 171]

The memory to be, when comfortless,


Save for the memory we shall yearn for sleep;




*****




Against the sinking flame which no more lights


Our faces, neither any more desired


Through desireless days and nights,


And senses fast expiring and expired.










THE END.


Printed in the United States of America.




Transcriber's Notes:


Inconsistent hyphenation left as is.

pg vii Shakespeare changed to Shakspeare for consistency

pg 48 martydom changed to martyrdom