DIVERTIMIENTOMiserable little womanin a brown coat—quit whining!My hand for you!We’ll skip down the tin cornicesof Main Streetflicking the dull roof-linewith our toe-tips!Hop clear of the bank! Apin-wheel round the white flag-pole.And I’ll sing you the whilea thing to split your sidesabout Johann Sebastian Bach,the father of music, who hadthree wives and twenty-two children.
DIVERTIMIENTOMiserable little womanin a brown coat—quit whining!My hand for you!We’ll skip down the tin cornicesof Main Streetflicking the dull roof-linewith our toe-tips!Hop clear of the bank! Apin-wheel round the white flag-pole.And I’ll sing you the whilea thing to split your sidesabout Johann Sebastian Bach,the father of music, who hadthree wives and twenty-two children.
DIVERTIMIENTOMiserable little womanin a brown coat—quit whining!My hand for you!We’ll skip down the tin cornicesof Main Streetflicking the dull roof-linewith our toe-tips!Hop clear of the bank! Apin-wheel round the white flag-pole.
And I’ll sing you the whilea thing to split your sidesabout Johann Sebastian Bach,the father of music, who hadthree wives and twenty-two children.
JANUARY MORNINGSUITEI.I have discovered that most ofthe beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them:the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers in Weehawkenagainst a smoky dawn—the heart stirred—are beautiful as Saint Petersapproached after years of anticipation.
JANUARY MORNINGSUITEI.I have discovered that most ofthe beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them:the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers in Weehawkenagainst a smoky dawn—the heart stirred—are beautiful as Saint Petersapproached after years of anticipation.
JANUARY MORNINGSUITEI.I have discovered that most ofthe beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them:
the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers in Weehawkenagainst a smoky dawn—the heart stirred—are beautiful as Saint Petersapproached after years of anticipation.
II.Though the operation was postponedI saw the tall probationersin their tan uniformshurrying to breakfast!
II.Though the operation was postponedI saw the tall probationersin their tan uniformshurrying to breakfast!
II.Though the operation was postponedI saw the tall probationersin their tan uniformshurrying to breakfast!
III.—and from basement entrysneatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemenwith orderly moustaches andwell brushed coats
III.—and from basement entrysneatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemenwith orderly moustaches andwell brushed coats
III.—and from basement entrysneatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemenwith orderly moustaches andwell brushed coats
IV.—and the sun, dipping into the avenuesstreaking the tops ofthe irregular red houselets,andthe gay shadows dropping and dropping.
IV.—and the sun, dipping into the avenuesstreaking the tops ofthe irregular red houselets,andthe gay shadows dropping and dropping.
IV.—and the sun, dipping into the avenuesstreaking the tops ofthe irregular red houselets,andthe gay shadows dropping and dropping.
V.—and a young horse with a green bed-quilton his withers shaking his head:bared teeth and nozzle high in the air!
V.—and a young horse with a green bed-quilton his withers shaking his head:bared teeth and nozzle high in the air!
V.—and a young horse with a green bed-quilton his withers shaking his head:bared teeth and nozzle high in the air!
VI.—and a semicircle of dirt colored menabout a fire bursting from an oldash can,
VI.—and a semicircle of dirt colored menabout a fire bursting from an oldash can,
VI.—and a semicircle of dirt colored menabout a fire bursting from an oldash can,
VII.—and the worn,blue car rails (like the sky!)gleaming among the cobbles!
VII.—and the worn,blue car rails (like the sky!)gleaming among the cobbles!
VII.—and the worn,blue car rails (like the sky!)gleaming among the cobbles!
VIII.—and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!What an object to be called “Arden”among the great piers,—on theever new river!“Put me a Touchstoneat the wheel, white gulls, and we’llfollow the ghost of the Half Moonto the North West Passage—and through!(at Albany!) for all that!”
VIII.—and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!What an object to be called “Arden”among the great piers,—on theever new river!“Put me a Touchstoneat the wheel, white gulls, and we’llfollow the ghost of the Half Moonto the North West Passage—and through!(at Albany!) for all that!”
VIII.—and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!What an object to be called “Arden”among the great piers,—on theever new river!“Put me a Touchstoneat the wheel, white gulls, and we’llfollow the ghost of the Half Moonto the North West Passage—and through!(at Albany!) for all that!”
IX.Exquisite brown waves—longcirclets of silver moving over you!enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you!The sky has come down to you,lighter than tiny bubbles, face toface with you!His spirit isa white gull with delicate pink feetand a snowy breast for you tohold to your lips delicately!
IX.Exquisite brown waves—longcirclets of silver moving over you!enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you!The sky has come down to you,lighter than tiny bubbles, face toface with you!His spirit isa white gull with delicate pink feetand a snowy breast for you tohold to your lips delicately!
IX.Exquisite brown waves—longcirclets of silver moving over you!enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you!The sky has come down to you,lighter than tiny bubbles, face toface with you!His spirit isa white gull with delicate pink feetand a snowy breast for you tohold to your lips delicately!
X.The young doctor is dancing with happinessin the sparkling wind, aloneat the prow of the ferry! He noticesthe curdy barnacles and broken ice crustsleft at the slip’s base by the low tideand thinks of summer and greenshell crusted ledges amongthe emerald eel-grass!
X.The young doctor is dancing with happinessin the sparkling wind, aloneat the prow of the ferry! He noticesthe curdy barnacles and broken ice crustsleft at the slip’s base by the low tideand thinks of summer and greenshell crusted ledges amongthe emerald eel-grass!
X.The young doctor is dancing with happinessin the sparkling wind, aloneat the prow of the ferry! He noticesthe curdy barnacles and broken ice crustsleft at the slip’s base by the low tideand thinks of summer and greenshell crusted ledges amongthe emerald eel-grass!
XI.Who knows the Palisades as I doknows the river breaks east from themabove the city—but they continue south—under the sky—to bear a crest oflittle peering houses that brightenwith dawn behind the moodywater-loving giants of Manhattan.
XI.Who knows the Palisades as I doknows the river breaks east from themabove the city—but they continue south—under the sky—to bear a crest oflittle peering houses that brightenwith dawn behind the moodywater-loving giants of Manhattan.
XI.Who knows the Palisades as I doknows the river breaks east from themabove the city—but they continue south—under the sky—to bear a crest oflittle peering houses that brightenwith dawn behind the moodywater-loving giants of Manhattan.
XII.Long yellow rushes bendingabove the white snow patches;purple and gold ribbonof the distant wood:what an angleyou make with each other asyou lie there in contemplation.
XII.Long yellow rushes bendingabove the white snow patches;purple and gold ribbonof the distant wood:what an angleyou make with each other asyou lie there in contemplation.
XII.Long yellow rushes bendingabove the white snow patches;purple and gold ribbonof the distant wood:what an angleyou make with each other asyou lie there in contemplation.
XIII.Work hard all your young daysand they’ll find you too, some morningstaring up underyour chiffonier at its warpedbass-wood bottom and your soul—out!—among the little sparrowsbehind the shutter.
XIII.Work hard all your young daysand they’ll find you too, some morningstaring up underyour chiffonier at its warpedbass-wood bottom and your soul—out!—among the little sparrowsbehind the shutter.
XIII.Work hard all your young daysand they’ll find you too, some morningstaring up underyour chiffonier at its warpedbass-wood bottom and your soul—out!—among the little sparrowsbehind the shutter.
XIV.—and the flapping flags are athalf mast for the dead admiral.
XIV.—and the flapping flags are athalf mast for the dead admiral.
XIV.—and the flapping flags are athalf mast for the dead admiral.
XV.All this—was for you, old woman.I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can’t understand it?But you got to try hard—But—Well, you know howthe young girls run gigglingon Park Avenue after darkwhen they ought to be home in bed?Well,that’s the way it is with me somehow.
XV.All this—was for you, old woman.I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can’t understand it?But you got to try hard—But—Well, you know howthe young girls run gigglingon Park Avenue after darkwhen they ought to be home in bed?Well,that’s the way it is with me somehow.
XV.All this—was for you, old woman.I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can’t understand it?But you got to try hard—But—Well, you know howthe young girls run gigglingon Park Avenue after darkwhen they ought to be home in bed?Well,that’s the way it is with me somehow.
TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLERather notice, mon cher,that the moon istilted abovethe point of the steeplethan that its coloris shell-pink.Rather observethat it is early morningthan that the skyis smoothas a turquoise.Rather grasphow the darkconverging linesof the steeplemeet at the pinnacle—perceive howits little ornamenttries to stop them—See how it fails!See how the converging linesof the hexagonal spireescape upward—receding, dividing!—sepalsthat guard and containthe flower!Observehow motionlessthe eaten moonlies in the protecting lines.It is true:in the light colorsof morningbrown-stone and slateshine orange and dark blue.But observethe oppressive weightof the squat edifice!Observethe jasmine lightnessof the moon.
TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLERather notice, mon cher,that the moon istilted abovethe point of the steeplethan that its coloris shell-pink.Rather observethat it is early morningthan that the skyis smoothas a turquoise.Rather grasphow the darkconverging linesof the steeplemeet at the pinnacle—perceive howits little ornamenttries to stop them—See how it fails!See how the converging linesof the hexagonal spireescape upward—receding, dividing!—sepalsthat guard and containthe flower!Observehow motionlessthe eaten moonlies in the protecting lines.It is true:in the light colorsof morningbrown-stone and slateshine orange and dark blue.But observethe oppressive weightof the squat edifice!Observethe jasmine lightnessof the moon.
TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLERather notice, mon cher,that the moon istilted abovethe point of the steeplethan that its coloris shell-pink.
Rather observethat it is early morningthan that the skyis smoothas a turquoise.
Rather grasphow the darkconverging linesof the steeplemeet at the pinnacle—perceive howits little ornamenttries to stop them—
See how it fails!See how the converging linesof the hexagonal spireescape upward—receding, dividing!—sepalsthat guard and containthe flower!
Observehow motionlessthe eaten moonlies in the protecting lines.
It is true:in the light colorsof morningbrown-stone and slateshine orange and dark blue.
But observethe oppressive weightof the squat edifice!Observethe jasmine lightnessof the moon.
DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUNDThis plot of groundfacing the waters of this inletis dedicated to the living presence ofEmily Richardson Wellcomewho was born in England; married;lost her husband and withher five year old sonsailed for New York in a two-master;was driven to the Azores;ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,met her second husbandin a Brooklyn boarding house,went with him to Puerto Ricobore three more children, losther second husband, lived hardfor eight years in St. Thomas,Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followedthe oldest son to New York,lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”seized the two boys ofthe oldest son by the second marriagemothered them—they beingmotherless—fought for themagainst the other grandmotherand the aunts, brought them heresummer after summer, defendedherself here against thieves,storms, sun, fire,against flies, against girlsthat came smelling about, againstdrought, against weeds, storm-tides,neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens,against the weakness of her own hands,against the growing strength ofthe boys, against wind, againstthe stones, against trespassers,against rents, against her own mind.She grubbed this earth with her own hands,domineered over this grass plot,blackguarded her oldest soninto buying it, lived here fifteen years,attained a final loneliness and—If you can bring nothing to this placebut your carcass, keep out.
DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUNDThis plot of groundfacing the waters of this inletis dedicated to the living presence ofEmily Richardson Wellcomewho was born in England; married;lost her husband and withher five year old sonsailed for New York in a two-master;was driven to the Azores;ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,met her second husbandin a Brooklyn boarding house,went with him to Puerto Ricobore three more children, losther second husband, lived hardfor eight years in St. Thomas,Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followedthe oldest son to New York,lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”seized the two boys ofthe oldest son by the second marriagemothered them—they beingmotherless—fought for themagainst the other grandmotherand the aunts, brought them heresummer after summer, defendedherself here against thieves,storms, sun, fire,against flies, against girlsthat came smelling about, againstdrought, against weeds, storm-tides,neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens,against the weakness of her own hands,against the growing strength ofthe boys, against wind, againstthe stones, against trespassers,against rents, against her own mind.She grubbed this earth with her own hands,domineered over this grass plot,blackguarded her oldest soninto buying it, lived here fifteen years,attained a final loneliness and—If you can bring nothing to this placebut your carcass, keep out.
DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUNDThis plot of groundfacing the waters of this inletis dedicated to the living presence ofEmily Richardson Wellcomewho was born in England; married;lost her husband and withher five year old sonsailed for New York in a two-master;was driven to the Azores;ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,met her second husbandin a Brooklyn boarding house,went with him to Puerto Ricobore three more children, losther second husband, lived hardfor eight years in St. Thomas,Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followedthe oldest son to New York,lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”seized the two boys ofthe oldest son by the second marriagemothered them—they beingmotherless—fought for themagainst the other grandmotherand the aunts, brought them heresummer after summer, defendedherself here against thieves,storms, sun, fire,against flies, against girlsthat came smelling about, againstdrought, against weeds, storm-tides,neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens,against the weakness of her own hands,against the growing strength ofthe boys, against wind, againstthe stones, against trespassers,against rents, against her own mind.
She grubbed this earth with her own hands,domineered over this grass plot,blackguarded her oldest soninto buying it, lived here fifteen years,attained a final loneliness and—
If you can bring nothing to this placebut your carcass, keep out.
K. McB.You exquisite chunk of mudKathleen—just likeany other chunk of mud!—especially in April!Curl up round their shoeswhen they try to step on you,spoil the polish!I shall laugh till I am sickat their amazement.Do they expect the ground to bealways solid?Give them the slip then;let them sit in you;soil their pants;teach them a dignitythat is dignity, the dignityof mud!Lie basking inthe sun then—fast asleep!Even become dust on occasion.
K. McB.You exquisite chunk of mudKathleen—just likeany other chunk of mud!—especially in April!Curl up round their shoeswhen they try to step on you,spoil the polish!I shall laugh till I am sickat their amazement.Do they expect the ground to bealways solid?Give them the slip then;let them sit in you;soil their pants;teach them a dignitythat is dignity, the dignityof mud!Lie basking inthe sun then—fast asleep!Even become dust on occasion.
K. McB.You exquisite chunk of mudKathleen—just likeany other chunk of mud!—especially in April!Curl up round their shoeswhen they try to step on you,spoil the polish!I shall laugh till I am sickat their amazement.Do they expect the ground to bealways solid?Give them the slip then;let them sit in you;soil their pants;teach them a dignitythat is dignity, the dignityof mud!
Lie basking inthe sun then—fast asleep!Even become dust on occasion.
LOVE SONGI lie here thinking of you:—the stain of loveis upon the world!Yellow, yellow, yellowit eats into the leaves,smears with saffronthe horned branches that leanheavilyagainst a smooth purple sky!There is no lightonly a honey-thick stainthat drips from leaf to leafand limb to limbspoiling the colorsof the whole world—you far off there underthe wine-red selvage of the west!
LOVE SONGI lie here thinking of you:—the stain of loveis upon the world!Yellow, yellow, yellowit eats into the leaves,smears with saffronthe horned branches that leanheavilyagainst a smooth purple sky!There is no lightonly a honey-thick stainthat drips from leaf to leafand limb to limbspoiling the colorsof the whole world—you far off there underthe wine-red selvage of the west!
LOVE SONGI lie here thinking of you:—
the stain of loveis upon the world!Yellow, yellow, yellowit eats into the leaves,smears with saffronthe horned branches that leanheavilyagainst a smooth purple sky!There is no lightonly a honey-thick stainthat drips from leaf to leafand limb to limbspoiling the colorsof the whole world—
you far off there underthe wine-red selvage of the west!
THE WANDERERA Rococo StudyADVENTEven in the time when as yetI had no certain knowledge of herShe sprang from the nest, a young crow,Whose first flight circled the forest.I know now how then she showed meHer mind, reaching out to the horizon,She close above the tree tops.I saw her eyes straining at the new distanceAnd as the woods fell from her flyingLikewise they fell from me as I followed—So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from meTo come through ready for the high courses.But one day, crossing the ferryWith the great towers of Manhattan before me,Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing,I had been wearying many questionsWhich she had put on to try me:How shall I be a mirror to this modernity?When lo! in a rush, draggingA blunt boat on the yielding river—Suddenly I saw her! And she waved meFrom the white wet in midst of her playing!She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son!See how strong my little finger is!Can I not swim well?I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gullWent to the left, vanishing with a wild cry—But in my mind all the persons of godheadFollowed after.
THE WANDERERA Rococo StudyADVENTEven in the time when as yetI had no certain knowledge of herShe sprang from the nest, a young crow,Whose first flight circled the forest.I know now how then she showed meHer mind, reaching out to the horizon,She close above the tree tops.I saw her eyes straining at the new distanceAnd as the woods fell from her flyingLikewise they fell from me as I followed—So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from meTo come through ready for the high courses.But one day, crossing the ferryWith the great towers of Manhattan before me,Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing,I had been wearying many questionsWhich she had put on to try me:How shall I be a mirror to this modernity?When lo! in a rush, draggingA blunt boat on the yielding river—Suddenly I saw her! And she waved meFrom the white wet in midst of her playing!She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son!See how strong my little finger is!Can I not swim well?I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gullWent to the left, vanishing with a wild cry—But in my mind all the persons of godheadFollowed after.
THE WANDERERA Rococo StudyADVENTEven in the time when as yetI had no certain knowledge of herShe sprang from the nest, a young crow,Whose first flight circled the forest.I know now how then she showed meHer mind, reaching out to the horizon,She close above the tree tops.I saw her eyes straining at the new distanceAnd as the woods fell from her flyingLikewise they fell from me as I followed—So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from meTo come through ready for the high courses.
But one day, crossing the ferryWith the great towers of Manhattan before me,Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing,I had been wearying many questionsWhich she had put on to try me:How shall I be a mirror to this modernity?When lo! in a rush, draggingA blunt boat on the yielding river—Suddenly I saw her! And she waved meFrom the white wet in midst of her playing!She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son!See how strong my little finger is!Can I not swim well?I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gullWent to the left, vanishing with a wild cry—But in my mind all the persons of godheadFollowed after.
CLARITY“Come!” cried my mind and by her mightThat was upon us we flew above the riverSeeking her, grey gulls among the white—In the air speaking as she had willed it:“I am given,” cried I, “now I know it!I know now all my time is forespent!For me one face is all the world!For I have seen her at last, this day,In whom age in age is united—Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously!Saving alone that one sequenceWhich is the beauty of all the world, for surelyEither there in the rolling smoke spheres below usOr here with us in the air intercircling,Certainly somewhere here about usI know she is revealing these things!”And as gulls we flew and with soft criesWe seemed to speak, flying, “It is sheThe mighty, recreating the whole world,This the first day of wonders!She is attiring herself before me—Taking shape before me for worship,A red leaf that falls upon a stone!It is she of whom I told you, oldForgiveless, unreconcilable;That high wanderer of by-waysWalking imperious in beggary!At her throat is loose gold, a single chainFrom among many, on her bent fingersAre rings from which the stones are fallen,Her wrists wear a diminished state, her anklesAre bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?”And we swerved clamorously downward—“I will take my peace in her henceforth!”
CLARITY“Come!” cried my mind and by her mightThat was upon us we flew above the riverSeeking her, grey gulls among the white—In the air speaking as she had willed it:“I am given,” cried I, “now I know it!I know now all my time is forespent!For me one face is all the world!For I have seen her at last, this day,In whom age in age is united—Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously!Saving alone that one sequenceWhich is the beauty of all the world, for surelyEither there in the rolling smoke spheres below usOr here with us in the air intercircling,Certainly somewhere here about usI know she is revealing these things!”And as gulls we flew and with soft criesWe seemed to speak, flying, “It is sheThe mighty, recreating the whole world,This the first day of wonders!She is attiring herself before me—Taking shape before me for worship,A red leaf that falls upon a stone!It is she of whom I told you, oldForgiveless, unreconcilable;That high wanderer of by-waysWalking imperious in beggary!At her throat is loose gold, a single chainFrom among many, on her bent fingersAre rings from which the stones are fallen,Her wrists wear a diminished state, her anklesAre bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?”And we swerved clamorously downward—“I will take my peace in her henceforth!”
CLARITY“Come!” cried my mind and by her mightThat was upon us we flew above the riverSeeking her, grey gulls among the white—In the air speaking as she had willed it:“I am given,” cried I, “now I know it!I know now all my time is forespent!For me one face is all the world!For I have seen her at last, this day,In whom age in age is united—Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously!Saving alone that one sequenceWhich is the beauty of all the world, for surelyEither there in the rolling smoke spheres below usOr here with us in the air intercircling,Certainly somewhere here about usI know she is revealing these things!”
And as gulls we flew and with soft criesWe seemed to speak, flying, “It is sheThe mighty, recreating the whole world,This the first day of wonders!She is attiring herself before me—Taking shape before me for worship,A red leaf that falls upon a stone!It is she of whom I told you, oldForgiveless, unreconcilable;That high wanderer of by-waysWalking imperious in beggary!At her throat is loose gold, a single chainFrom among many, on her bent fingersAre rings from which the stones are fallen,Her wrists wear a diminished state, her anklesAre bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?”And we swerved clamorously downward—“I will take my peace in her henceforth!”
BROADWAYIt was then she struck—from behind,In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing!And instantly down the mists of my eyesThere came crowds walking—- men as visionsWith expressionless, animate faces;Empty men with shell-thin bodiesJostling close above the gutter,Hasting—nowhere! And then for the first timeI really saw her, really scented the sweatOf her presence and—fell back sickened!Ominous, old, painted—With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyesHer might strapped in by a corsetTo give her age youth, perfectIn her will to be young she had coveredThe godhead to go beside me.Silent, her voice entered at my eyesAnd my astonished thought followed her easily:“Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit?TheseliveI tell you! Old men with red cheeks,Young men in gay suits! See them!Dogged, quivering, impassive—Well—are these the ones you envied?”At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen,Grant me power to catch something of this day’sAir and sun into your service!That these toilers after peace and after pleasureMay turn to you, worshippers at all hours!”But she sniffed upon the words warily—Yet I persisted, watching for an answer:“To you, horrible old woman,Who know all fires out of the bodiesOf all men that walk with lust at heart!To you, O mighty, crafty prowlerAfter the youth of all cities, drunkWith the sight of thy archness! All the youthThat come to you, you having the knowledgeRather than to those uninitiate—To you, marvelous old queen, give me alwaysA new marriage—”But she laughed loudly—“A new grip upon those garments that brushed meIn days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest!May I be lifted still, up and out of terror,Up from before the death living around me—Tom up continually and carriedWhatever way the head of your whim is,A burr upon those streaming tatters—”But the night had fallen, she stilled meAnd led me away.
BROADWAYIt was then she struck—from behind,In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing!And instantly down the mists of my eyesThere came crowds walking—- men as visionsWith expressionless, animate faces;Empty men with shell-thin bodiesJostling close above the gutter,Hasting—nowhere! And then for the first timeI really saw her, really scented the sweatOf her presence and—fell back sickened!Ominous, old, painted—With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyesHer might strapped in by a corsetTo give her age youth, perfectIn her will to be young she had coveredThe godhead to go beside me.Silent, her voice entered at my eyesAnd my astonished thought followed her easily:“Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit?TheseliveI tell you! Old men with red cheeks,Young men in gay suits! See them!Dogged, quivering, impassive—Well—are these the ones you envied?”At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen,Grant me power to catch something of this day’sAir and sun into your service!That these toilers after peace and after pleasureMay turn to you, worshippers at all hours!”But she sniffed upon the words warily—Yet I persisted, watching for an answer:“To you, horrible old woman,Who know all fires out of the bodiesOf all men that walk with lust at heart!To you, O mighty, crafty prowlerAfter the youth of all cities, drunkWith the sight of thy archness! All the youthThat come to you, you having the knowledgeRather than to those uninitiate—To you, marvelous old queen, give me alwaysA new marriage—”But she laughed loudly—“A new grip upon those garments that brushed meIn days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest!May I be lifted still, up and out of terror,Up from before the death living around me—Tom up continually and carriedWhatever way the head of your whim is,A burr upon those streaming tatters—”But the night had fallen, she stilled meAnd led me away.
BROADWAYIt was then she struck—from behind,In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing!And instantly down the mists of my eyesThere came crowds walking—- men as visionsWith expressionless, animate faces;Empty men with shell-thin bodiesJostling close above the gutter,Hasting—nowhere! And then for the first timeI really saw her, really scented the sweatOf her presence and—fell back sickened!Ominous, old, painted—With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyesHer might strapped in by a corsetTo give her age youth, perfectIn her will to be young she had coveredThe godhead to go beside me.Silent, her voice entered at my eyesAnd my astonished thought followed her easily:“Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit?TheseliveI tell you! Old men with red cheeks,Young men in gay suits! See them!Dogged, quivering, impassive—Well—are these the ones you envied?”At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen,Grant me power to catch something of this day’sAir and sun into your service!That these toilers after peace and after pleasureMay turn to you, worshippers at all hours!”But she sniffed upon the words warily—Yet I persisted, watching for an answer:“To you, horrible old woman,Who know all fires out of the bodiesOf all men that walk with lust at heart!To you, O mighty, crafty prowlerAfter the youth of all cities, drunkWith the sight of thy archness! All the youthThat come to you, you having the knowledgeRather than to those uninitiate—To you, marvelous old queen, give me alwaysA new marriage—”But she laughed loudly—“A new grip upon those garments that brushed meIn days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest!May I be lifted still, up and out of terror,Up from before the death living around me—Tom up continually and carriedWhatever way the head of your whim is,A burr upon those streaming tatters—”But the night had fallen, she stilled meAnd led me away.
PATERSON—THE STRIKEAt the first peep of dawn she roused me!I rose trembling at the change which the night saw!For there, wretchedly brooding in a cornerFrom which her old eyes glittered fiercely—“Go!” she said, and I hurried shiveringOut into the deserted streets of Paterson.That night she came again, hoveringIn rags within the filmy ceiling—“Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!”“You are blest, go on!”“Hot for savagery,Sucking the air! I went into the city,Out again, baffled onto the mountain!Back into the city!NowhereThe subtle! Everywhere the electric!”“A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop:No questions—all stood patiently,Dominated by one idea: somethingThat carried them as they are always wanting to be carried,‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me,‘This thing heretofore unobtainableThat they seem so clever to have put on now!’“Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood?Can it be anything but brutality?On that at least they’re united! That at leastIs their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries!“But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queenIt sank deep into the blood, that I rose uponThe tense air enjoying the dusty fight!Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheadsThe flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair,The ugly legs of the young girls, pistonsToo powerful for delicacy!The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, redUsed to heat and cold, to toss quartered beevesAnd barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit!“Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks,Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped,Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs,Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands.“Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric!“Ugly, venemous, gigantic!Tossing me as a great father his helplessInfant till it shriek with ecstasyAnd its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!—“I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.”
PATERSON—THE STRIKEAt the first peep of dawn she roused me!I rose trembling at the change which the night saw!For there, wretchedly brooding in a cornerFrom which her old eyes glittered fiercely—“Go!” she said, and I hurried shiveringOut into the deserted streets of Paterson.That night she came again, hoveringIn rags within the filmy ceiling—“Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!”“You are blest, go on!”“Hot for savagery,Sucking the air! I went into the city,Out again, baffled onto the mountain!Back into the city!NowhereThe subtle! Everywhere the electric!”“A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop:No questions—all stood patiently,Dominated by one idea: somethingThat carried them as they are always wanting to be carried,‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me,‘This thing heretofore unobtainableThat they seem so clever to have put on now!’“Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood?Can it be anything but brutality?On that at least they’re united! That at leastIs their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries!“But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queenIt sank deep into the blood, that I rose uponThe tense air enjoying the dusty fight!Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheadsThe flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair,The ugly legs of the young girls, pistonsToo powerful for delicacy!The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, redUsed to heat and cold, to toss quartered beevesAnd barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit!“Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks,Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped,Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs,Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands.“Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric!“Ugly, venemous, gigantic!Tossing me as a great father his helplessInfant till it shriek with ecstasyAnd its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!—“I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.”
PATERSON—THE STRIKEAt the first peep of dawn she roused me!I rose trembling at the change which the night saw!For there, wretchedly brooding in a cornerFrom which her old eyes glittered fiercely—“Go!” she said, and I hurried shiveringOut into the deserted streets of Paterson.
That night she came again, hoveringIn rags within the filmy ceiling—“Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!”“You are blest, go on!”“Hot for savagery,Sucking the air! I went into the city,Out again, baffled onto the mountain!Back into the city!NowhereThe subtle! Everywhere the electric!”
“A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop:No questions—all stood patiently,Dominated by one idea: somethingThat carried them as they are always wanting to be carried,‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me,‘This thing heretofore unobtainableThat they seem so clever to have put on now!’
“Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood?Can it be anything but brutality?On that at least they’re united! That at leastIs their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries!
“But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queenIt sank deep into the blood, that I rose uponThe tense air enjoying the dusty fight!Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheadsThe flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair,The ugly legs of the young girls, pistonsToo powerful for delicacy!The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, redUsed to heat and cold, to toss quartered beevesAnd barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit!
“Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks,Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped,Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs,Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands.
“Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric!
“Ugly, venemous, gigantic!Tossing me as a great father his helplessInfant till it shriek with ecstasyAnd its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!—
“I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.”
ABROADNever, even in a dream,Have I winged so high nor so wellAs with her, she leading me by the hand,That first day on the Jersey mountains!And never shall I forgetThe trembling interest with which I heardHer voice in a low thunder:“You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth!The patch of road between the steep bramble banks;The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky!Speak to men of these, concerning me!For never while you permit them to ignore meIn these shall the full of my freed voiceCome grappling the ear with intent!Never while the air’s clear coolnessIs seized to be a coat for pettiness;Never while richness of greeneryStands a shield for prurient minds;Never, permitting these things unchallengedShall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!”At which, knowing her solitude,I shouted over the country below me:“Waken! my people, to the boughs greenWith ripening fruit within you!Waken to the myriad cinquefoilIn the waving grass of your minds!Waken to the silent phoebe nestUnder the eaves of your spirit!”But she, stooping nearer the shifting hillsSpoke again. “Look there! See them!There in the oat field with the horses,See them there! bowed by their passionsCrushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam!The weight of the sky is upon themUnder which all roof beams crumble.There is none but the single roof beam:There is no love bears against the great firefly!At this I looked up at the sunThen shouted again with all the might I had.But my voice was a seed in the wind.Then she, the old one, laughingSeized me and whirling about bore backTo the city, upward, still laughingUntil the great towers stood above the marshlandWheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallowsThat I picked as a boy, the HackensackSo quiet that seemed so broad formerly:The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side—All so old, so familiar—so new nowTo my marvelling eyes as we passedInvisible.
ABROADNever, even in a dream,Have I winged so high nor so wellAs with her, she leading me by the hand,That first day on the Jersey mountains!And never shall I forgetThe trembling interest with which I heardHer voice in a low thunder:“You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth!The patch of road between the steep bramble banks;The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky!Speak to men of these, concerning me!For never while you permit them to ignore meIn these shall the full of my freed voiceCome grappling the ear with intent!Never while the air’s clear coolnessIs seized to be a coat for pettiness;Never while richness of greeneryStands a shield for prurient minds;Never, permitting these things unchallengedShall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!”At which, knowing her solitude,I shouted over the country below me:“Waken! my people, to the boughs greenWith ripening fruit within you!Waken to the myriad cinquefoilIn the waving grass of your minds!Waken to the silent phoebe nestUnder the eaves of your spirit!”But she, stooping nearer the shifting hillsSpoke again. “Look there! See them!There in the oat field with the horses,See them there! bowed by their passionsCrushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam!The weight of the sky is upon themUnder which all roof beams crumble.There is none but the single roof beam:There is no love bears against the great firefly!At this I looked up at the sunThen shouted again with all the might I had.But my voice was a seed in the wind.Then she, the old one, laughingSeized me and whirling about bore backTo the city, upward, still laughingUntil the great towers stood above the marshlandWheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallowsThat I picked as a boy, the HackensackSo quiet that seemed so broad formerly:The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side—All so old, so familiar—so new nowTo my marvelling eyes as we passedInvisible.
ABROADNever, even in a dream,Have I winged so high nor so wellAs with her, she leading me by the hand,That first day on the Jersey mountains!And never shall I forgetThe trembling interest with which I heardHer voice in a low thunder:“You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth!The patch of road between the steep bramble banks;The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky!Speak to men of these, concerning me!For never while you permit them to ignore meIn these shall the full of my freed voiceCome grappling the ear with intent!Never while the air’s clear coolnessIs seized to be a coat for pettiness;Never while richness of greeneryStands a shield for prurient minds;Never, permitting these things unchallengedShall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!”At which, knowing her solitude,I shouted over the country below me:“Waken! my people, to the boughs greenWith ripening fruit within you!Waken to the myriad cinquefoilIn the waving grass of your minds!Waken to the silent phoebe nestUnder the eaves of your spirit!”
But she, stooping nearer the shifting hillsSpoke again. “Look there! See them!There in the oat field with the horses,See them there! bowed by their passionsCrushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam!The weight of the sky is upon themUnder which all roof beams crumble.There is none but the single roof beam:There is no love bears against the great firefly!At this I looked up at the sunThen shouted again with all the might I had.But my voice was a seed in the wind.Then she, the old one, laughingSeized me and whirling about bore backTo the city, upward, still laughingUntil the great towers stood above the marshlandWheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallowsThat I picked as a boy, the HackensackSo quiet that seemed so broad formerly:The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side—All so old, so familiar—so new nowTo my marvelling eyes as we passedInvisible.
SOOTHSAYEight days went by, eight daysComforted by no nights, until finally:“Would you behold yourself old, beloved?”I was pierced, yet I consented gladlyFor I knew it could not be otherwise.And she—“Behold yourself old!Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges!Not bodying the sun in weak leapsBut holding way over rockish menWith fern free fingers on their little crags,Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear themFor pride and for mockery! BeholdYourself old! winding with slow might—A vine among oaks—to the thin tops:Leaving the leafless leaved,Bearing purple clusters! BeholdYourself old! birds are behind you.You are the wind coming that stills birds,Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony—Slow, winning high way amid the knockingOf boughs, evenly crescendo,The din and bellow of the male wind!Leap then from forest into foam!Lash about from low into high flamesTipping sound, the female chorus—Linking all lions, all twitteringsTo make them nothing! Behold yourself old!”As I made to answer she continued,A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut:“Good is my over lip and evilMy underlip to you henceforth:For I have taken your soul between my two handsAnd this shall be as it is spoken.”
SOOTHSAYEight days went by, eight daysComforted by no nights, until finally:“Would you behold yourself old, beloved?”I was pierced, yet I consented gladlyFor I knew it could not be otherwise.And she—“Behold yourself old!Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges!Not bodying the sun in weak leapsBut holding way over rockish menWith fern free fingers on their little crags,Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear themFor pride and for mockery! BeholdYourself old! winding with slow might—A vine among oaks—to the thin tops:Leaving the leafless leaved,Bearing purple clusters! BeholdYourself old! birds are behind you.You are the wind coming that stills birds,Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony—Slow, winning high way amid the knockingOf boughs, evenly crescendo,The din and bellow of the male wind!Leap then from forest into foam!Lash about from low into high flamesTipping sound, the female chorus—Linking all lions, all twitteringsTo make them nothing! Behold yourself old!”As I made to answer she continued,A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut:“Good is my over lip and evilMy underlip to you henceforth:For I have taken your soul between my two handsAnd this shall be as it is spoken.”
SOOTHSAYEight days went by, eight daysComforted by no nights, until finally:“Would you behold yourself old, beloved?”I was pierced, yet I consented gladlyFor I knew it could not be otherwise.And she—“Behold yourself old!Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges!Not bodying the sun in weak leapsBut holding way over rockish menWith fern free fingers on their little crags,Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear themFor pride and for mockery! BeholdYourself old! winding with slow might—A vine among oaks—to the thin tops:Leaving the leafless leaved,Bearing purple clusters! BeholdYourself old! birds are behind you.You are the wind coming that stills birds,Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony—Slow, winning high way amid the knockingOf boughs, evenly crescendo,The din and bellow of the male wind!Leap then from forest into foam!Lash about from low into high flamesTipping sound, the female chorus—Linking all lions, all twitteringsTo make them nothing! Behold yourself old!”As I made to answer she continued,A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut:“Good is my over lip and evilMy underlip to you henceforth:For I have taken your soul between my two handsAnd this shall be as it is spoken.”
ST. JAMES’ GROVEAnd so it came to that last dayWhen, she leading by the hand, we went outEarly in the morning, I heavy of heartFor I knew the novitiate was endedThe ecstasy was over, the life begun.In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktieMy grandmother gave me, there I wentWith the old queen right past the housesOf my friends down the hill to the riverAs on any usual day, any errand.Alone, walking under trees,I went with her, she with me in her wild hair,By Santiago Grove and presentlyShe bent forward and knelt by the river,The Passaic, that filthy river.And there dabbling her mad hands,She called me close beside her.Raising the water then in the cupped palmShe bathed our brows wailing and laughing:“River, we are old, you and I,We are old and by bad luck, beggars.Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink!Old friend, here I have brought youThe young soul you long asked of me.Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!Give me the well-worn spirit,For here I have made a room for it,And I will return to you forthwithThe youth you have long asked of me:Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!”And the filthy Passaic consented!Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry:“Enter, youth, into this bulk!Enter, river, into this young man!”Then the river began to enter my heart,Eddying back cool and limpidInto the crystal beginning of its days.But with the rebound it leaped forward:Muddy, then black and shrunkenTill I felt the utter depth of its rottennessThe vile breadth of its degradationAnd dropped down knowing this was me now.But she lifted me and the water took a new tideAgain into the older experiences,And so, backward and forward,It tortured itself within meUntil time had been washed finally under,And the river had found its levelAnd its last motion had ceasedAnd I knew all—it became me.And I knew this for double certainFor there, whitely, I saw myselfBeing borne off under the water!I could have shouted out in my agonyAt the sight of myself departingForever—but I bit back my despairFor she had averted her eyesBy which I knew well what she was thinking—And so the last of me was taken.Then she, “Be mostly silent!”And turning to the river, spoke again:“For him and for me, river, the wandering,But by you I leave for happinessDeep foliage, the thickest beeches—Though elsewhere they are all dying—Tallest oaks and yellow birchesThat dip their leaves in you, mourning,As now I dip my hair, immemorialOf me, immemorial of himImmemorial of these our promises!Here shall be a bird’s paradise,They sing to you remembering my voice:Here the most secluded spacesFor miles around, hallowed by a stenchTo be our joint solitude and temple;In memory of this clear marriageAnd the child I have brought you in the late years.Live, river, live in luxurianceRemembering this our son,In remembrance of me and my sorrowAnd of the new wandering!”
ST. JAMES’ GROVEAnd so it came to that last dayWhen, she leading by the hand, we went outEarly in the morning, I heavy of heartFor I knew the novitiate was endedThe ecstasy was over, the life begun.In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktieMy grandmother gave me, there I wentWith the old queen right past the housesOf my friends down the hill to the riverAs on any usual day, any errand.Alone, walking under trees,I went with her, she with me in her wild hair,By Santiago Grove and presentlyShe bent forward and knelt by the river,The Passaic, that filthy river.And there dabbling her mad hands,She called me close beside her.Raising the water then in the cupped palmShe bathed our brows wailing and laughing:“River, we are old, you and I,We are old and by bad luck, beggars.Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink!Old friend, here I have brought youThe young soul you long asked of me.Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!Give me the well-worn spirit,For here I have made a room for it,And I will return to you forthwithThe youth you have long asked of me:Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!”And the filthy Passaic consented!Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry:“Enter, youth, into this bulk!Enter, river, into this young man!”Then the river began to enter my heart,Eddying back cool and limpidInto the crystal beginning of its days.But with the rebound it leaped forward:Muddy, then black and shrunkenTill I felt the utter depth of its rottennessThe vile breadth of its degradationAnd dropped down knowing this was me now.But she lifted me and the water took a new tideAgain into the older experiences,And so, backward and forward,It tortured itself within meUntil time had been washed finally under,And the river had found its levelAnd its last motion had ceasedAnd I knew all—it became me.And I knew this for double certainFor there, whitely, I saw myselfBeing borne off under the water!I could have shouted out in my agonyAt the sight of myself departingForever—but I bit back my despairFor she had averted her eyesBy which I knew well what she was thinking—And so the last of me was taken.Then she, “Be mostly silent!”And turning to the river, spoke again:“For him and for me, river, the wandering,But by you I leave for happinessDeep foliage, the thickest beeches—Though elsewhere they are all dying—Tallest oaks and yellow birchesThat dip their leaves in you, mourning,As now I dip my hair, immemorialOf me, immemorial of himImmemorial of these our promises!Here shall be a bird’s paradise,They sing to you remembering my voice:Here the most secluded spacesFor miles around, hallowed by a stenchTo be our joint solitude and temple;In memory of this clear marriageAnd the child I have brought you in the late years.Live, river, live in luxurianceRemembering this our son,In remembrance of me and my sorrowAnd of the new wandering!”
ST. JAMES’ GROVEAnd so it came to that last dayWhen, she leading by the hand, we went outEarly in the morning, I heavy of heartFor I knew the novitiate was endedThe ecstasy was over, the life begun.
In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktieMy grandmother gave me, there I wentWith the old queen right past the housesOf my friends down the hill to the riverAs on any usual day, any errand.Alone, walking under trees,I went with her, she with me in her wild hair,By Santiago Grove and presentlyShe bent forward and knelt by the river,The Passaic, that filthy river.And there dabbling her mad hands,She called me close beside her.Raising the water then in the cupped palmShe bathed our brows wailing and laughing:“River, we are old, you and I,We are old and by bad luck, beggars.Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink!Old friend, here I have brought youThe young soul you long asked of me.Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!Give me the well-worn spirit,For here I have made a room for it,And I will return to you forthwithThe youth you have long asked of me:Stand forth, river, and give meThe old friend of my revels!”
And the filthy Passaic consented!
Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry:“Enter, youth, into this bulk!Enter, river, into this young man!”Then the river began to enter my heart,Eddying back cool and limpidInto the crystal beginning of its days.But with the rebound it leaped forward:Muddy, then black and shrunkenTill I felt the utter depth of its rottennessThe vile breadth of its degradationAnd dropped down knowing this was me now.But she lifted me and the water took a new tideAgain into the older experiences,And so, backward and forward,It tortured itself within meUntil time had been washed finally under,And the river had found its levelAnd its last motion had ceasedAnd I knew all—it became me.And I knew this for double certainFor there, whitely, I saw myselfBeing borne off under the water!I could have shouted out in my agonyAt the sight of myself departingForever—but I bit back my despairFor she had averted her eyesBy which I knew well what she was thinking—And so the last of me was taken.
Then she, “Be mostly silent!”And turning to the river, spoke again:“For him and for me, river, the wandering,But by you I leave for happinessDeep foliage, the thickest beeches—Though elsewhere they are all dying—Tallest oaks and yellow birchesThat dip their leaves in you, mourning,As now I dip my hair, immemorialOf me, immemorial of himImmemorial of these our promises!Here shall be a bird’s paradise,They sing to you remembering my voice:Here the most secluded spacesFor miles around, hallowed by a stenchTo be our joint solitude and temple;In memory of this clear marriageAnd the child I have brought you in the late years.Live, river, live in luxurianceRemembering this our son,In remembrance of me and my sorrowAnd of the new wandering!”