Children at playThe human cadence and the subtle chimeOf little laughters—
The human cadence and the subtle chimeOf little laughters—
Mirror Image
[TN: Mirror Image Translated below.]
Dearglass, before your silver paneMy lady used to tend her hair;And yet I search your disc in vainTo find some shadow of her there.I thought your magic, deep and bright,Might still some dear reflection hold:Some glint of eyes or shoulders white,Some flash of gowns she wore of old.Your polished round must still recallThe laughing face, the neck like snow—Remember, on your lonely wall,That Helen used you long ago!
My lady used to tend her hair;
To find some shadow of her there.
Might still some dear reflection hold:
Some flash of gowns she wore of old.
The laughing face, the neck like snow—
That Helen used you long ago!
Thegreatest poem ever knownIs one all poets have outgrown:The poetry, innate, untold,Of being only four years old.Still young enough to be a partOf Nature's great impulsive heart,Born comrade of bird, beast and treeAnd unselfconscious as the bee—And yet with lovely reason skilledEach day new paradise to build;Elate explorer of each sense,Without dismay, without pretence!In your unstained transparent eyesThere is no conscience, no surprise:Life's queer conundrums you accept,Your strange divinity still kept.Being, that now absorbs you, allHarmonious, unit, integral,Will shred into perplexing bits,—Oh, contradictions of the wits!And Life, that sets all things in rhyme,May make you poet, too, in time—But there were days, O tender elf,When you were Poetry itself!
Mychild, what painful vistas are before you!What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps—Indignities from aunts who "just adore" you,And chicken-pox and measles, croup and mumps!I don't wish to dismay you,—it's not fair to,Promoted now from bassinet to crib,—But, O my babe, what troubles flesh is heir toSince God first made so free with Adam's rib!Laboriously you will proceed with teething;When teeth are here, you'll meet the dentist's chair;They'll teach you ways of walking, eating, breathing,That stoves are hot, and how to brush your hair;And so, my poor, undaunted little stripling,By bruises, tears, and trousers you will grow,And, borrowing a leaf from Mr. Kipling,I'll wish you luck, and moralize you so:
What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps—
And chicken-pox and measles, croup and mumps!
Promoted now from bassinet to crib,—
Since God first made so free with Adam's rib!
When teeth are here, you'll meet the dentist's chair;
That stoves are hot, and how to brush your hair;
By bruises, tears, and trousers you will grow,
I'll wish you luck, and moralize you so:
If you can think up seven thousand methodsOf giving cooks and parents heart disease;Can rifle pantry-shelves, and then give death oddsBy water, fire, and falling out of trees;If you can fill your every boyish minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of mischief done,Yours is the house and everything that's in it,And, which is more, you'll be your father's son!
Of giving cooks and parents heart disease;
By water, fire, and falling out of trees;
With sixty seconds' worth of mischief done,
And, which is more, you'll be your father's son!
Grandparents and GrandsonWhat years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps—
What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps—
(Lizette Woodworth Reese)
Mosttender poet, when the gods conferThey save your gracile songs a nook apart,And bless with Time's untainted lavenderThe ageless April of your singing heart.You, in an age unbridled, ne'er declinedThe appointed patience that the Muse decrees,Until, deep in the flower of the mindThe hovering words alight, like bridegroom bees.By casual praise or casual blame unstirredThe placid gods grant gifts where they belong:To you, who understand, the perfect word,The recompensed necessities of song.
They save your gracile songs a nook apart,
The ageless April of your singing heart.
The appointed patience that the Muse decrees,
The hovering words alight, like bridegroom bees.
The placid gods grant gifts where they belong:
The recompensed necessities of song.
Whenwithered leaves are lost in flameTheir eddying ghosts, a thin blue haze,Blow through the thickets whence they cameOn amberlucent autumn days.The cool green woodland heart receivesTheir dim, dissolving, phantom breath;In young hereditary leavesThey see their happy life-in-death.My minutes perish as they glow—Time burns my crazy bonfire through;But ghosts of blackened hours still blow,Eternal Beauty, back to you!
Their eddying ghosts, a thin blue haze,
On amberlucent autumn days.
Their dim, dissolving, phantom breath;
They see their happy life-in-death.
Time burns my crazy bonfire through;
Eternal Beauty, back to you!
Theseare folios of April,All the library of spring,Missals gilt and rubricatedWith the frost's illumining.Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,Set the torch with hand profane—Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,Like the books of burnt Louvain!Yet these classics are immortal:O collectors, have no fear,For the publisher will issueNew editions every year.
All the library of spring,
With the frost's illumining.
Set the torch with hand profane—
Like the books of burnt Louvain!
O collectors, have no fear,
New editions every year.
(For Two Players)
Theyhave a game, thus played:He says unto his maidWhat are those shining thingsSo brown, so golden brown?And she, in doubt, repliesHow now, what shining thingsSo brown?But then, she coming near,To see more clear,He looks again, and cries(All startled with surprise)Sweet wretch, they are your eyes,So brown, so brown!The climax and the end consistIn kissing, and in being kissed.
What are those shining thingsSo brown, so golden brown?
How now, what shining thingsSo brown?
Sweet wretch, they are your eyes,So brown, so brown!
At twoyears old the world he seesMust seem expressly made to please!Such new-found words and games to try,Such sudden mirth, he knows not why,So many curiosities!As life about him, by degreesDiscloses all its pageantriesHe watches with approval shyAt two years old.With wonders tired he takes his easeAt dusk, upon his mother's knees:A little laugh, a little cry,Put toys to bed, then "seepy-bye"—The world is made of such as theseAt two years old.
So many curiosities!
At two years old.
At two years old.
BirthdayA Birthday
A Birthday
(1821-1921)
Whensometimes, on a moony night, I've passedA street-lamp, seen my doubled shadow flee,I've noticed how much darker, clearer cast,The full moon poured her silhouette of me.Just so of spirits. Beauty's silver lightLimns with a ray more pure, and tenderer too:Men's clumsy gestures, to unearthly sight,Surpass the shapes they show by human view.On this brave world, where few such meteors fell,Her youngest son, to save us, Beauty flung.He suffered and descended into hell—And comforts yet the ardent and the young.Drunken of moonlight, dazed by draughts of sky,Dizzy with stars, his mortal fever ran:His utterance a moon-enchanted cryNot free from folly—for he too was man.And now and here, a hundred years away,Where topless towers shadow golden streets,The young men sit, nooked in a cheap café,Perfectly happy ... talking about Keats.
A street-lamp, seen my doubled shadow flee,
The full moon poured her silhouette of me.
Limns with a ray more pure, and tenderer too:
Surpass the shapes they show by human view.
Her youngest son, to save us, Beauty flung.
And comforts yet the ardent and the young.
Dizzy with stars, his mortal fever ran:
Not free from folly—for he too was man.
Where topless towers shadow golden streets,
Perfectly happy ... talking about Keats.
Thisis a day for sonnets: Oh how clearOur splendid cliffs and summits lift the gaze—If all the perfect moments of the yearWere poured and gathered in one sudden blaze,Then, then perhaps, in some endowered phraseMy flat strewn words would rise and come more nearTo tell of you. Your beauty and your praiseWould fall like sunlight on this paper here.Then I would build a sonnet that would standProud and perennial on this pale bright sky;So tall, so steep, that it might stay the handOf Time, the dusty wrecker. He would sighTo tear my strong words down. And he would say:"That song he built for her, one summer day."
Our splendid cliffs and summits lift the gaze—
Were poured and gathered in one sudden blaze,Then, then perhaps, in some endowered phrase
To tell of you. Your beauty and your praise
Proud and perennial on this pale bright sky;
Of Time, the dusty wrecker. He would sigh
Suchlittle, puny things are words in rhyme:Poor feeble loops and strokes as frail as hairs;You see them printed here, and mark their chime,And turn to your more durable affairs.Yet on such petty tools the poet daresTo run his race with mortar, bricks and lime,And draws his frail stick to the point, and staresTo aim his arrow at the heart of Time.Intangible, yet pressing, hemming in,This measured emptiness engulfs us all,And yet he points his paper javelinAnd sees it eddy, waver, turn, and fall,And feels, between delight and trouble torn,The stirring of a sonnet still unborn.
Poor feeble loops and strokes as frail as hairs;
And turn to your more durable affairs.Yet on such petty tools the poet dares
And draws his frail stick to the point, and stares
This measured emptiness engulfs us all,
And sees it eddy, waver, turn, and fall,
To writea sonnet needs a quiet mind....I paused and pondered, tried again.To write....Raising the sash, I breathed the winter night:Papers and small hot room were left behind.Against the gusty purple, ribbed and spinedWith golden slots and vertebræ of lightMen's cages loomed. Down sliding from a heightAn elevator winked as it declined.Coward! There is no quiet in the brain—If pity burns it not, then beauty will:Tinder it is for every blowing spark.Uncertain whether this is bliss or painThe unresting mind will gaze across the sillFrom high apartment windows, in the dark.
I. Broadway, 103rd to 96th.
Lightsfoam and bubble down the gentle grade:Bright shine chop sueys and rôtisseries;In pink translucence glowingly displayedSee camisole and stocking and chemise.Delicatessen windows full of cheese—Above, the chimes of church-bells toll and fade—And then, from off some distant PalisadeThat gluey savor on the Jersey breeze!The burning bulbs, in green and white and red,Spell out aChange of Program Sun., Wed., Fri.,A clicking taxi spins with ruby spark.There is a sense of poising near the headOf some great flume of brightness, flowing byTo pour in gathering torrent through the dark.
II. Below 96th
Thecurrent quickens, and in golden flowHurries its flotsam downward through the night—Here are the rapids where the undertowWhirls endless motors in a gleaming flight.From blazing tributaries, left and right,Influent streams of blue and amber grow.Columbus Circle eddies: all belowIs pouring flame, a gorge of broken light.See how the burning river boils in spate,Channeled by cliffs of insane jewelry,Painting a rosy roof on cloudy air—And just about ten minutes after eight,Tossing a surf of color to the skyIt bursts in cataracts upon Times Square!
Thecity's mad: through her prodigious veinsWhat errant, strange, eccentric humors thrill:Day, when her cataracts of sunlight spill—Night, golden-panelled with her window panes;The toss of wind-blown skirts; and who can drillForever his fierce heart with checking reins?Cruel and mad, my statisticians say—Ah, but she raves in such a gallant way!Brave madness, built for beauty and the sun—In such a town who can be sane? Not I.Of clashing colors all her moods are spun—A scarlet anger and a golden cry.This frantic town where madcap mischiefs runThey ask to take the veil, and be a nun!
(Letter of John Keats to Fanny Browne, Anderson Galleries, March 15, 1920.)
To Dr. A. S. W. Rosenbach.
Howabout this lot?said the auctioneer;One hundred, may I say, just for a start?Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart,A written sheet was held.... And strange to hear(Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art)The cold quick bids. (Against you in the rear!)The crimson salon, in a glow more clearBurned bloodlike purple as the poet's heart.Song that outgrew the singer! Bitter LoveThat broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall;Poor script, where still those tragic passions move—Eight hundred bid: fair warning: the last call:The soul of Adonais, like a star....Sold for eight hundred dollars—Doctor R.!
"It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid."—Robert Louis Stevenson.
Whatwas the service of this poet? He Who blinked the blinding dazzle-rays that runWhere life profiles its edges to the sun,And still suspected much he could not see.Clay-stopped, yet in his taciturnityThere lay the vein of glory, known to none;And moods of secret smiling, only wonWhen peace and passion, time and sense, agree.Fighting the world he loved for chance to brood,Ignorant when to embrace, when to avoidHis loves that held him in their vital clutch—This was his service, his beatitude;This was the inward trouble he enjoyedWho knew so little, and who felt so much.
the circle
Fewthings are perfect: we bear Eden's scar;Yet faulty man was godlike in designThat day when first, with stick and length of twine,He drew me on the sand. Then what could marHis joy in that obedient mystic line;And then, computing with a zeal divine,He called π 3-point-14159And knew my lovely circuit 2 π r!A circle is a happy thing to be—Think how the joyful perpendicularErected at the kiss of tangencyMust meet my central point, my avatar!They talk of 14 points: yet only 3Determine every circle:Q. E. D.
Threetimes a day—at two, at seven, at nine—O terrier, you play your little part:Absurd in coat and skirt you push a cart,With inner anguish walk a tight-rope line.Up there, before the hot and dazzling shineYou must be rigid servant of your art,Nor watch those fluffy cats—your doggish heartMight leap and then betray you with a whine!But sometimes, when you've faithfully rehearsed,Your trainer takes you walking in the park,Straining to sniff the grass, to chase a frog.The leash is slipped, and then your joy will burst—Adorable it is to run and bark,To be—alas, how seldom—just a dog!
Terrier BeggingYou must be rigid servant of your art!
You must be rigid servant of your art!
(For Lloyd Williams.)
Iliketo dream of some established spotWhere you and I, old friend, an evening throughUnder tobacco's fog, streaked gray and blue,Might reconsider laughters unforgot.Beside a hearth-glow, golden-clear and hot,I'd hear you tell the oddities men do.The clock would tick, and we would sit, we two—Life holds such meetings for us, does it not?Happy are men when they have learned to prizeThe sure unvarnished virtue of their friends,The unchanged kindness of a well-known face:On old fidelities our world depends,And runs a simple course in honest wise,Not a mere taxicab shot wild through space!
Upstagethe great high-shafted beefy choirSquawked in 2000 watts of orange glare—You came, and impudent and deuce-may-careDanced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.Flung from the roof, spots red and yellow burnedAnd followed you. The blatant brassy clangOf instruments drowned out the words you sang,But goldenly you capered, twirled and turned.Boyish and slender, child-limbed, quick and proud,A sprite of irresistible disdain,Fair as a jonquil in an April rain,You seemed too sweet an imp for that dull crowd....And then, behind the scenes, I heard you say,"O Gawd, I got a hellish cold to-day!"
Squawked in 2000 watts of orange glare—You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care
And followed you. The blatant brassy clangOf instruments drowned out the words you sang,
A sprite of irresistible disdain,Fair as a jonquil in an April rain,
Dancer on StageYou came, and impudent and deuce-may-careDanced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.
You came, and impudent and deuce-may-careDanced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.
Thesonnet is a trunk, and you must packWith care, to ship frail baggage far away;The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray;Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack.First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack,And in the chinks your adjectives you lay—Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,Stowing a syllable in every crack.Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid:The tender quatrain where your moral sings—Be careful, though, lest as you close the lidYou crush and crumple all these fragile things.Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key—Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.
With care, to ship frail baggage far away;The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray;
And in the chinks your adjectives you lay—Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,
The tender quatrain where your moral sings—
You crush and crumple all these fragile things.
Ihaveseen streets where strange enchantment broods:Old ruddy houses where the morning shoneIn seemly quiet on their tranquil moods,Across the sills white curtains outward blown.Their marble steps were scoured as white as boneWhere scrubbing housemaids toiled on wounded knee—And yet, among all streets that I have knownThese placid byways give least peace to me.In such a house, where green light shining through(From some back garden) framed her silhouetteI saw a girl, heard music blithely sung.She stood there laughing, in a dress of blue,And as I went on, slowly, there I metAn old, old woman, who had once been young.
i
Ihaveno hope to make you live in rhymeOr with your beauty to enrich the years—Enough for me this now, this present time;The greater claim for greater sonneteers.But O how covetous I am of NOW—Dear human minutes, marred by human pains—I want to know your lips, your cheek, your brow,And all the miracles your heart contains,I wish to study all your changing face,Your eyes, divinely hurt with tenderness;I hope to win your dear unstinted graceFor these blunt rhymes and what they would express.Then may you say, when others better prove:—"Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."
ii
Whenall my trivial rhymes are blotted out,Vanished our days, so precious and so few,If some should wonder what we were aboutAnd what the little happenings we knew:I wish that they might know how, night by night,My pencil, heavy in the sleepy hours,Sought vainly for some gracious way to writeHow much this love is ours, and only ours.How many evenings, as you drowsed to sleep,I read to you by tawny candle-glow,And watched you down the valley dim and deepWhere poppies and the April flowers grow.Then knelt beside your pillow with a prayer,And loved the breath of pansies in your hair.
Mythoughts beat out in sonnets while I walk,And every evening on the homeward streetI find the rhythm of my marching feetThrobs into verses (though the rhyme may balk).I think the sonneteers were walking men:The form is dour and rigid, like a clamp,But with the swing of legs the tramp, tramp, trampOf syllables begins to thud, and then—Lo! while you seek a rhyme forhookorcrookshed your shabby coat, and you are kithTo all great walk-and-singers—Meredith,And Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, and Rupert Brooke!Free verse is poor for walking, but a sonnet—O marvellous to stride and brood upon it!
"He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune."—Bacon.
Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down,Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.My virtue, that was once all self-possessed,Is parceled out in little hands, and brownBright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:To threaten these will put me to the test.Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinksUpon the makeshift armor of my heart,For thee no honor lies in such a fight!And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks,Who came awake with such a painful startTo hear the coughing of a child at night.
I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down,
Is parceled out in little hands, and brownBright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:
Upon the makeshift armor of my heart,
For thee no honor lies in such a fight!
Who came awake with such a painful start
To hear the coughing of a child at night.
Hostage SceneHostages.
Hostages.
Howmany evenings, walking soberlyAlong our street all dappled with rich sun,I please myself with words, and happilyTime rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;And yet, when midnight comes, and paper liesClean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyesAnd traitor hand that fails the well loved task!Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craftBut he had put away his sleep, his ease,The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughedTo brood upon such thankless tricks as these?And yet, such joy does in that craft abideHe greets the paper as the groom the bride!
("O. Henry" once worked in a drug-store in Greensboro, N. C.)
Whereonce he measured camphor, glycerine,Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars,And all the oils and essences so keenThat druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars—Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile,The master pharmacist of joy and painDispenses sadness tinctured with a smileAnd laughter that dissolves in tears again.O brave apothecary! You who knewWhat dark and acid doses life prefersAnd yet with friendly face resolved to brewThese sparkling potions for your customers—In each prescription your Physician writYou poured your rich compassion and your wit!
(1816)
"On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."
Iknewa scientist, an engineer,Student of tensile strengths and calculus,A man who loved a cantilever trussAnd always wore a pencil on his ear.My friend believed that poets all were queer,And literary folk ridiculous;But one night, when it chanced that three of usWere reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!His eager mind reached for it and took hold.Ten years are by: I see him now and then,And at alumni dinners, if cajoled,He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:—Much have I travelled in the realms of gold.
Nightafter night goes by: and clocks still chimeAnd stars are changing patterns in the dark,And watches tick, and over-puissant TimeBenumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark,The trains that roar and rattle in the night,The very cats that prowl, all quiet findAnd leave the darkness empty, silent quite:Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.So all things end: and what is left at last?Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor,A memory of easy days gone past,A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore—And in the darkened room I lean to knowHow warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
And stars are changing patterns in the dark,
Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark,
The very cats that prowl, all quiet find
Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.
Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor,
A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore—
How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
Ahvery sweet! If news should come to youSome afternoon, while waiting for our eve,That the great Manager had made me leaveTo travel on some territory new;And that, whatever homeward winds there blew,I could not touch your hand again, nor heaveThe logs upon our hearth and bid you weaveSome wistful tale before the flames that grew....Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blindYour pansied eyes, I wonder if you couldRemember rightly, and forget aright?Remember just your lad, uncouthly good,Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?Could you remember him as always kind?
Ireadin our old journals of the daysWhen our first love was April-sweet and new,How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grewDespite the adverse time; and our amazeAt moon and stars and beauty beyond praiseThat burgeoned all about us: gold and blueThe heaven arched us in, and all we knewWas gentleness. We walked on happy ways.They said by now the path would be more steep,The sunsets paler and less mild the air;Rightly we heeded not: it was not true.We will not tell the secret—let it keep.I know not how I thought those days so fairThese being so much fairer, spent with you.
Whenwe were parted, sweet, and darkness came,I used to strike a match, and hold the flameBefore your picture and would breathless markThe answering glimmer of the tiny sparkThat brought to life the magic of your eyes,Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.Holding that mimic torch before your shrineI used to light your eyes and make them mine;Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky,Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply;Summon your lips from far across the seaBidding them live a twilight hour with me.Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom,Lo—you were with me in the darkened room.
(December 27, 1834.)
Lamb died just before I left town, and Mr. Ryle of the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me.... He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.—Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
—Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
Iheartheir voices still: the stammering oneStruggling with some absurdity of jest;Her quiet words that puzzle and protestAgainst the latest outrage of his fun.So wise, so simple—has she never guessedThat through his laughter, love and terror run?For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed,He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.Through all those years it was his task to keepHer gentle heart serenely mystified.If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride—When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead,She innocently looked. "I always saidThat Charles is really handsome when asleep."
Atsix o'clock in the evening,The time for lullabies,My son lay on my mother's lapWith sleepy, sleepy eyes!(O drowsy little manny boy,With sleepy, sleepy eyes!)I heard her sing, and rock him,And the creak of the swaying chair,And the old dear cadence of the wordsCame softly down the stair.And all the years had vanished,All folly, greed, and stain—The old, old song, the creaking chair,The dearest arms again!(O lucky little manny boy,To feel those arms again!)
The time for lullabies,
With sleepy, sleepy eyes!
With sleepy, sleepy eyes!)
And the creak of the swaying chair,
Came softly down the stair.
All folly, greed, and stain—
The dearest arms again!
To feel those arms again!)
Theycatalogue their minutes: Now, now, now,Is Actual, amid the fugitive;Take ink and pen (they say) for that is howWe snare this flying life, and make it live.So to their little pictures, and they sieveTheir happinesses: fields turned by the plough,The afterglow that summer sunsets give,The razor concave of a great ship's bow.O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.No glittering ink can make this written wordShine clear enough to speak the noble rageAnd instancy of life. All sonnets blurredThe sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
Is Actual, amid the fugitive;
We snare this flying life, and make it live.
Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough,
The razor concave of a great ship's bow.
Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.
Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage
The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
Supposeone knew that never more might onePut pen to sonnet, well loved task; that nowThese fourteen lines were all he could allowTo say his message, be forever done;How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,Intent to sum in dearly chosen phraseThe windy trees, the beauty of his days,Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.How bitter then would be regret and pangFor former rhymes he dallied to refine,For every verse that was not crystalline....And if belike this last one feebly rang,Honor and pride would cast it to the floorFacing the judge with what was done before.
Civilizationcauses meAlternate fits: disgust and glee.Buried in piles of glass and stoneMy private spirit moves alone,Where every day from eight to sixI keep alive by hasty tricks.But I am simple in my soul;My mind is sullen to control.At dusk I smell the scent of earth,And I am dumb—too glad for mirth.I know the savors night can give,And then, and then, I live, I live!No man is wholly pure and free,For that is not his destiny,But though I bend, I will not break:And still be savage, for Truth's sake.God damns the easily convinced(Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
Istoodon the pavementWhere I could admireBehind the brown chapelThe cream and gold spire.Above, gilded LightningSwam high on his ball—I saw the noon shadowThe church of St. Paul.And was there a meaning?(My fancy would run),Saint Paul in the shadow,Saint Frank in the sun!
Where I could admire
The cream and gold spire.
Swam high on his ball—
The church of St. Paul.
(My fancy would run),
Saint Frank in the sun!
Ocity, cage your poets! Hem them inAnd roof them over from the April sky—Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din,And drown their voices with your thunder cry.Forbid their free feet on the windy hills,And harness them to daily ruts of stone—(In florists' windows lock the daffodils)And never, never let them be alone!For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd,And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit,And granted silence, thought and solitudeThey (absit omen!) might make Song of it.So cage them in, and stand about them thick,And keep them busy with their daily bread;And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quickTo interrupt them ere the word be said....For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage,With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth,Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page,The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!
And roof them over from the April sky—
And drown their voices with your thunder cry.
And harness them to daily ruts of stone—
And never, never let them be alone!
And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit,
They (absit omen!) might make Song of it.
And keep them busy with their daily bread;
To interrupt them ere the word be said....
With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth,
The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!