JETSAMI wonder can this be the world it wasAt sunset? I remember the sky fellGreen as pale meadows, at the long street-ends,But overhead the smoke-wrack hugged the roofsAs if to shut the city from God's eyesTill dawn should quench the laughter and the lights.Beneath the gas flare stolid faces passed,Too dull for sin; old loosened lips set hardTo drain the stale lees from the cup of sense;Or if a young face yearned from out the mistMade by its own bright hair, the eyes were wanWith desolate fore-knowledge of the end.My life lay waste about me: as I walked,From the gross dark of unfrequented streetsThe face of my own youth peered forth at me,Struck white with pity at the thing I was;And globed in ghostly fire, thrice-virginal,With lifted face star-strong, went one who sangLost verses from my youth's gold canticle.Out of the void dark came my face and hersOne vivid moment—then the street was there;Bloat shapes and mean eyes blotted the sear dusk;And in the curtained window of a houseWhence sin reeked on the night, a shameful headWas silhouetted black as Satan's faceAgainst eternal fires. I stumbled onDown the dark slope that reaches riverward,Stretching blind hands to find the throat of GodAnd crush Him in his lies. The river layCoiled in its factory filth and few lean trees.All was too hateful—I could not die there!I whom the Spring had strained unto her breast,Whose lips had felt the wet vague lips of dawn.So under the thin willows' leprous shadeAnd through the tangled ranks of riverweedI pushed—till lo, God heard me! I came forthWhere, 'neath the shoreless hush of region light,Through a new world, undreamed of, undesired,Beyond imagining of man's weary heart,Far to the white marge of the wondering seaThis still plain widens, and this moon rains downInsufferable ecstasy of peace.My heart is man's heart, strong to bear this night'sUnspeakable affliction of mute loveThat crazes lesser things. The rocks and clodsDissemble, feign a busy intercourse;The bushes deal in shadowy subterfuge,Lurk dull, dart spiteful out, make heartless signs,Utter awestricken purpose of no sense,—But I walk quiet, crush aside the handsStretched furtively to drag me madmen's ways.I know the thing they suffer, and the tricksThey must be at to help themselves endure.I would not be too boastful; I am weak,Too weak to put aside the utter acheOf this lone splendor long enough to seeWhether the moon is still her white strange selfOr something whiter, stranger, even the faceWhich by the changed face of my risen youthSang, globed in fire, her golden canticle.I dare not look again; another gazeMight drive me to the wavering coppice there,Where bat-winged madness brushed me, the wild laughOf naked nature crashed across my blood.So rank it was with earthy presences,Faun-shapes in goatish dance, young witches' eyesSlanting deep invitation, whinnying callsAmbiguous, shocks and whirlwinds of wild mirth,—They had undone me in the darkness there,But that within me, smiting through my lidsLowered to shut in the thick whirl of sense,The dumb light ached and rummaged, and with out,The soaring splendor summoned me aloudTo leave the low dank thickets of the fleshWhere man meets beast and makes his lair with him,For spirit reaches of the strenuous vast,Where stalwart stars reap grain to make the breadGod breaketh at his tables and is glad.I came out in the moonlight cleansed and strong,And gazed up at the lyric face to seeAll sweetness tasted of in earthen cupsEre it be dashed and spilled, all radiance flungBeyond experience, every benison dream,Treasured and mystically crescent there.O, who will shield me from her? Who will placeA veil between me and the fierce in-throngOf her inexorable benedicite?See, I have loved her well and been with her!Through tragic twilights when the stricken seaGroveled with fear, or when she made her throneIn imminent cities built of gorgeous windsAnd paved with lightnings; or when the sobering starsWould lead her home 'mid wealth of plundered MayAlong the violet slopes of evensong.Of all the sights that starred the dreamy year,For me one sight stood peerless and apart:Bright rivers tacit; low hills prone and dumb;Forests that hushed their tiniest voice to hear;Skies for the unutterable advent robedIn purple like the opening iris buds;And by some lone expectant pool, one treeWhose gray boughs shivered with excess of awe,—As with preluding gush of amber light,And herald trumpets softly lifted through,Across the palpitant horizon margeCrocus-filleted came the singing moon.Out of her changing lights I wove my youthA place to dwell in, sweet and spiritual,And all the bitter years of my exileMy heart has called afar off unto her.Lo, after many days love finds its own!The futile adorations, the waste tears,The hymns that fluttered low in the false dawn,She has uptreasured as a lover's gifts;They are the mystic garment that she wearsAgainst the bridal, and the crocus flowersShe twined her brow with at the going forth;They are the burden of the song she madeIn coming through the quiet fields of space,And breathe between her passion-parted lipsCalling me out along the flowering roadWhich summers through the dimness of the sea.Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand shoresTo find remembered respite, and far drawnThrough weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coastThe myriad silence yearns to myriad speech.O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues beSo eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tonguesBe dumb to speak thy longing? Say I holdLife as a broken jewel in my hand,And fain would buy a little love with itFor comfort, say I fain would make it shineOnce in remembering eyes ere it be dust,—Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this,When all my spirit hungers to repayThe beauty that has drenched my soul with peace?Once at a simple turning of the wayI met God walking; and although the dawnWas large behind Him, and the morning starsCircled and sang about his face as birdsAbout the fieldward morning cottager,My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste!Day grows and it is far to market-town."Once where I lay in darkness after fight,Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of songSearching and searching at my muffled senseUntil it shook sweet pangs through all my blood,And I beheld one globed in ghostly fireSinging, star-strong, her golden canticle;And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past,A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun;Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm,From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?"Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gazeWas heavy on me with yearning and with scornMy sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife,Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep."O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to goWhere all sweet throats are calling, once be braveTo slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us goThe path her singing face looms low to point,Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flameOf silver on the brown grope of the flood;For all my spirit's soilure is put byAnd all my body's soilure, lacking nowBut the last lustral sacrament of deathTo make me clean for those near-searching eyesThat question yonder whether all be well,And pause a little ere they dare rejoice.Question and be thou answered, passionate face!For I am worthy, worthy now at lastAfter so long unworth; strong now at lastTo give myself to beauty and be saved;Now, being man, to give myself to thee,As once the tumult of my boyish heartCompanioned thee with rapture through the world,Forth from a land whereof no poet's lipMade mention how the leas were lily-sprent,Into a land God's eyes had looked not onTo love the tender bloom upon the hills.To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawnUpon that shell of me the sea has tossedTo land, as fit for earth to use again,Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets,Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'erWith altered accent, dubious sweep of hand,Their virile, just contempt for one who failed.But they can never cast my earnings up,Who know so well my losses. Even youWho in the mild light of the spirit walkAnd hold yourselves acquainted with the truth,Be not too swift to judge and cast me out!You shall find other, nobler ways than mineTo work your soul's redemption,—glorious noonsOf battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign,And nightly refuge 'neath God's ægis-rim;Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance heldWith the heart's austerities; still governance,And ripening of the blood in the weekday sunTo make the full-orbed consecrated fruitAt life's end for the Sabbath supper meet.I shall not sit beside you at that feast,For ere a seedling of my golden treePushed off its petals to get room to grow,I stripped the boughs to make an April gaudAnd wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair.But mine is not the failure God deplores;For I of old am beauty's votarist,Long recreant, often foiled and led astray,But resolute at last to seek her thereWhere most she does abide, and crave with tearsThat she assoil me of my blemishment.Low looms her singing face to point the way,Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flameOf silver on the brown grope of the flood.The stars are for me; the horizon wakesIts pilgrim chanting; and the little sandGrows musical of hope beneath my feet.The waves that leap to meet my swimming breastGossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way,And when the deep throbs of the rising surgePulse upward with me, and a rain of wingsBlurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reachStill welcome of bright hands across the wave,And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire,Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.
I wonder can this be the world it wasAt sunset? I remember the sky fellGreen as pale meadows, at the long street-ends,But overhead the smoke-wrack hugged the roofsAs if to shut the city from God's eyesTill dawn should quench the laughter and the lights.Beneath the gas flare stolid faces passed,Too dull for sin; old loosened lips set hardTo drain the stale lees from the cup of sense;Or if a young face yearned from out the mistMade by its own bright hair, the eyes were wanWith desolate fore-knowledge of the end.My life lay waste about me: as I walked,From the gross dark of unfrequented streetsThe face of my own youth peered forth at me,Struck white with pity at the thing I was;And globed in ghostly fire, thrice-virginal,With lifted face star-strong, went one who sangLost verses from my youth's gold canticle.Out of the void dark came my face and hersOne vivid moment—then the street was there;Bloat shapes and mean eyes blotted the sear dusk;And in the curtained window of a houseWhence sin reeked on the night, a shameful headWas silhouetted black as Satan's faceAgainst eternal fires. I stumbled onDown the dark slope that reaches riverward,Stretching blind hands to find the throat of GodAnd crush Him in his lies. The river layCoiled in its factory filth and few lean trees.All was too hateful—I could not die there!I whom the Spring had strained unto her breast,Whose lips had felt the wet vague lips of dawn.So under the thin willows' leprous shadeAnd through the tangled ranks of riverweedI pushed—till lo, God heard me! I came forthWhere, 'neath the shoreless hush of region light,Through a new world, undreamed of, undesired,Beyond imagining of man's weary heart,Far to the white marge of the wondering seaThis still plain widens, and this moon rains downInsufferable ecstasy of peace.
My heart is man's heart, strong to bear this night'sUnspeakable affliction of mute loveThat crazes lesser things. The rocks and clodsDissemble, feign a busy intercourse;The bushes deal in shadowy subterfuge,Lurk dull, dart spiteful out, make heartless signs,Utter awestricken purpose of no sense,—But I walk quiet, crush aside the handsStretched furtively to drag me madmen's ways.I know the thing they suffer, and the tricksThey must be at to help themselves endure.I would not be too boastful; I am weak,Too weak to put aside the utter acheOf this lone splendor long enough to seeWhether the moon is still her white strange selfOr something whiter, stranger, even the faceWhich by the changed face of my risen youthSang, globed in fire, her golden canticle.I dare not look again; another gazeMight drive me to the wavering coppice there,Where bat-winged madness brushed me, the wild laughOf naked nature crashed across my blood.So rank it was with earthy presences,Faun-shapes in goatish dance, young witches' eyesSlanting deep invitation, whinnying callsAmbiguous, shocks and whirlwinds of wild mirth,—They had undone me in the darkness there,But that within me, smiting through my lidsLowered to shut in the thick whirl of sense,The dumb light ached and rummaged, and with out,The soaring splendor summoned me aloudTo leave the low dank thickets of the fleshWhere man meets beast and makes his lair with him,For spirit reaches of the strenuous vast,Where stalwart stars reap grain to make the breadGod breaketh at his tables and is glad.I came out in the moonlight cleansed and strong,And gazed up at the lyric face to seeAll sweetness tasted of in earthen cupsEre it be dashed and spilled, all radiance flungBeyond experience, every benison dream,Treasured and mystically crescent there.
O, who will shield me from her? Who will placeA veil between me and the fierce in-throngOf her inexorable benedicite?See, I have loved her well and been with her!Through tragic twilights when the stricken seaGroveled with fear, or when she made her throneIn imminent cities built of gorgeous windsAnd paved with lightnings; or when the sobering starsWould lead her home 'mid wealth of plundered MayAlong the violet slopes of evensong.Of all the sights that starred the dreamy year,For me one sight stood peerless and apart:Bright rivers tacit; low hills prone and dumb;Forests that hushed their tiniest voice to hear;Skies for the unutterable advent robedIn purple like the opening iris buds;And by some lone expectant pool, one treeWhose gray boughs shivered with excess of awe,—As with preluding gush of amber light,And herald trumpets softly lifted through,Across the palpitant horizon margeCrocus-filleted came the singing moon.Out of her changing lights I wove my youthA place to dwell in, sweet and spiritual,And all the bitter years of my exileMy heart has called afar off unto her.Lo, after many days love finds its own!The futile adorations, the waste tears,The hymns that fluttered low in the false dawn,She has uptreasured as a lover's gifts;They are the mystic garment that she wearsAgainst the bridal, and the crocus flowersShe twined her brow with at the going forth;They are the burden of the song she madeIn coming through the quiet fields of space,And breathe between her passion-parted lipsCalling me out along the flowering roadWhich summers through the dimness of the sea.
Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand shoresTo find remembered respite, and far drawnThrough weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coastThe myriad silence yearns to myriad speech.O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues beSo eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tonguesBe dumb to speak thy longing? Say I holdLife as a broken jewel in my hand,And fain would buy a little love with itFor comfort, say I fain would make it shineOnce in remembering eyes ere it be dust,—Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this,When all my spirit hungers to repayThe beauty that has drenched my soul with peace?Once at a simple turning of the wayI met God walking; and although the dawnWas large behind Him, and the morning starsCircled and sang about his face as birdsAbout the fieldward morning cottager,My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste!Day grows and it is far to market-town."Once where I lay in darkness after fight,Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of songSearching and searching at my muffled senseUntil it shook sweet pangs through all my blood,And I beheld one globed in ghostly fireSinging, star-strong, her golden canticle;And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past,A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun;Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm,From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?"Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gazeWas heavy on me with yearning and with scornMy sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife,Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep."O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to goWhere all sweet throats are calling, once be braveTo slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us goThe path her singing face looms low to point,Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flameOf silver on the brown grope of the flood;For all my spirit's soilure is put byAnd all my body's soilure, lacking nowBut the last lustral sacrament of deathTo make me clean for those near-searching eyesThat question yonder whether all be well,And pause a little ere they dare rejoice.
Question and be thou answered, passionate face!For I am worthy, worthy now at lastAfter so long unworth; strong now at lastTo give myself to beauty and be saved;Now, being man, to give myself to thee,As once the tumult of my boyish heartCompanioned thee with rapture through the world,Forth from a land whereof no poet's lipMade mention how the leas were lily-sprent,Into a land God's eyes had looked not onTo love the tender bloom upon the hills.To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawnUpon that shell of me the sea has tossedTo land, as fit for earth to use again,Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets,Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'erWith altered accent, dubious sweep of hand,Their virile, just contempt for one who failed.But they can never cast my earnings up,Who know so well my losses. Even youWho in the mild light of the spirit walkAnd hold yourselves acquainted with the truth,Be not too swift to judge and cast me out!You shall find other, nobler ways than mineTo work your soul's redemption,—glorious noonsOf battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign,And nightly refuge 'neath God's ægis-rim;Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance heldWith the heart's austerities; still governance,And ripening of the blood in the weekday sunTo make the full-orbed consecrated fruitAt life's end for the Sabbath supper meet.I shall not sit beside you at that feast,For ere a seedling of my golden treePushed off its petals to get room to grow,I stripped the boughs to make an April gaudAnd wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair.But mine is not the failure God deplores;For I of old am beauty's votarist,Long recreant, often foiled and led astray,But resolute at last to seek her thereWhere most she does abide, and crave with tearsThat she assoil me of my blemishment.Low looms her singing face to point the way,Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flameOf silver on the brown grope of the flood.The stars are for me; the horizon wakesIts pilgrim chanting; and the little sandGrows musical of hope beneath my feet.The waves that leap to meet my swimming breastGossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way,And when the deep throbs of the rising surgePulse upward with me, and a rain of wingsBlurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reachStill welcome of bright hands across the wave,And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire,Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.
THE BRUTEThrough his might men work their wills.They have boweled out the hillsFor food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought;And they fling him, hour by hour,Limbs of men to give him power;Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devourChildren's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought:He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought.For about the noisy land,Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand,His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of prideO'er the stubborn things that he,Breaks to dust and brings to be.Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly.There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide,When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide.Quietude and loveliness,Holy sights that heal and bless,They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set;When he splashes through the braeSilver streams are choked with clay,When he snorts the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like hay;He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fretSqualid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate.They who caught and bound him tightLaughed exultant at his might,Saying, "Now behold, the good time comes for the weariest and the least!We will use this lusty knave:No more need for men to slave;We may rise and look about us and have knowledge ere the grave."But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased,The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!"On the strong and cunning fewCynic favors I will strew;I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies;From the patient and the lowI will take the joys they know;They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go.Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise;Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies."I will burn and dig and hackTill the heavens suffer lack;God shall feel a pleasure fail him, crying to his cherubim,'Who hath flung yon mud-ball thereWhere my world went green and fair?'I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare,''T is the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth dim.Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.'"So he plotted in his rage:So he deals it, age by age.But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell;Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice,For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice.He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding wellHe must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell.All the desert that he madeHe must treble bless with shade,In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain;All the strongholds that he builtFor the powers of greed and guilt—He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt;He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again,And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain.In a very cunning tetherHe must lead the tyrant weather;He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race;He must cast out hate and fear,Dry away each fruitless tear,And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear.He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place;He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face,On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace.Then, perhaps, at the last day,They will whistle him away,Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say,"Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed!Let him not be scourged or blamed.Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed!Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown."Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own,'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne.
Through his might men work their wills.They have boweled out the hillsFor food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought;And they fling him, hour by hour,Limbs of men to give him power;Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devourChildren's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought:He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought.
For about the noisy land,Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand,His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of prideO'er the stubborn things that he,Breaks to dust and brings to be.Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly.There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide,When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide.
Quietude and loveliness,Holy sights that heal and bless,They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set;When he splashes through the braeSilver streams are choked with clay,When he snorts the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like hay;He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fretSqualid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate.
They who caught and bound him tightLaughed exultant at his might,Saying, "Now behold, the good time comes for the weariest and the least!We will use this lusty knave:No more need for men to slave;We may rise and look about us and have knowledge ere the grave."But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased,The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!
"On the strong and cunning fewCynic favors I will strew;I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies;From the patient and the lowI will take the joys they know;They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go.Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise;Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies.
"I will burn and dig and hackTill the heavens suffer lack;God shall feel a pleasure fail him, crying to his cherubim,'Who hath flung yon mud-ball thereWhere my world went green and fair?'I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare,''T is the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth dim.Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.'"
So he plotted in his rage:So he deals it, age by age.But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell;Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice,For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice.He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding wellHe must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell.
All the desert that he madeHe must treble bless with shade,In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain;All the strongholds that he builtFor the powers of greed and guilt—He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt;He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again,And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain.
In a very cunning tetherHe must lead the tyrant weather;He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race;He must cast out hate and fear,Dry away each fruitless tear,And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear.He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place;He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face,On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace.
Then, perhaps, at the last day,They will whistle him away,Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say,"Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed!Let him not be scourged or blamed.Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed!Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown."Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own,'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne.
THE MENAGERIEThank God my brain is not inclined to cutSuch capers every day! I 'm just aboutMellow, but then—There goes the tent-flap shut.Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snoutWas twitching when the keeper turned me out.That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold.Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephantSqueals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold,And jabber that it 's rain water they want.(It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)I 'll foot it home, to try and make believeI 'm sober. After this I stick to beer,And drop the circus when the sane folks leave.A man 's a fool to look at things too near:They look back, and begin to cut up queer.Beasts do, at any rate; especiallyWild devils caged. They have the coolest wayOf being something else than what you see:You pass a sleek young zebra nosing hay,A nylghau looking bored and distingué,—And think you 've seen a donkey and a bird.Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare.The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't stirred;But something 's happened, Heaven knows what or where,To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair.I 'm not precisely an æolian luteHung in the wandering winds of sentiment,But drown me if the ugliest, meanest bruteGrunting and fretting in that sultry tentDid n't just floor me with embarrassment!'T was like a thunder-clap from out the clear,One minute they were circus beasts, some grand,Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer:Rival attractions to the hobo band,The flying jenny, and the peanut stand.Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine!Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare!Patient, satiric, devilish, divine;A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care,Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair.Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke,—Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afarDown ocean caves when behemoth awoke,Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaurLocked with the giant-bat in ghastly war.And suddenly, as in a flash of light,I saw great Nature working out her plan;Through all her shapes from mastodon to miteForever groping, testing, passing onTo find at last the shape and soul of Man.Till in the fullness of accomplished time,Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent,Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime,And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent,The stages of her huge experiment;Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours;Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods;Publishing fretful seasons when her powersWorked wild and sullen in her solitudes,Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods.Here, round about me, were her vagrant births;Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed;Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths;The troublings of her spirit as she strayed,Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid,On that long road she went to seek mankind;Here were the darkling coverts that she beatTo find the Hider she was sent to find;Here the distracted footprints of her feetWhereby her soul's Desire she came to greet.But why should they, her botch-work, turn aboutAnd stare disdain at me, her finished job?Why was the place one vast suspended shoutOf laughter? Why did all the daylight throbWith soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob?Helpless I stood among those awful cages;The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged!I, I, last product of the toiling ages,Goal of heroic feet that never lagged,—A little man in trousers, slightly jagged.Deliver me from such another jury!The Judgment-day will be a picnic to 't.Their satire was more dreadful than their fury,And worst of all was just a kind of bruteDisgust, and giving up, and sinking mute.Survival of the fittest, adaptation,And all their other evolution terms,Seem to omit one small consideration,To wit, that tumblebugs and anglewormsHave souls: there 's soul in everything that squirms.And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things,All dream and unaccountable desire;Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings;Spreading through every inch of earth's old mireMystical hanker after something higher.Wishesarehorses, as I understand.I guess a wistful polyp that has strokesOf feeling faint to gallivant on landWill come to be a scandal to his folks;Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes.And at the core of every life that crawlsOr runs or flies or swims or vegetates—Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the gallsOf shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates,Lighting the love of eagles for their mates;Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fishThat is and is not living—moved and stirredFrom the beginning a mysterious wish,A vision, a command, a fatal Word:The name of Man was uttered, and they heard.Upward along the æons of old warThey sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and billWere fashioned and rejected; wide and farThey roamed the twilight jungles of their will;But still they sought him, and desired him still.Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man,The radiant and the loving, yet to be!I hardly wonder, when they came to scanThe upshot of their strenuosity,They gazed with mixed emotions uponme.Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures,Or spot them sideways with your weather eye,Just to keep tab on their expansive features;It is n't pleasant when you 're stepping highTo catch a giraffe smiling on the sly.If nature made you graceful, don't get gayBack-to before the hippopotamus;If meek and godly, find some place to playBesides right where three mad hyenas fuss:You may hear language that we won't discuss.If you 're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat,Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in,Don't squander love's bright springtime girding atAn old chimpanzee with an Irish chin:There may be hidden meaning in his grin.
Thank God my brain is not inclined to cutSuch capers every day! I 'm just aboutMellow, but then—There goes the tent-flap shut.Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snoutWas twitching when the keeper turned me out.
That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold.Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephantSqueals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold,And jabber that it 's rain water they want.(It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)
I 'll foot it home, to try and make believeI 'm sober. After this I stick to beer,And drop the circus when the sane folks leave.A man 's a fool to look at things too near:They look back, and begin to cut up queer.
Beasts do, at any rate; especiallyWild devils caged. They have the coolest wayOf being something else than what you see:You pass a sleek young zebra nosing hay,A nylghau looking bored and distingué,—
And think you 've seen a donkey and a bird.Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare.The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't stirred;But something 's happened, Heaven knows what or where,To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair.
I 'm not precisely an æolian luteHung in the wandering winds of sentiment,But drown me if the ugliest, meanest bruteGrunting and fretting in that sultry tentDid n't just floor me with embarrassment!
'T was like a thunder-clap from out the clear,One minute they were circus beasts, some grand,Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer:Rival attractions to the hobo band,The flying jenny, and the peanut stand.
Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine!Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare!Patient, satiric, devilish, divine;A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care,Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair.
Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke,—Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afarDown ocean caves when behemoth awoke,Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaurLocked with the giant-bat in ghastly war.
And suddenly, as in a flash of light,I saw great Nature working out her plan;Through all her shapes from mastodon to miteForever groping, testing, passing onTo find at last the shape and soul of Man.
Till in the fullness of accomplished time,Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent,Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime,And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent,The stages of her huge experiment;
Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours;Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods;Publishing fretful seasons when her powersWorked wild and sullen in her solitudes,Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods.
Here, round about me, were her vagrant births;Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed;Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths;The troublings of her spirit as she strayed,Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid,
On that long road she went to seek mankind;Here were the darkling coverts that she beatTo find the Hider she was sent to find;Here the distracted footprints of her feetWhereby her soul's Desire she came to greet.
But why should they, her botch-work, turn aboutAnd stare disdain at me, her finished job?Why was the place one vast suspended shoutOf laughter? Why did all the daylight throbWith soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob?
Helpless I stood among those awful cages;The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged!I, I, last product of the toiling ages,Goal of heroic feet that never lagged,—A little man in trousers, slightly jagged.
Deliver me from such another jury!The Judgment-day will be a picnic to 't.Their satire was more dreadful than their fury,And worst of all was just a kind of bruteDisgust, and giving up, and sinking mute.
Survival of the fittest, adaptation,And all their other evolution terms,Seem to omit one small consideration,To wit, that tumblebugs and anglewormsHave souls: there 's soul in everything that squirms.
And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things,All dream and unaccountable desire;Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings;Spreading through every inch of earth's old mireMystical hanker after something higher.
Wishesarehorses, as I understand.I guess a wistful polyp that has strokesOf feeling faint to gallivant on landWill come to be a scandal to his folks;Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes.
And at the core of every life that crawlsOr runs or flies or swims or vegetates—Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the gallsOf shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates,Lighting the love of eagles for their mates;
Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fishThat is and is not living—moved and stirredFrom the beginning a mysterious wish,A vision, a command, a fatal Word:The name of Man was uttered, and they heard.
Upward along the æons of old warThey sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and billWere fashioned and rejected; wide and farThey roamed the twilight jungles of their will;But still they sought him, and desired him still.
Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man,The radiant and the loving, yet to be!I hardly wonder, when they came to scanThe upshot of their strenuosity,They gazed with mixed emotions uponme.
Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures,Or spot them sideways with your weather eye,Just to keep tab on their expansive features;It is n't pleasant when you 're stepping highTo catch a giraffe smiling on the sly.
If nature made you graceful, don't get gayBack-to before the hippopotamus;If meek and godly, find some place to playBesides right where three mad hyenas fuss:You may hear language that we won't discuss.
If you 're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat,Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in,Don't squander love's bright springtime girding atAn old chimpanzee with an Irish chin:There may be hidden meaning in his grin.
THE GOLDEN JOURNEYAll day he drowses by the sailWith dreams of her, and all night longThe broken waters are at songOf how she lingers, wild and pale,When all the temple lights are dumb,And weaves her spells to make him come.The wide sea traversed, he will standWith straining eyes, until the shoalGreen water from the prow shall rollUpon the yellow strip of sand—Searching some fern-hid tangled wayInto the forest old and grey.Then he will leap upon the shore,And cast one look up at the sun,Over his loosened locks will runThe dawn breeze, and a bird will pourIts rapture out to make life seemToo sweet to leave for such a dream.But all the swifter will he goThrough the pale, scattered asphodels,Down mote-hung dusk of olive dells,To where the ancient basins throwFleet threads of blue and trembling zonesOf gold upon the temple stones.There noon keeps just a twilight trace;Twixt love and hate, and death and birth,No man may choose; nor sobs nor mirthMay enter in that haunted place.All day the fountain sphynx lets dripSlow drops of silence from her lip.To hold the porch-roof slender girlsOf milk-white marble stand arow;Doubt never blurs a single brow,And never the noon's faintness curlsFrom their expectant hush of prideThe lips the god has glorified.But these things he will barely view,Or if he stay to heed them, stillBut as the lark the lights that spillFrom out the sun it soars unto,Where, past the splendors and the heats,The sun's heart's self forever beats.For wide the brazen doors will swingSoon as his sandals touch the pave;The anxious light inside will waveAnd tremble to a lunar ringAbout the form that lieth proneBefore the dreadful altar-stone.She will not look or speak or stir,But with drowned lips and cheeks death-whiteWill lie amid the pool of light,Until, grown faint with thirst of her,He shall bow down his face and sinkBreathless beneath the eddying brink.Then a swift music will begin,And as the brazen doors shut slow,There will be hurrying to and fro,And lights and calls and silver din,While through the star-freaked swirl of airThe god's sweet cruel eyes will stare.
All day he drowses by the sailWith dreams of her, and all night longThe broken waters are at songOf how she lingers, wild and pale,When all the temple lights are dumb,And weaves her spells to make him come.
The wide sea traversed, he will standWith straining eyes, until the shoalGreen water from the prow shall rollUpon the yellow strip of sand—Searching some fern-hid tangled wayInto the forest old and grey.
Then he will leap upon the shore,And cast one look up at the sun,Over his loosened locks will runThe dawn breeze, and a bird will pourIts rapture out to make life seemToo sweet to leave for such a dream.
But all the swifter will he goThrough the pale, scattered asphodels,Down mote-hung dusk of olive dells,To where the ancient basins throwFleet threads of blue and trembling zonesOf gold upon the temple stones.
There noon keeps just a twilight trace;Twixt love and hate, and death and birth,No man may choose; nor sobs nor mirthMay enter in that haunted place.All day the fountain sphynx lets dripSlow drops of silence from her lip.
To hold the porch-roof slender girlsOf milk-white marble stand arow;Doubt never blurs a single brow,And never the noon's faintness curlsFrom their expectant hush of prideThe lips the god has glorified.
But these things he will barely view,Or if he stay to heed them, stillBut as the lark the lights that spillFrom out the sun it soars unto,Where, past the splendors and the heats,The sun's heart's self forever beats.
For wide the brazen doors will swingSoon as his sandals touch the pave;The anxious light inside will waveAnd tremble to a lunar ringAbout the form that lieth proneBefore the dreadful altar-stone.
She will not look or speak or stir,But with drowned lips and cheeks death-whiteWill lie amid the pool of light,Until, grown faint with thirst of her,He shall bow down his face and sinkBreathless beneath the eddying brink.
Then a swift music will begin,And as the brazen doors shut slow,There will be hurrying to and fro,And lights and calls and silver din,While through the star-freaked swirl of airThe god's sweet cruel eyes will stare.
HEART'S WILD-FLOWERTo-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire,And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire,And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire.And though no word shall e'er be said to ease the ghostly sting,And though our hearts, unhoused, unfed, must still go wandering,My sign is set upon her head while stars do meet and sing.Not such a sign as women wear who make their foreheads tameWith life's long tolerance, and bear love's sweetest, humblest name,Nor such as passion eateth bare with its crown of tears and flame.Nor such a sign as happy friend sets on his friend's dear browWhen meadow-pipings break and blend to a key of autumn woe,And the woodland says playtime 's at end, best unclasp hands and go.But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears,A little gift God gave my youth,—whose petals dim were fears,Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears.O heart of mine, with all thy powers of white beatitude,What are the dearest of God's dowers to the children of his blood?How blow the shy, shy wilding flowers in the hollows of his wood?
To-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire,And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire,And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire.
And though no word shall e'er be said to ease the ghostly sting,And though our hearts, unhoused, unfed, must still go wandering,My sign is set upon her head while stars do meet and sing.
Not such a sign as women wear who make their foreheads tameWith life's long tolerance, and bear love's sweetest, humblest name,Nor such as passion eateth bare with its crown of tears and flame.
Nor such a sign as happy friend sets on his friend's dear browWhen meadow-pipings break and blend to a key of autumn woe,And the woodland says playtime 's at end, best unclasp hands and go.
But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears,A little gift God gave my youth,—whose petals dim were fears,Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears.
O heart of mine, with all thy powers of white beatitude,What are the dearest of God's dowers to the children of his blood?How blow the shy, shy wilding flowers in the hollows of his wood?
HARMONICSThis string upon my harp was best beloved:I thought I knew its secrets through and through;Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue'Neath his white hair, bent over me and movedHis fingers up and down, and broke the wireTo such a laddered music, rung on rung,As from the patriarch's pillow skyward sprungCrowded with wide-flung wings and feet of fire.O vibrant heart! so metely tuned and strungThat any untaught hand can draw from theeOne clear gold note that makes the tired years young—What of the time when Love had whispered meWhere slept thy nodes, and my hand pausefullyGave to the dim harmonics voice and tongue?
This string upon my harp was best beloved:I thought I knew its secrets through and through;Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue'Neath his white hair, bent over me and movedHis fingers up and down, and broke the wireTo such a laddered music, rung on rung,As from the patriarch's pillow skyward sprungCrowded with wide-flung wings and feet of fire.
O vibrant heart! so metely tuned and strungThat any untaught hand can draw from theeOne clear gold note that makes the tired years young—What of the time when Love had whispered meWhere slept thy nodes, and my hand pausefullyGave to the dim harmonics voice and tongue?
ON THE RIVERThe faint stars wake and wonder,Fade and find heart anew;Above us and far underSphereth the watchful blue.Silent she sits, outbending,A wild pathetic grace,A beauty strange, heart-rending,Upon her hair and face.O spirit cries that severThe cricket's level drone!O to give o'er endeavorAnd let love have its own!Within the mirrored bushesThere wakes a little stir;The white-throat moves, and hushesHer nestlings under her.Beneath, the lustrous river,The watchful sky o'erhead.God, God, that Thou should'st everPoison thy children's bread!
The faint stars wake and wonder,Fade and find heart anew;Above us and far underSphereth the watchful blue.
Silent she sits, outbending,A wild pathetic grace,A beauty strange, heart-rending,Upon her hair and face.
O spirit cries that severThe cricket's level drone!O to give o'er endeavorAnd let love have its own!
Within the mirrored bushesThere wakes a little stir;The white-throat moves, and hushesHer nestlings under her.
Beneath, the lustrous river,The watchful sky o'erhead.God, God, that Thou should'st everPoison thy children's bread!
THE BRACELET OF GRASSThe opal heart of afternoonWas clouding on to throbs of storm,Ashen within the ardent westThe lips of thunder muttered harm,And as a bubble like to breakHung heaven's trembling amethyst,When with the sedge-grass by the lakeI braceleted her wrist.And when the ribbon grass was tied,Sad with the happiness we planned,Palm linked in palm we stood awhileAnd watched the raindrops dot the sand;Until the anger of the breezeChid all the lake's bright breathing down,And ravished all the radianciesFrom her deep eyes of brown.We gazed from shelter on the storm,And through our hearts swept ghostly painTo see the shards of day sweep past,Broken, and none might mend again.Broken, that none shall ever mend;Loosened, that none shall ever tie.O the wind and the wind, will it never end?O the sweeping past of the ruined sky!
The opal heart of afternoonWas clouding on to throbs of storm,Ashen within the ardent westThe lips of thunder muttered harm,And as a bubble like to breakHung heaven's trembling amethyst,When with the sedge-grass by the lakeI braceleted her wrist.
And when the ribbon grass was tied,Sad with the happiness we planned,Palm linked in palm we stood awhileAnd watched the raindrops dot the sand;Until the anger of the breezeChid all the lake's bright breathing down,And ravished all the radianciesFrom her deep eyes of brown.
We gazed from shelter on the storm,And through our hearts swept ghostly painTo see the shards of day sweep past,Broken, and none might mend again.Broken, that none shall ever mend;Loosened, that none shall ever tie.O the wind and the wind, will it never end?O the sweeping past of the ruined sky!
THE DEPARTUREII sat beside the glassy evening sea,One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre,And all its strings of laughter and desireCrushed in the rank wet grasses heedlessly;Nor did my dull eyes care to question howThe boat close by had spread its saffron sails,Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales,And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow.Neither was wonder in me when I sawFair women step therein, though they were fairEven to adoration and to awe,And in the gracious fillets of their hairWere blossoms from a garden I had known,Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.IIOne gazed steadfast into the dying westWith lips apart to greet the evening star;And one with eyes that caught the strife and jarOf the sea's heart, followed the sunward breastOf a lone gull; from a slow harp one drewBlind music like a laugh or like a wail;And in the uncertain shadow of the sailOne wove a crown of berries and of yew.Yet even as I said with dull desire,"All these were mine, and one was mine indeed,"The smoky music burst into a fire,And I was left alone in my great need,One foot upon the thin horn of my lyreAnd all its strings crushed in the dripping weed.
I sat beside the glassy evening sea,One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre,And all its strings of laughter and desireCrushed in the rank wet grasses heedlessly;Nor did my dull eyes care to question howThe boat close by had spread its saffron sails,Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales,And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow.Neither was wonder in me when I sawFair women step therein, though they were fairEven to adoration and to awe,And in the gracious fillets of their hairWere blossoms from a garden I had known,Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.
One gazed steadfast into the dying westWith lips apart to greet the evening star;And one with eyes that caught the strife and jarOf the sea's heart, followed the sunward breastOf a lone gull; from a slow harp one drewBlind music like a laugh or like a wail;And in the uncertain shadow of the sailOne wove a crown of berries and of yew.Yet even as I said with dull desire,"All these were mine, and one was mine indeed,"The smoky music burst into a fire,And I was left alone in my great need,One foot upon the thin horn of my lyreAnd all its strings crushed in the dripping weed.