VI
Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leavesWhen a swift body passes west, pursued them.But Daniel never stirred.Nor old Darius—Neither did he listen as the sergeantSwore, swelling the wrath in his red eyesTill most of him was fire. “Follow him home,The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.Tear him free. He softens in her armsTo the sick sound of ‘Father.’”But Darius,Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,She will not go alone. He is a good boy,Bruce. I never coupled her with him.It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldierLeft him, spitting disgust.And Daniel sawHow all of the fair strangers followed soon—All of them, as if they were a company.They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiledIn the same grave degree, as if some secretBound them.And he thought the dapper one,Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—Communicated thus to the gold womanThat she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,Berrien’s; she was not of any company,Wandering, like this one. She had comeAlone to them, in May, and she would go—Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,Her beautiful dream body, that was his,Was his alone.And suddenly his sadnessDoubled. For the singer had left livingNone of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrenderedSweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,A noble dead man, numbering his loss.Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—In fall—he would be losing this one too,In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.For there he was, the last one to go through,And Daniel thought the signal came again:An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,His vine that had the strength to stand alone.But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brushOf fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,Her eyes, took hold of everything in himAnd hurt it.“So you let her go,” she said.“You shadow of a man, you let her go.Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,For it is white, is small, and precious to you—Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadowFalls on you for lover—disobedientLover of that girl whom still you crave!”Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?Berrien still watched the weary dancersLike one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledgeWas a dream knowledge, drawn to him by nightWhen her own body slept in her own bed.How could she understand? And what untruthWas working in her, making these sweet sounds?Their honey was more false for being heardBy him, by only him. That other singer—He had been true. And troubling. But his songWas never to be lost now. Dora was,Forever. And he said it must be so.The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,Not to be contradicted. And her lips.Lest the unparted lips again deliverWhat was so loud, so terrible—though heardBy him, by only him—he spoke of home.Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.So with no words they went.Some dancers saw them,Picking their way, and winked at one another;Daniel, with that artificial woman;Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!None of them looked happy. Three old-fashionedPeople going home. The actress, too—An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,And painted. You could see it—Indian summerEverywhere. Yet once a pretty world.They could not see how beautiful she was.Only for Daniel was she beautiful,And for those others, strangers here with her,Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,In their own forms, were watching.Hermes leanedLike none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,She is not schooled in victory and defeat,She is not skilful at surrender—saveThe lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.She will not let him go, the farmer there,While any of her poison works in him.Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—You could persuade her, Ares.”But the sullenSoldier still was sullen, though a god;He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,Smiling at them, catlike, kept her wayWith Daniel down the road.“Apollo’s song,”Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.“It was a potent song. The tough old man,The tender young, the farmer in his heart—All four of them were changed. But now you see—”He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,Dimming with her companions down the highway,Walked as a mortal would; though still they knewThe goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,Mingling as the moon did with the topsOf trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.Artemis, more angry than the rest,More like the moon, declining now so clear,So cold, beyond the body of this grove,Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilledAnd planted. Never then will the boy serve,With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.The farmer would have let the maiden go—Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,What burden that may topple his intention?Hephaestus, our contriver, you could sealHis ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;Even tonight you could.”Hephaestus, pacingOddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fireI gave him. Let him be.”But none of them sawHis meaning, if he had one. He was lameAnd foolish, and he muttered as he walked,And turned and walked again, counting the stepsBetween two oaks that limited his way.The great angels watched him with their wingsFolded. Standing deeper in the shade,They waited with the others while the moonSloped to its rest, the music having weariedAnd stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.
Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leavesWhen a swift body passes west, pursued them.But Daniel never stirred.Nor old Darius—Neither did he listen as the sergeantSwore, swelling the wrath in his red eyesTill most of him was fire. “Follow him home,The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.Tear him free. He softens in her armsTo the sick sound of ‘Father.’”But Darius,Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,She will not go alone. He is a good boy,Bruce. I never coupled her with him.It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldierLeft him, spitting disgust.And Daniel sawHow all of the fair strangers followed soon—All of them, as if they were a company.They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiledIn the same grave degree, as if some secretBound them.And he thought the dapper one,Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—Communicated thus to the gold womanThat she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,Berrien’s; she was not of any company,Wandering, like this one. She had comeAlone to them, in May, and she would go—Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,Her beautiful dream body, that was his,Was his alone.And suddenly his sadnessDoubled. For the singer had left livingNone of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrenderedSweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,A noble dead man, numbering his loss.Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—In fall—he would be losing this one too,In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.For there he was, the last one to go through,And Daniel thought the signal came again:An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,His vine that had the strength to stand alone.But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brushOf fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,Her eyes, took hold of everything in himAnd hurt it.“So you let her go,” she said.“You shadow of a man, you let her go.Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,For it is white, is small, and precious to you—Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadowFalls on you for lover—disobedientLover of that girl whom still you crave!”Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?Berrien still watched the weary dancersLike one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledgeWas a dream knowledge, drawn to him by nightWhen her own body slept in her own bed.How could she understand? And what untruthWas working in her, making these sweet sounds?Their honey was more false for being heardBy him, by only him. That other singer—He had been true. And troubling. But his songWas never to be lost now. Dora was,Forever. And he said it must be so.The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,Not to be contradicted. And her lips.Lest the unparted lips again deliverWhat was so loud, so terrible—though heardBy him, by only him—he spoke of home.Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.So with no words they went.Some dancers saw them,Picking their way, and winked at one another;Daniel, with that artificial woman;Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!None of them looked happy. Three old-fashionedPeople going home. The actress, too—An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,And painted. You could see it—Indian summerEverywhere. Yet once a pretty world.They could not see how beautiful she was.Only for Daniel was she beautiful,And for those others, strangers here with her,Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,In their own forms, were watching.Hermes leanedLike none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,She is not schooled in victory and defeat,She is not skilful at surrender—saveThe lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.She will not let him go, the farmer there,While any of her poison works in him.Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—You could persuade her, Ares.”But the sullenSoldier still was sullen, though a god;He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,Smiling at them, catlike, kept her wayWith Daniel down the road.“Apollo’s song,”Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.“It was a potent song. The tough old man,The tender young, the farmer in his heart—All four of them were changed. But now you see—”He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,Dimming with her companions down the highway,Walked as a mortal would; though still they knewThe goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,Mingling as the moon did with the topsOf trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.Artemis, more angry than the rest,More like the moon, declining now so clear,So cold, beyond the body of this grove,Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilledAnd planted. Never then will the boy serve,With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.The farmer would have let the maiden go—Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,What burden that may topple his intention?Hephaestus, our contriver, you could sealHis ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;Even tonight you could.”Hephaestus, pacingOddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fireI gave him. Let him be.”But none of them sawHis meaning, if he had one. He was lameAnd foolish, and he muttered as he walked,And turned and walked again, counting the stepsBetween two oaks that limited his way.The great angels watched him with their wingsFolded. Standing deeper in the shade,They waited with the others while the moonSloped to its rest, the music having weariedAnd stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.
Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leavesWhen a swift body passes west, pursued them.But Daniel never stirred.Nor old Darius—Neither did he listen as the sergeantSwore, swelling the wrath in his red eyesTill most of him was fire. “Follow him home,The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.Tear him free. He softens in her armsTo the sick sound of ‘Father.’”But Darius,Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,She will not go alone. He is a good boy,Bruce. I never coupled her with him.It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldierLeft him, spitting disgust.And Daniel sawHow all of the fair strangers followed soon—All of them, as if they were a company.They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiledIn the same grave degree, as if some secretBound them.And he thought the dapper one,Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—Communicated thus to the gold womanThat she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,Berrien’s; she was not of any company,Wandering, like this one. She had comeAlone to them, in May, and she would go—Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,Her beautiful dream body, that was his,Was his alone.And suddenly his sadnessDoubled. For the singer had left livingNone of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrenderedSweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,A noble dead man, numbering his loss.Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—In fall—he would be losing this one too,In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.For there he was, the last one to go through,And Daniel thought the signal came again:An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,His vine that had the strength to stand alone.
Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves
When a swift body passes west, pursued them.
But Daniel never stirred.
Nor old Darius—
Neither did he listen as the sergeant
Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes
Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home,
The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.
Tear him free. He softens in her arms
To the sick sound of ‘Father.’”
But Darius,
Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:
“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,
She will not go alone. He is a good boy,
Bruce. I never coupled her with him.
It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier
Left him, spitting disgust.
And Daniel saw
How all of the fair strangers followed soon—
All of them, as if they were a company.
They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled
In the same grave degree, as if some secret
Bound them.
And he thought the dapper one,
Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,
His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—
Communicated thus to the gold woman
That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,
Berrien’s; she was not of any company,
Wandering, like this one. She had come
Alone to them, in May, and she would go—
Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,
Her beautiful dream body, that was his,
Was his alone.
And suddenly his sadness
Doubled. For the singer had left living
None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,
A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered
Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,
A noble dead man, numbering his loss.
Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—
In fall—he would be losing this one too,
In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,
Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.
For there he was, the last one to go through,
And Daniel thought the signal came again:
An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,
His vine that had the strength to stand alone.
But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brushOf fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,Her eyes, took hold of everything in himAnd hurt it.“So you let her go,” she said.“You shadow of a man, you let her go.Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,For it is white, is small, and precious to you—Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadowFalls on you for lover—disobedientLover of that girl whom still you crave!”
But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,
Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,
He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,
At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush
Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.
Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,
Her eyes, took hold of everything in him
And hurt it.
“So you let her go,” she said.
“You shadow of a man, you let her go.
Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,
In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,
Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,
For it is white, is small, and precious to you—
Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow
Falls on you for lover—disobedient
Lover of that girl whom still you crave!”
Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?Berrien still watched the weary dancersLike one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledgeWas a dream knowledge, drawn to him by nightWhen her own body slept in her own bed.How could she understand? And what untruthWas working in her, making these sweet sounds?Their honey was more false for being heardBy him, by only him. That other singer—He had been true. And troubling. But his songWas never to be lost now. Dora was,Forever. And he said it must be so.
Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?
Berrien still watched the weary dancers
Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?
And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge
Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night
When her own body slept in her own bed.
How could she understand? And what untruth
Was working in her, making these sweet sounds?
Their honey was more false for being heard
By him, by only him. That other singer—
He had been true. And troubling. But his song
Was never to be lost now. Dora was,
Forever. And he said it must be so.
The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,Not to be contradicted. And her lips.Lest the unparted lips again deliverWhat was so loud, so terrible—though heardBy him, by only him—he spoke of home.Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.So with no words they went.Some dancers saw them,Picking their way, and winked at one another;Daniel, with that artificial woman;Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!None of them looked happy. Three old-fashionedPeople going home. The actress, too—An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,And painted. You could see it—Indian summerEverywhere. Yet once a pretty world.
The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,
Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,
Not to be contradicted. And her lips.
Lest the unparted lips again deliver
What was so loud, so terrible—though heard
By him, by only him—he spoke of home.
Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.
So with no words they went.
Some dancers saw them,
Picking their way, and winked at one another;
Daniel, with that artificial woman;
Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!
None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned
People going home. The actress, too—
An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,
And painted. You could see it—Indian summer
Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world.
They could not see how beautiful she was.Only for Daniel was she beautiful,And for those others, strangers here with her,Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,In their own forms, were watching.Hermes leanedLike none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,She is not schooled in victory and defeat,She is not skilful at surrender—saveThe lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.She will not let him go, the farmer there,While any of her poison works in him.Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—You could persuade her, Ares.”But the sullenSoldier still was sullen, though a god;He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,Smiling at them, catlike, kept her wayWith Daniel down the road.“Apollo’s song,”Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.“It was a potent song. The tough old man,The tender young, the farmer in his heart—All four of them were changed. But now you see—”He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,Dimming with her companions down the highway,Walked as a mortal would; though still they knewThe goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,Mingling as the moon did with the topsOf trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.Artemis, more angry than the rest,More like the moon, declining now so clear,So cold, beyond the body of this grove,Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilledAnd planted. Never then will the boy serve,With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.The farmer would have let the maiden go—Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,What burden that may topple his intention?Hephaestus, our contriver, you could sealHis ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;Even tonight you could.”Hephaestus, pacingOddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fireI gave him. Let him be.”But none of them sawHis meaning, if he had one. He was lameAnd foolish, and he muttered as he walked,And turned and walked again, counting the stepsBetween two oaks that limited his way.The great angels watched him with their wingsFolded. Standing deeper in the shade,They waited with the others while the moonSloped to its rest, the music having weariedAnd stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.
They could not see how beautiful she was.
Only for Daniel was she beautiful,
And for those others, strangers here with her,
Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,
In their own forms, were watching.
Hermes leaned
Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,
On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:
“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,
She is not schooled in victory and defeat,
She is not skilful at surrender—save
The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.
She will not let him go, the farmer there,
While any of her poison works in him.
Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—
You could persuade her, Ares.”
But the sullen
Soldier still was sullen, though a god;
He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,
Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way
With Daniel down the road.
“Apollo’s song,”
Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”
He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.
“It was a potent song. The tough old man,
The tender young, the farmer in his heart—
All four of them were changed. But now you see—”
He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,
Dimming with her companions down the highway,
Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew
The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,
Mingling as the moon did with the tops
Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.
Artemis, more angry than the rest,
More like the moon, declining now so clear,
So cold, beyond the body of this grove,
Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”
She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,
Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”
She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilled
And planted. Never then will the boy serve,
With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,
Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.
The farmer would have let the maiden go—
Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.
Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,
That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,
And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,
What burden that may topple his intention?
Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal
His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;
Even tonight you could.”
Hephaestus, pacing
Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,
The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.
“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fire
I gave him. Let him be.”
But none of them saw
His meaning, if he had one. He was lame
And foolish, and he muttered as he walked,
And turned and walked again, counting the steps
Between two oaks that limited his way.
The great angels watched him with their wings
Folded. Standing deeper in the shade,
They waited with the others while the moon
Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied
And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.