VIII

It came, the time of Dora, when no man,No man of all her three, was home for messenger.Darius snored in his own house—a ballOf skin beneath the bedclothes—and the nightWas early yet for Bruce, who with his fatherTramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked,And working, thought of Dora—all day longOf Dora’s time, next week or the week after.But it was now, and none of all the three menHome to be her messenger! The doctor—How could he be told the time had comeFor pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,Moaning, was so helpless at the door,Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!”But Bruce was on the low road, and the onlyEars that heard were scattered up the sky.Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain,Heard; and woke Athene; and the others,Knowing it was time, went with them bothLike falling stars—all of them, like stars,To drop and stand in darkness by the doorWhile Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called:“Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!”And still another heard. But Aphrodite,Listening while Daniel sat, could smileAnd wait; could think and wait. It was the timeFor punishing this man who in his dreamsRefused her. She could wait and let it work—The punishment she planned.For she had lookedLast night along the valley, and seen coming,Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers,And said: They shall be mine.She heard the moaningCease, and knew that Artemis was there.The nurse was there, and Dora would be cryingSoftly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!”So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength,Waited no longer.Where were those poor wanderers—That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew.She saw them even now at the abandonedChapel down the old road, trying doorsAnd windows, and forlornly turning inWhere nothing was but darkness; and in darkness,Nothing but cobwebs.Smiling a last smile,Vindictive, at the sitter, she uproseAnd scented the whole night, the outer nightOf fields and barns and houses, as she flewAnd flew, tinting earth with a false dawnAs in her brilliant singleness she flewAnd flew to be the first where Hermes came.For even now the tall nurse—goddess againIn the dooryard where they clustered—told her peers:“The time! It is the time! Go, two of you—Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?—And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for.I could do all alone, for I am skilful,I am the green deliveress. Yet go—Gabriel, with Hermes—while I sootheAnd ready her. The horses that he drives—You hear them now, drawing the tired one home.But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him.Say it is the nurse—say anything—But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs,Between you lest she die.”The feet of HermesGlistened as the staff in his right handTouched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightlyTouched him again. And so the pair departed.Before the goddess turned they were a rustleIn the far woods; and Artemis went inWhere Dora lay.“The doctor—he is sent for.Child! What are you staring at?” For DoraShuddered, and alternately her eyesOpened and closed in terror, as at brightnessImpossible, brought near. But then she smiled.“It was my own mistake—the way I am.You were so different. You shone in the doorLike candles, you were like a statue lady—Different from us. I didn’t know you.Now I do, though.”She permitted handsTo smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever,And as the pain returned; while ArtemisLooked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow,At the small face whereon the truth had fallen;Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes,Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?But Aphrodite was there first—an ancientGypsy, rising out of the dim roadAnd shrilling between wheels:“Doctor, Doctor!Come to the dead church—the one they don’tSing songs in any more. A poverty fellowAnd his sick queen—not my people, but I pity,Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed.Or she does, the queen. In all the worldNo friend, and both afraid. They have walked milesFrom nowhere, and no house would take them in.She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor,And help her. Be the one man in the worldTo help her.”“Who are you?” His glasses peeredThrough the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.“Romany.”“And what’s this? You mean the church—”“The old one.”“Even mice won’t go near that.Mischief—you mean mischief. Out of the way,Granny!”But she seized the reins and said:“Good doctor! Be the one man in the world—”And why it was he knew not, but he wentWhere she did, down the sod road toward that moldyBuilding where no hymnsong had been heardSince war days, and where beggars—did she lie?—Might be or not be.So when Hermes came,And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway—Soft as they listened, never the good soundOf hooves, of whirring felloes.Long they lookedAnd listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard,Signalling their presence; so that Artemis,Stooping at the window, saw them desolate,And knew herself defeated.“Aphrodite!”She only thought the word, but Dora staredAnd begged of her: “Has someone—has he come?The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?”“Be patient, dear.In time, in time. The doctor was not found.But there is time, and I myself have medicines—You trust me?”Dora nodded.“Then I’ll go, child,For certain things—for such help as I need.Be patient a few minutes. She is here.”For Bruce’s mother, torturing her handsAs if they were another’s on the rack,Stood by them, bent and weeping.All were thereWhen Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiledAnd innocently listened, fair as everIn the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy,And no more theater woman. Even Ares—All of them were there, with lame HephaestusFilling his low place among the pear trees,When the green goddess called.“Her breath is going.Enemy of all”—to Aphrodite—“I shall waste none on you. I only say,The girl inside is going. Which of youCan help me, and help her? The middle angel—Second of you three—immense of wing—Raphael—have you knowledge?”There was mournfulMusic in the answer.“I have mended,Green one, all the wounds made here on earth—Or there—by deed of angels. In the old daysThey fell—not such as we are—and their fall,As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,The daughters of frail man. If this is such—”“It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likenessOf a lean passing farmer. I have herbsAnd needles. You have strength, and a strange art.Between us—but come quickly!”And DariusSnored in his own house. And Daniel satLate by a brass lamp, reading.And the doctor,Bending to ask the name of the new mother,Heard “Mary.”By the half light of a lowFire she lay on straw and let her weak handWander.“But my husband—he is Joe.There was no work for him. So we went on.Thank you, Doctor.”“Quiet. No more talking.”And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road,Wondered why his son would never rest.

It came, the time of Dora, when no man,

No man of all her three, was home for messenger.

Darius snored in his own house—a ball

Of skin beneath the bedclothes—and the night

Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father

Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked,

And working, thought of Dora—all day long

Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after.

But it was now, and none of all the three menHome to be her messenger! The doctor—How could he be told the time had comeFor pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,Moaning, was so helpless at the door,Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!”But Bruce was on the low road, and the onlyEars that heard were scattered up the sky.Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain,Heard; and woke Athene; and the others,Knowing it was time, went with them bothLike falling stars—all of them, like stars,To drop and stand in darkness by the doorWhile Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called:“Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!”

But it was now, and none of all the three men

Home to be her messenger! The doctor—

How could he be told the time had come

For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,

Moaning, was so helpless at the door,

Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?

Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!”

But Bruce was on the low road, and the only

Ears that heard were scattered up the sky.

Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain,

Heard; and woke Athene; and the others,

Knowing it was time, went with them both

Like falling stars—all of them, like stars,

To drop and stand in darkness by the door

While Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called:

“Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!”

And still another heard. But Aphrodite,Listening while Daniel sat, could smileAnd wait; could think and wait. It was the timeFor punishing this man who in his dreamsRefused her. She could wait and let it work—The punishment she planned.For she had lookedLast night along the valley, and seen coming,Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers,And said: They shall be mine.She heard the moaningCease, and knew that Artemis was there.The nurse was there, and Dora would be cryingSoftly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!”

And still another heard. But Aphrodite,

Listening while Daniel sat, could smile

And wait; could think and wait. It was the time

For punishing this man who in his dreams

Refused her. She could wait and let it work—

The punishment she planned.

For she had looked

Last night along the valley, and seen coming,

Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers,

And said: They shall be mine.

She heard the moaning

Cease, and knew that Artemis was there.

The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying

Softly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!”

So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength,Waited no longer.Where were those poor wanderers—That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew.She saw them even now at the abandonedChapel down the old road, trying doorsAnd windows, and forlornly turning inWhere nothing was but darkness; and in darkness,Nothing but cobwebs.Smiling a last smile,Vindictive, at the sitter, she uproseAnd scented the whole night, the outer nightOf fields and barns and houses, as she flewAnd flew, tinting earth with a false dawnAs in her brilliant singleness she flewAnd flew to be the first where Hermes came.

So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength,

Waited no longer.

Where were those poor wanderers—

That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew.

She saw them even now at the abandoned

Chapel down the old road, trying doors

And windows, and forlornly turning in

Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness,

Nothing but cobwebs.

Smiling a last smile,

Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose

And scented the whole night, the outer night

Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew

And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn

As in her brilliant singleness she flew

And flew to be the first where Hermes came.

For even now the tall nurse—goddess againIn the dooryard where they clustered—told her peers:“The time! It is the time! Go, two of you—Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?—And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for.I could do all alone, for I am skilful,I am the green deliveress. Yet go—Gabriel, with Hermes—while I sootheAnd ready her. The horses that he drives—You hear them now, drawing the tired one home.But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him.Say it is the nurse—say anything—But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs,Between you lest she die.”The feet of HermesGlistened as the staff in his right handTouched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightlyTouched him again. And so the pair departed.Before the goddess turned they were a rustleIn the far woods; and Artemis went inWhere Dora lay.“The doctor—he is sent for.Child! What are you staring at?” For DoraShuddered, and alternately her eyesOpened and closed in terror, as at brightnessImpossible, brought near. But then she smiled.“It was my own mistake—the way I am.You were so different. You shone in the doorLike candles, you were like a statue lady—Different from us. I didn’t know you.Now I do, though.”She permitted handsTo smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever,And as the pain returned; while ArtemisLooked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow,At the small face whereon the truth had fallen;Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes,Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?

For even now the tall nurse—goddess again

In the dooryard where they clustered—told her peers:

“The time! It is the time! Go, two of you—

Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?—

And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for.

I could do all alone, for I am skilful,

I am the green deliveress. Yet go—

Gabriel, with Hermes—while I soothe

And ready her. The horses that he drives—

You hear them now, drawing the tired one home.

But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him.

Say it is the nurse—say anything—

But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs,

Between you lest she die.”

The feet of Hermes

Glistened as the staff in his right hand

Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly

Touched him again. And so the pair departed.

Before the goddess turned they were a rustle

In the far woods; and Artemis went in

Where Dora lay.

“The doctor—he is sent for.

Child! What are you staring at?” For Dora

Shuddered, and alternately her eyes

Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness

Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled.

“It was my own mistake—the way I am.

You were so different. You shone in the door

Like candles, you were like a statue lady—

Different from us. I didn’t know you.

Now I do, though.”

She permitted hands

To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever,

And as the pain returned; while Artemis

Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow,

At the small face whereon the truth had fallen;

Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes,

Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?

But Aphrodite was there first—an ancientGypsy, rising out of the dim roadAnd shrilling between wheels:“Doctor, Doctor!Come to the dead church—the one they don’tSing songs in any more. A poverty fellowAnd his sick queen—not my people, but I pity,Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed.Or she does, the queen. In all the worldNo friend, and both afraid. They have walked milesFrom nowhere, and no house would take them in.She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor,And help her. Be the one man in the worldTo help her.”“Who are you?” His glasses peeredThrough the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.

But Aphrodite was there first—an ancient

Gypsy, rising out of the dim road

And shrilling between wheels:

“Doctor, Doctor!

Come to the dead church—the one they don’t

Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow

And his sick queen—not my people, but I pity,

Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed.

Or she does, the queen. In all the world

No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles

From nowhere, and no house would take them in.

She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,

The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor,

And help her. Be the one man in the world

To help her.”

“Who are you?” His glasses peered

Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.

“Romany.”“And what’s this? You mean the church—”

“Romany.”

“And what’s this? You mean the church—”

“The old one.”“Even mice won’t go near that.Mischief—you mean mischief. Out of the way,Granny!”But she seized the reins and said:“Good doctor! Be the one man in the world—”

“The old one.”

“Even mice won’t go near that.

Mischief—you mean mischief. Out of the way,

Granny!”

But she seized the reins and said:

“Good doctor! Be the one man in the world—”

And why it was he knew not, but he wentWhere she did, down the sod road toward that moldyBuilding where no hymnsong had been heardSince war days, and where beggars—did she lie?—Might be or not be.So when Hermes came,And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway—Soft as they listened, never the good soundOf hooves, of whirring felloes.Long they lookedAnd listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard,Signalling their presence; so that Artemis,Stooping at the window, saw them desolate,And knew herself defeated.“Aphrodite!”She only thought the word, but Dora staredAnd begged of her: “Has someone—has he come?The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?”“Be patient, dear.In time, in time. The doctor was not found.But there is time, and I myself have medicines—You trust me?”Dora nodded.“Then I’ll go, child,For certain things—for such help as I need.Be patient a few minutes. She is here.”For Bruce’s mother, torturing her handsAs if they were another’s on the rack,Stood by them, bent and weeping.All were thereWhen Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiledAnd innocently listened, fair as everIn the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy,And no more theater woman. Even Ares—All of them were there, with lame HephaestusFilling his low place among the pear trees,When the green goddess called.“Her breath is going.Enemy of all”—to Aphrodite—“I shall waste none on you. I only say,The girl inside is going. Which of youCan help me, and help her? The middle angel—Second of you three—immense of wing—Raphael—have you knowledge?”There was mournfulMusic in the answer.“I have mended,Green one, all the wounds made here on earth—Or there—by deed of angels. In the old daysThey fell—not such as we are—and their fall,As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,The daughters of frail man. If this is such—”

And why it was he knew not, but he went

Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy

Building where no hymnsong had been heard

Since war days, and where beggars—did she lie?—

Might be or not be.

So when Hermes came,

And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway—

Soft as they listened, never the good sound

Of hooves, of whirring felloes.

Long they looked

And listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard,

Signalling their presence; so that Artemis,

Stooping at the window, saw them desolate,

And knew herself defeated.

“Aphrodite!”

She only thought the word, but Dora stared

And begged of her: “Has someone—has he come?

The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?”

“Be patient, dear.

In time, in time. The doctor was not found.

But there is time, and I myself have medicines—

You trust me?”

Dora nodded.

“Then I’ll go, child,

For certain things—for such help as I need.

Be patient a few minutes. She is here.”

For Bruce’s mother, torturing her hands

As if they were another’s on the rack,

Stood by them, bent and weeping.

All were there

When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,

Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled

And innocently listened, fair as ever

In the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy,

And no more theater woman. Even Ares—

All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus

Filling his low place among the pear trees,

When the green goddess called.

“Her breath is going.

Enemy of all”—to Aphrodite—

“I shall waste none on you. I only say,

The girl inside is going. Which of you

Can help me, and help her? The middle angel—

Second of you three—immense of wing—

Raphael—have you knowledge?”

There was mournful

Music in the answer.

“I have mended,

Green one, all the wounds made here on earth—

Or there—by deed of angels. In the old days

They fell—not such as we are—and their fall,

As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,

The daughters of frail man. If this is such—”

“It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likenessOf a lean passing farmer. I have herbsAnd needles. You have strength, and a strange art.Between us—but come quickly!”And DariusSnored in his own house. And Daniel satLate by a brass lamp, reading.And the doctor,Bending to ask the name of the new mother,Heard “Mary.”By the half light of a lowFire she lay on straw and let her weak handWander.“But my husband—he is Joe.There was no work for him. So we went on.Thank you, Doctor.”“Quiet. No more talking.”

“It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness

Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs

And needles. You have strength, and a strange art.

Between us—but come quickly!”

And Darius

Snored in his own house. And Daniel sat

Late by a brass lamp, reading.

And the doctor,

Bending to ask the name of the new mother,

Heard “Mary.”

By the half light of a low

Fire she lay on straw and let her weak hand

Wander.

“But my husband—he is Joe.

There was no work for him. So we went on.

Thank you, Doctor.”

“Quiet. No more talking.”

And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road,Wondered why his son would never rest.

And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road,

Wondered why his son would never rest.

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