A VoiceI knew.
The Human VoiceYou knew that man was born to be destroyed,That as an atom perfect, whole, at ease,Drawn to some other atom, is broken, changedAnd rises o'er the crest of visible thingsTo something else—that man must pass as wellThrough equal transformation. And You knewThe unutterable things of man's life: From the firstYou saw his wracked Deucalion-soul that looksBackward on life that rises, where he roseOut of the stones. You saw him looking forwardOver the purple mists that hide the gulf.Ere the green cell rose, even in the green cellYou saw the sequences of thought—You sawThat one would say, "All's matter" and another,"All's mind," and man's mind which reflects the image,Could not envision it. That even worshipOf what you are would be confused by criesFrom India or Palestine. That loveWhich sees itself beginning in the seeds,Which fly and seek each other, maimsThe soul at the last in loss of child or friendFather or mother. And You knew that sex,Ranging from plants through beasts and up to usHad ties of filth—And out of them would riseDiverse philosophies to tear the world.You knew, when the green cell arose, that evenThe You which formed it moving on would bringRaces and breeds, madmen, tyrants, slaves,The idiot child, the murderer, the insane—All springing from the action of one law.You knew the enmity that lies betweenThe lives of micro-beings and our own. You knewHow man would rise to vision of himself:Immortal only in the race's life.And past the atom and the first glint of life,Saw him with soul enraptured, yet o'ershadowedAmid self-consciousness!
A VoiceI knew.But this your fault: You see me as apart,Over, removed, at enmity with You.You are in Me, and of Me, even at oneWith Me. But there's your soul—your soul may beThe germinal cell of vaster evolution.Why try to tell you? If I gave a cellVoice to inquire, and it should ask you this:"After me what, a stalk, a flower, lifeThat swims or crawls?" And if I gave to youWisdom to say: "You shall become a reedBy the water's edge"—how could the cell foreseeWhat the reed is, bending beneath the windWhen the lake ripples and the skies are blueAs larkspur? Therefore I, who moved in darknessBecoming light in suns and light in soulsAnd mind with thought—for what is thought but lightSprung from the clash of ether?—I am with you.And if beyond this stable state that standsFor your life here (as cells are whole and balancedTill the inner urge bring union, then a breakingAnd building up to higher life), there isNo memory of this world nor of your thought,Nor sense of life on this world lived and borne;Or whether you remember, know yourselfAs one who lived here, suffered here, aspired—What does it matter?—you cannot be lost,As I am lost not. Therefore be at peace.And from the laws whose orbits cross and runTo seeming tangles, find the law through whichYour soul shall be perfected till it draw,—As the green cell the sunlight draws and turnsIts chemical effulgence into life—My inner splendor. All the rest is mineIn infinite time. For if I should unrollThe parchment of the future, it were vain—You could not read it.
TERMINUS
Terminus shows the ways and says,"All things must have an end."Oh, bitter thought we hid awayWhen first you were my friend.We hid it in the darkest placeOur hearts had place to hide,And took the sweet as from a springWhose waters would abide.For neither life nor the wide worldHas greater store than this:—The thought that runs through hands and eyesAnd fills the silences.There is a void the agéd worldThrows over the spent heart;When Life has given all she has,And Terminus says depart.When we must sit with folded hands,And see with inward eyeA void rise like an arctic breathTo hollow the morrow's sky.To-morrow is, and trembling leaves,And 'wildered winds from ThraceLook for you where your face has bloomed,And where may bloom your face.Beyond the city, over the hill,Under the anguished moon,The winds and my dreams seek after youBy meadow, water and dune.All things must have an end, we know;But oh, the dreaded end;Whether in life, whether in death,To lose the cherished friend.To lose in life the cherished friend,While the myrtle tree is green;To live and have the cherished friendWith only the world between.With only the wide, wide world between,Where memory has mortmain.Life pours more wine in the heart of manThan the heart of man can contain.Oh, heart of man and heart of woman,Thirsting for blood of the vine,Life waits till the heart has lived too muchAnd then pours in new wine!
MADELINE
I almost heard your little heartBegin to beat, and since that hourYour life has grown apace and blossomed,Fed by the same miraculous power,That moved the rivulet of your life,And made your heart begin to beat.Now all day your steps are a-patter.Oh, what swift and musical feet!You sleep. I wait to see you wake,With wonder-eyes and hands that reach.I laugh to hear your thoughts that gatherToo fast on your budding lips for speech.Your sunny hair is cut as if'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock.How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunningThe flaring skirt of the little frock!You build and play and search and pry,And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys.Why do you never tire of playing,Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise?You will not sleep? You are tired of the house?You are just as naughty as you can be.Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden,And play with Marcia under the tree!
MARCIA
Madeline's hair is straight and yoursIs just as curly as tendril vines;And she is fair, but a deeper colorYour cheeks of olive incarnadines.A serious wisdom burns and glowsSteadily in your dark-eyed look.Already a wit and a little stoic—Perhaps you are going to write a book,Or paint a picture, or sing or actThe part of Katherine or Juliet.I believe you were born with the gift of knowingWhen to remember and when to forget.And when to stifle and kill a grief,And clutch your heart when it beats in vain.The heart that has most strength for feelingMust have the strength to conquer the pain.You understand? It seems that you do—Though you cannot utter a word to me.Marcia, Marcia, look at MadelineBuilding a doll-house under the tree!
THE ALTAR
My heart is an altar whereonMany sacrificial fires have been kindledIn praise of spring and Aphrodite.My heart is an altar of chalcedony,Crowned with a tablet of bronze,Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire,And scented with the aromatic bitternessOf dead incense.Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayerOver the ashes which lie scattered around the altar;For the April rain has wept over them,And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold.What though there are remnants hereOf faded coronals,And bits of silver stringTorn from forgotten harps?Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst.Let us take it and pour the sea from it,And while the savor of dead lips is washed away,Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth.Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring.Bring from the re-kindled woodlandFlames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper,There where the woodman burns the fallen tree,And scented smoke arisesOn azure wings between the branches,Budding with adolescent life.With these let us light the altar,That a scarlet flame may leanAgainst the silver sea.For thou art fire also,And air, and water, and the resurgent earth,For thou art woman, thou art love.Thou art April of the Arcadian moon,Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds,Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys.Thy face is the apple tree in bloom;Thine eyes the glimpses of green waterWhen the tree's blossoms shakeAs soft winds fan them.Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist—Thou art spring.The fire on the altar burns brightly,And the sea sparkles in the sun.Let us murmur a Doric prayerFor the gift of love,For the gift of life,Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee!
SOUL'S DESIRE
Her soul is like a wolf that standsWhere sunlight falls between the treesOf a sparse forest's leafless edge,When Spring's first magic moveth these.Her soul is like a little brook,Thin edged with ice against the leaves,Where the wolf drinks and is alone,And where the woodbine interweaves.A bank late covered by the snow,But lighted by the frozen North;Her soul is like a little plotThat one white blossom bringeth forth.Her soul is slim, like silver slips,And straight, like flags beside a stream.Her soul is like a shape that movesAnd changes in a wonder dream.Who would pursue her clasps a cloud,And taketh sorrow for his zeal.Memory shall sing him many songsWhile bound upon the torture wheel.Her soul is like a wolf that glidesBy moonlight o'er a phantom ridge;Her face is like a light that runsBeneath the shadow of a bridge.Her voice is like a woodland cryHeard in a summer's desolate hour.Her eyes are dim; her lips are faint,And tinctured like the cuckoo flower.Her little breasts are like the budsOf tulips in a place forlorn.Her soul is like a mandrake bloomStanding against the crimson moon.Her dream is like the fenny snake's,That warms him in the noonday's fire.She hath no thought, nor any hope,Save of herself and her desire.She is not life; she is not death;She is not fear, or joy or grief.Her soul is like a quiet seaBeneath a ruin-haunted reef.She is the shape the sailor sees,That slips the rock without a sound.She is the soul that comes and goesAnd leaves no mark, yet makes a wound.She is the soul that hunts and flies;She is a world-wide mist of care.She is the restlessness of life,Its rapture and despair.
BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE
It was a hermit on WhitsundayThat came to the Table Round."King Arthur, wit ye by what KnightMay the Holy Grail be found?""By never a Knight that liveth now;By none that feasteth here."King Arthur marvelled when he said,"He shall be got this year."Then uprose brave Sir LauncelotAnd there did mount his steed,And hastened to a pleasant townThat stood in knightly need.Where many people him acclaimed,He passed the Corbin pounte,And there he saw a fairer towerThan ever was his wont.And in that tower for many yearsA dolorous lady lay,Whom Queen Northgalis had bewitched,And also Queen le Fay.And Launcelot loosed her from those pains,And there a dragon slew.Then came King Pelles out and said,"Your name, brave Knight and true?""My name is Pelles, wit ye well,And King of the far country;And I, Sir Knight, am cousin nighTo Joseph of Armathie.""I am Sir Launcelot du Lake."And then they clung them fast;And yede into the castle hallTo take the king's repast.Anon there cometh in a doveBy the window's open fold,And in her mouth was a rich censer,That shone like Ophir gold.And therewithal was such savorAs bloweth over seaFrom a land of many colored flowersAnd trees of spicery.And therewithal was meat and drink,And a damsel passing fair,Betwixt her hands of tulip-white,A golden cup did bear."O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot,"What may this marvel mean?""That is," said Pelles, "richest thingThat any man hath seen.""O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot,"What may this sight avail?""Now wit ye well," said King Pelles,"That was the Holy Grail."Then by this sign King Pelles knewElaine his fair daughterShould lie with Launcelot that night,And Launcelot with her.And that this twain should get a childBefore the night should fail,Who would be named Sir Galahad,And find the Holy Grail.Then cometh one hight Dame BrisenWith Pelles to confer,"Now, wit ye well, Sir LauncelotLoveth but Guinevere.""But if ye keep him well in hand,The while I work my charms,The maid Elaine, ere spring of morn,Shall lie within his arms."Dame Brisen was the subtlest witchThat was that time in life;She was as if BeelzebubHad taken her to wife.Then did she cause one known of faceTo Launcelot to bring,As if it came from Guinevere,Her wonted signet ring."By Holy Rood, thou comest true,For well I know thy face.Where is my lady?" asked the Knight,"There in the Castle Case?""'Tis five leagues scarcely from this hall,"Up spoke that man of guile."I go this hour," said Launcelot,"Though it were fifty mile."Then sped Dame Brisen to the kingAnd whispered, "An we thrive,Elaine must reach the Castle CaseEre Launcelot arrive."Elaine stole forth with twenty knightsAnd a goodly company.Sir Launcelot rode fast behind,Queen Guinevere to see.Anon he reached the castle door.Oh! fond and well deceived.And there it seemed the queen's own trainSir Launcelot received."Where is the queen?" quoth Launcelot,"For I am sore bestead,""Have not such haste," said Dame Brisen,"The queen is now in bed.""Then lead me thither," saith he,"And cease this jape of thine.""Now sit thee down," said Dame Brisen,"And have a cup of wine.""For wit ye not that many eyesUpon you here have stared;Now have a cup of wine untilAll things may be prepared."Elaine lay in a fair chamber,'Twixt linen sweet and clene.Dame Brisen all the windows stopped,That no day might be seen.Dame Brisen fetched a cup of wineAnd Launcelot drank thereof."No more of flagons," saith he,"For I am mad for love."Dame Brisen took Sir LauncelotWhere lay the maid Elaine.Sir Launcelot entered the bed chamberThe queen's love for to gain.Sir Launcelot kissed the maid Elaine,And her cheeks and brows did burn;And then they lay in other's armsUntil the morn's underne.Anon Sir Launcelot aroseAnd toward the window groped,And then he saw the maid ElaineWhen he the window oped."Ah, traitoress," saith Launcelot,And then he gat his sword,"That I should live so long and nowBecome a knight abhorred.""False traitoress," saith Launcelot,And then he shook the steel.Elaine skipped naked from the bedAnd 'fore the knight did kneel."I am King Pelles own daughterAnd thou art Launcelot,The greatest knight of all the world.This hour we have begot.""Oh, traitoress Brisen," cried the knight,"Oh, charmed cup of wine;That I this treasonous thing should doFor treasures such as thine.""Have mercy," saith maid Elaine,"Thy child is in my womb."Thereat the morning's silvern lightFlooded the bridal room.That light it was a benison;It seemed a holy boon,As when behind a wrack of cloudShineth the summer moon.And in the eyes of maid ElaineLooked forth so sweet a faith,Sir Launcelot took his glittering sword,And thrust it in the sheath."So God me help, I spare thy life,But I am wretch and thrall,If any let my sword to makeDame Brisen's head to fall.""So have thy will of her," she said,"But do to me but good;For thou hast had my fairest flower,Which is my maidenhood.""And we have done the will of God,And the will of God is best."Sir Launcelot lifted the maid ElaineAnd hid her on his breast.Anon there cometh in a dove,By the window's open fold,And in her mouth was a rich censerThat shone like beaten gold.And therewithal was such savor,As bloweth over sea,From a land of many colored flowers,And trees of spicery.And therewithal was meat and drink,And a damsel passing fair,Betwixt her hands of silver whiteA golden cup did bear."O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot,"What may this marvel mean?""That is," she said, "the richest thingThat any man hath seen.""O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot,"What may this sight avail?""Now wit ye well," said maid Elaine,"This is the Holy Grail."And then a nimbus light hung o'erHer brow so fair and meek;And turned to orient pearls the tearsThat glistered down her cheek.And a sound of music passing sweetWent in and out again.Sir Launcelot made the sign of the cross,And knelt to maid Elaine."Name him whatever name thou wilt,But be his sword and mailThrice tempered 'gainst a wayward world,That lost the Holy Grail."Sir Launcelot sadly took his leaveAnd rode against the morn.And when the time was fully comeSir Galahad was born.Also he was from Jesu Christ,Our Lord, the eighth degree;Likewise the greatest knight this worldMay ever hope to see.
THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT
Sir Launcelot had fled to FranceFor the peace of Guinevere,And many a noble knight was slain,And Arthur lay on his bier.Sir Launcelot took ship from FranceAnd sailed across the sea.He rode seven days through fair EnglandTill he came to Almesbury.Then spake Sir Bors to Launcelot:The old time is at end;You have no more in England's realmIn east nor west a friend.You have no friend in all EnglandSith Mordred's war hath been,And Queen Guinevere became a nunTo heal her soul of sin.Sir Launcelot answered never a wordBut rode to the west countreeUntil through the forest he saw a lightThat shone from a nunnery.Sir Launcelot entered the cloister,And the queen fell down in a swoon.Oh blessed Jesu, saith the queen,For thy mother's love, a boon.Go hence, Sir Launcelot, saith the queen,And let me win God's grace.My heavy heart serves me no moreTo look upon thy face.Through you was wrought King Arthur's death,Through you great war and wrake.Leave me alone, let me bleed,Pass by for Jesu's sake.Then fare you well, saith Launcelot,Sweet Madam, fare you well.And sythen you have left the worldNo more in the world I dwell.Then up rose sad Sir LauncelotAnd rode by wold and mereUntil he came to a hermitageWhere bode Sir Bedivere.And there he put a habit onAnd there did pray and fast.And when Sir Bedivere told him allHis heart for sorrow brast.How that Sir Mordred, traitorous knightBetrayed his King and sire;And how King Arthur wounded, diedBroken in heart's desire.And so Sir Launcelot penance made,And worked at servile toil;And prayed the Bishop of CanterburyHis sins for to assoil.His shield went clattering on the wallTo a dolorous wail of wind;His casque was rust, his mantle dustWith spider webs entwined.His listless horses left aloneWent cropping where they would,To see the noblest knight of the worldUpon his sorrow brood.Anon a Vision came in his sleep,And thrice the Vision saith:Go thou to Almesbury for thy sin,Where lieth the queen in death.Sir Launcelot cometh to AlmesburyAnd knelt by the dead queen's bier;Oh none may know, moaned Launcelot,What sorrow lieth here.What love, what honor, what defeatWhat hope of the Holy Grail.The moon looked through the latticed glassOn the queen's face cold and pale.Sir Launcelot kissed the ceréd cloth,And none could stay his woe,Her hair lay back from the oval brow,And her nose was clear as snow.They wrapped her body in cloth of Raines,They put her in webs of lead.They coffined her in white marble,And sang a mass for the dead.Sir Launcelot and seven knightsBore torches around the bier.They scattered myrrh and frankincenseOn the corpse of Guinevere.They put her in earth by King ArthurTo the chant of a doleful tune.They heaped the earth on GuinevereAnd Launcelot fell in a swoon.Sir Launcelot went to the hermitageSome Grace of God to find;But never he ate, and never he drankAnd there he sickened and dwined.Sir Launcelot lay in a painful bed,And spake with a dreary steven;Sir Bishop, I pray you shrive my soulAnd make it clean for heaven.The Bishop houseled Sir Launcelot,The Bishop kept watch and ward.Bury me, saith Sir Launcelot,In the earth of Joyous Guard.Three candles burned the whole night throughTill the red dawn looked in the room.And the white, white soul of LauncelotStrove with a black, black doom.I see the old witch Dame Brisen,And Elaine so straight and tall—Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,The shadows dance on the wall.I see long hands of dead women,They clutch for my soul eftsoon;Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,'Tis the drifting light of the moon.I see three angels, saith he,Before a silver urn.Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,The candles do but burn.I see a cloth of red samiteO'er the holy vessels spread.Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,The great dawn groweth red.I see all the torches of the worldShine in the room so clear.Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,The white dawn draweth near.Sweet lady, I behold the faceOf thy dear son, our Lord,Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury,The sun shines on your sword.Sir Galahad outstretcheth handsAnd taketh me ere I fail—Sir Launcelot's body lay in deathAs his soul found the Holy Grail.They laid his body in the quireUpon a purple pall.He was the meekest, gentlest knightThat ever ate in hall.He was the kingliest, goodliest knightThat ever England roved,The truest lover of sinful manThat ever woman loved.I pray you all, fair gentlemen,Pray for his soul and mine.He lived to lose the heart he lovedAnd drink but bitter wine.He wrought a woe he knew not of,He failed his fondest quest,Now sing a psalter, read a prayerMay all souls find their rest.
Amen.
IN MICHIGAN
You wrote:"Come over to SaugatuckAnd be with me on the warm sand,And under cool beeches and aromatic cedars."And just then no one could do a thing in the cityFor the lure of far places, and something that tuggedAt one's heart because of a June sky,And stretches of blue water,And a warm wind blowing from the south.What could I do but take a boatAnd go to meet you?And when to-day is not enough,But you must live to-morrow also;And when the present stands in the wayOf something to come,And there is but one you would see,All the interval of waiting is a wall.And so it was I walked the landward deckWith flapping coat and hat pulled down;And I sat on the leeward deck and lookedAt the streaming smoke of the funnels,And the far waste of rhythmical water,And at the gulls flying by our side.There was music on board and dancing,But I could not take part.For above all there was the bluest sky,And around us the urge of magical distances.And just because you were in the violins,And in everything, and were wholly the worldOf sense and sight,It was too much. One could not live itAnd make it all his own—It was too much.And I wondered where the rest could be going,Or what they thought of water and skyWithout knowing you.But at four o'clock there was a rim,A circled edge of rainbow colorWhich suspired, widened and narrowed under your gaze:It was the phantasy of straining eyes,Or land—and it was land.It was distant trees.And then it was dunes, bluffs of yellow sand.We began to wonder how far it was—Five miles, or ten miles—Surely only five miles!—But at last whatever it was we swung to the end.We rounded the lighthouse pier,Almost before we knew.We slowed our speed in a dizzy river of black,We drifted softly to dock.I took the ferry,I crossed the river,I ran almost through the little batchOf fishermen's shacks.I climbed the winding road of the hill,And dove in a shadowy quietOf paths of moss and dancing leaves,And straight stretched limbs of giant pinesOn patches of sky.I ran to the top of the bluffWhere the lodge-house stood.And there the sunlit lake burst on meAnd wine-like air.And below me was the beachWhere the serried lines of hurrying waterCame up like rank on rank of menAnd fell with a shout on the rocks!I plunged, I stumbled, I ranDown the hill,For I thought I saw you,And it was you, you were there!And I shall never forget your cry,Nor how you raised your arms and cried,And laughed when you saw me.And there we were with the lakeAnd the sun with his ruddy search-light blazeStretching back to lost Chicago.The sun, the lake, the beach, and ourselvesWere all that was left of Time,All else was lost.You were making a camp.You had bent from the bank a cedar boughAnd tied it down.And over it flung a quilt of many colors,And under it spread on the voluptuous siltGray blankets and canvas pillows.I saw it all in a glance.And there in dread of eyes we stoodScanning the bluff and the beach,Lest in the briefest touch of lipsWe might be seen.For there were eyes, or we thoughtThere were eyes, on the porch of the lodge,And eyes along the forest's rim on the hill,And eyes on the shore.But a minute past there was no sun,Only a star that shone like a match which lightsTo a blue intenseness amid the glow of a hearth.And we sat on the sand as dusk came downIn a communion of silence and low words.Till you said at last: "We'll sup at the lodge,Then say good night to me and leaveAs if to stay overnight in the village.But instead make a long detour through the woodAnd come to the shore through that ravine,Be here at the tent at midnight."And so I did.I stole through echoless ways,Where no twigs broke and where I heardMy heart beat like a watch under a pillow.And the whippoorwills were singing.And the sound of the surf below meWas the sound of silver-poplar leavesIn a wind that makes no pause....I hurried down the steep ravine,And a bat flew up at my feet from the brushAnd crossed the moon.To my left was the lighthouse,And black and deep purples far away,And all was still.Till I stood breathless by the tentAnd heard your whispered welcome,And felt your kiss.Lovers lay at mid-nightOn roofs of Memphis and AthensAnd looked at tropical starsAs large as golden beetles.Nothing is new, save this,And this is always new.And there in your tentWith the balm of the mid-night breezeSweeping over us,We looked at one great starThrough a flap of your many-colored tent,And the eternal quality of raptureAnd mystery and vision flowed through us.Next day we went to Grand Haven,For my desire was your desire,Whatever wish one had the other had.And up the Grand River we rowed,With rushes and lily pads about us,And the sand hills back of us,Till we came to a quiet land,A lotus place of farms and meadows.And we tied our boat to Schmitty's dock,Where we had a dinner of fish.And where, after resting, to follow your willWe drifted back to Spring Lake—And under a larger moon,Now almost full,Walked three miles to The Beeches,By a winding country road,Where we had supper.And afterwards a long sleep,Waking to the song of robins.And that day I said:There are wild places, blue water, pine forests,There are apple orchards, and wonderful roadsAround Elk Lake—shall we go?And we went, for your desire was mine.And there we climbed hills,And ate apples along the shaded ways,And rolled great boulders down the steepsTo watch them splash in the water.And we stood and wondered what was beyondThe farther shore two miles away.And we came to a place on the shoreWhere four great pine trees stood,And underneath them wild flowers to the edgeOf sand so soft for naked feet.And here, for not a soul was near,We stripped and swam far out, laughing, rejoicing,Rolling and diving in those great depthsOf bracing water under a glittering sun.There were farm houses enoughFor food and shelter.But something urged us on.One knows the end and dreads the endYet seeks the end.And you asked, "Is there a town near?Let's see a town."So we walked to Traverse CityThrough cut-over land and blastedTrunks and stumps of pine,And by the side of desolate hills.But when we got to Traverse CityYou were not content, nor was I.Something urged us on.Then you thought of NorthportAnd of its Norse and German fishermen,And its quaint piers where they smoke fish.So we drove for thirty milesIn a speeding automobileOver hills, around sudden curves, into warm coverts,Or hollows, sometimes at the edge of the Bay,Again on the hill,From where we could see Old MissionAmid blues and blacks, across a score of miles of the Bay,Waving like watered silk under the moon!And by meadows of clover newly cut,And by peach orchards and vineyards.But when we came to the little townAlready asleep, though it was but eight o'clock,And only a few drowsy lampsWith misty eyelids shone from a store or two,I said, "Do you see those twinkling lights?That's Northport Point, that's the Cedar Cabin—Let's go to the Cedar Cabin."And so we crossed the BayAmid great waves in a plunging launch,And a roaring breeze and a great moon,For now the moon was full.So here was the Cedar CabinOn a strip of land as wide as a house and lawn,And on one side Lake Michigan,And on one side the Bay.There were distances of color all around,And stars and darknesses of land and trees,And at the point the lighthouse.And over us the moon,And over the balcony of our roomAll of these, where we lay till I slept,Listening to the water of the lake,And the water of the Bay.And we saw the moon sink like a red bomb,And we saw the stars changeAs the sky wheeled....Now this was the end of the earth,For this strip of landRan out to a point no larger than one of the stumpsWe saw on the desolate hills.And moreover it seemed to dive under,Or waste away in a sudden depth of water.And around it was a swirl,To the north the bounding waves of the Lake,And to the south the Bay which seemed the Lake.But could we speak of it, even thoughI saw your eyes when you thought of it?A sigh of wind blew through the rustic templeWhen we saw this symbol together,And neither spoke.But that night, somewhere in the beginning of drowsiness,You said: "There is no further place to go,We must retrace."And I awoke in a torrent of light in the room,Hearing voices and steps on the walk:I looked for you,But you had arisen.Then I dressed and searched for you,But you were gone.Then I stood for long minutesLooking at a sail far out at seaAnd departed too.
THE STAR
I am a certain godWho slipped down from a remote heightTo a place of pools and stars.And I sat invisibleAmid a clump of treesTo watch the madmen.There were cries and groans about me,And shouts of laughter and curses.Figures passed by with self-absorbed contempt,Wrinkling in bitter smiles about their lips.Others hurried on with set eyesPursuing something.Then I said this is the place for mad Frederick—Mad Frederick will be here.But everywhere I could seeFigures sitting or standingBy little pools.Some seemed grown into the soilAnd were helpless.And of these some were asleep.Others laughed the laughterThat comes from dying menTrying to face Death.And others said "I should be content,"And others said "I will fly."Whereupon sepulchral voices muttered,As of creatures sitting or hanging head downFrom limbs of the trees,"We will not let you."And others looked in their poolsAnd clasped hands and said "Gone, all gone."By other pools there were dead bodies:Some of youth, some of age.They had given up the fight,They had drunk poisoned water,They had searchedUntil they fell—All had gone mad!Then I, a certain god,Curious to knowWhat it is in pools and starsThat drives men and womenOver the earth in this questWaited for mad Frederick.And then I heard his step.I knew that long agoHe sat by one of these poolsEnraptured of a star's image.And that hands, for his own good,As they said,Dumped clay into the poolAnd blotted his star.And I knew that after thatHe had said, "They will never spy againUpon my ecstasy.They will never see me watching one star.I will fly by rivers,And by little brooks,And by the edge of lakes,And by little bends of water,Where no wind blows,And glance at stars as I pass.They will never spy againUpon my ecstasy."And I knew that mad FrederickIn this flightThrough years of restless and madnessWas caught by the image of a starIn a mere beyond a meadowDown from a hill, under a forest,And had said,"No one sees;Here I can find life,Through vision of eternal things."But they had followed him.They stood on the brow of the hill,And when they saw him gazing in the waterThey rolled a great stone down the hill,And shattered the star's image.Then mad Frederick fled with laughter.It echoed through the wood.And he said, "I will look for moons,I will punish them who disturb me,By worshiping moons."But when he sought moonsThey left him alone,And he did not want the moons.And he was alone, and sick from the moons,And covered as with a white blankness,Which was the worst madness of all.And I, a certain god,Waiting for mad FrederickTo enter this place of pools and stars,Saw him at last.With a sigh he looked about upon his fellowsSitting or standing by their pools.And some of the pools were covered with scum,And some were glazed as of filth,And some were grown with weeds,And some were congealed as of the north wind,And a few were yet pure,And held the star's image.And by these some sat and were glad,Others had lost the vision.The star was there, but its meaning vanished.And mad Frederick, going here and there,With no purpose,Only curious and interestedAs I was, a certain god,Came by a certain poolAnd saw a star.He shivered,He clasped his hands,He sank to his knees,He touched his lips to the water.Then voices from the limbs of the trees muttered:"There he is again.""He must be driven away.""The pool is not his.""He does not belong here."So as when bats fly in a caveThey swooped from their hidings in the treesAnd dashed themselves in the pool.Then I saw what these flying things were—But no matter.They were illusions, evil and enviousAnd dull,But with power to destroy.And mad Frederick turned away from the poolAnd covered his eyes with his arms.Then a certain god,Of less power than mine,Came and sat beside me and said:"Why do you allow this to be?They are all seeking,Why do you not let them find their heart's delight?Why do you allow this to be?"But I did not answer.The lesser god did not knowThat I have no power,That only the God has the power.And that this must beIn spite of all lesser gods.And I saw mad FrederickArise and ascend to the top of a high hill,And I saw him find the starWhose image he had seen in the pool.Then he knelt and prayed:"Give me to understand, O Star,Your inner self, your eternal spirit,That I may have you and not images of you,So that I may know what has driven me through the world,And may cure my soul.For I know you are Eternal Love,And I can never escape you.And if I cannot escape you,Then I must serve you.And if I must serve you,It must be to good and not ill—You have brought me from the forest of poolsAnd the images of stars,Here to the hill's top.Where now do I go?And what shall I do?"
THE END
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Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation has been corrected without note.
Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.
It is not always possible to determine if a new stanza begins at the top of a printed page, but every effort has been made by the transcriber to retain stanza breaks where appropriate.