EPITAPH FOR US

God of fire,God of the flame of our love,Beyond whose might no God is,And none in the realm of birth,Agni! Adored one,May we never suffer in thy friendship!Thou, who art re-born each day,And whose symbol is the sacred drillWherewith fire is made for the temple,Morning by morning,Freshly create our love as the sun awakes,Preserve our love, O Agni!The crocuses, the dandelions,The golden forsythiaPerished in May.But roses burn on the altar of earth,Bridal blossoms, whitest of fire,Dance in the winds of June.Agni, remember us,Remember our love!We have prayed to you, powerful one—Thou whose name is firstIn the first of the sacred hymns;Thou to whom sacrifices passTo the Gods, thou messenger of the Gods,Thou who art born a little lower than the most high IndraHast heard our prayer—Hear still our prayer:Abide with us, O Agni, and befriend;Make our hearts as temples,And our desire as the drill,Wherewith fire is createdFor the sacred sacrifice of love,And for a light to our spirits—Turn not away from our prayers,O Agni!Here before the fire of the Sun of JuneKneelingHand in hand,Our eyes closed before the splendor of your spiritHear our prayer, O Agni:May we never suffer in thy friendship.

God of fire,God of the flame of our love,Beyond whose might no God is,And none in the realm of birth,Agni! Adored one,May we never suffer in thy friendship!

God of fire,

God of the flame of our love,

Beyond whose might no God is,

And none in the realm of birth,

Agni! Adored one,

May we never suffer in thy friendship!

Thou, who art re-born each day,And whose symbol is the sacred drillWherewith fire is made for the temple,Morning by morning,Freshly create our love as the sun awakes,Preserve our love, O Agni!

Thou, who art re-born each day,

And whose symbol is the sacred drill

Wherewith fire is made for the temple,

Morning by morning,

Freshly create our love as the sun awakes,

Preserve our love, O Agni!

The crocuses, the dandelions,The golden forsythiaPerished in May.But roses burn on the altar of earth,Bridal blossoms, whitest of fire,Dance in the winds of June.Agni, remember us,Remember our love!

The crocuses, the dandelions,

The golden forsythia

Perished in May.

But roses burn on the altar of earth,

Bridal blossoms, whitest of fire,

Dance in the winds of June.

Agni, remember us,

Remember our love!

We have prayed to you, powerful one—Thou whose name is firstIn the first of the sacred hymns;Thou to whom sacrifices passTo the Gods, thou messenger of the Gods,Thou who art born a little lower than the most high IndraHast heard our prayer—Hear still our prayer:Abide with us, O Agni, and befriend;Make our hearts as temples,And our desire as the drill,Wherewith fire is createdFor the sacred sacrifice of love,And for a light to our spirits—Turn not away from our prayers,O Agni!

We have prayed to you, powerful one—

Thou whose name is first

In the first of the sacred hymns;

Thou to whom sacrifices pass

To the Gods, thou messenger of the Gods,

Thou who art born a little lower than the most high Indra

Hast heard our prayer—

Hear still our prayer:

Abide with us, O Agni, and befriend;

Make our hearts as temples,

And our desire as the drill,

Wherewith fire is created

For the sacred sacrifice of love,

And for a light to our spirits—

Turn not away from our prayers,

O Agni!

Here before the fire of the Sun of JuneKneelingHand in hand,Our eyes closed before the splendor of your spiritHear our prayer, O Agni:May we never suffer in thy friendship.

Here before the fire of the Sun of June

Kneeling

Hand in hand,

Our eyes closed before the splendor of your spirit

Hear our prayer, O Agni:

May we never suffer in thy friendship.

One with the turf, one with the treeAs we are now, you soon shall be,As you are now, so once were we.The hundred years we looked uponWere Goethe and Napoleon.Now twice a hundred years are gone,And you gaze back and contemplate,Lloyd George and Wilson, William's hate,And Nicholas of the bloody fate;Us, too, who won the German war,Who knew less what the strife was forThan you, now that the conquerorLies with the conquered. You will say:"Here sleep the brave, the grave, the gay,The wise, the blind, who lost the way."But for us English, for us French,Americans who held the trench,You will not grieve, though the rains drenchThe hills and valleys, being these.Who pities stocks, or pities trees?Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas?We are with nature, we have grownAt one with water, earth, and stone—Man only is separate and alone,Earth sundered, left to dream and feelIllusion still in pain made real,The hope a mist, but fire the wheel.But what was love, and what was lust,Memory, passion, pain or trust,Returned to clay and blown in dust,Is nature without memory—Yet as you are, so once were we,As we are now, you soon shall be,Blind fellows of the indifferent starsHealed of your bruises, of your scarsIn love and living, in the wars.Come to us where the secret liesUnder the riddle of the skies,Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes.Sink into nature and becomeThe mystery that strikes you dumb,Be clay and end your martyrdom.Rise up as thought, the secret know.As passionless as stars bestowYour glances on the world below,As a man looks at hand or knee.What is the turf of you, what the tree?Earth is a phantom—let it be.

One with the turf, one with the treeAs we are now, you soon shall be,As you are now, so once were we.

One with the turf, one with the tree

As we are now, you soon shall be,

As you are now, so once were we.

The hundred years we looked uponWere Goethe and Napoleon.Now twice a hundred years are gone,

The hundred years we looked upon

Were Goethe and Napoleon.

Now twice a hundred years are gone,

And you gaze back and contemplate,Lloyd George and Wilson, William's hate,And Nicholas of the bloody fate;

And you gaze back and contemplate,

Lloyd George and Wilson, William's hate,

And Nicholas of the bloody fate;

Us, too, who won the German war,Who knew less what the strife was forThan you, now that the conqueror

Us, too, who won the German war,

Who knew less what the strife was for

Than you, now that the conqueror

Lies with the conquered. You will say:"Here sleep the brave, the grave, the gay,The wise, the blind, who lost the way."

Lies with the conquered. You will say:

"Here sleep the brave, the grave, the gay,

The wise, the blind, who lost the way."

But for us English, for us French,Americans who held the trench,You will not grieve, though the rains drench

But for us English, for us French,

Americans who held the trench,

You will not grieve, though the rains drench

The hills and valleys, being these.Who pities stocks, or pities trees?Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas?

The hills and valleys, being these.

Who pities stocks, or pities trees?

Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas?

We are with nature, we have grownAt one with water, earth, and stone—Man only is separate and alone,

We are with nature, we have grown

At one with water, earth, and stone—

Man only is separate and alone,

Earth sundered, left to dream and feelIllusion still in pain made real,The hope a mist, but fire the wheel.

Earth sundered, left to dream and feel

Illusion still in pain made real,

The hope a mist, but fire the wheel.

But what was love, and what was lust,Memory, passion, pain or trust,Returned to clay and blown in dust,

But what was love, and what was lust,

Memory, passion, pain or trust,

Returned to clay and blown in dust,

Is nature without memory—Yet as you are, so once were we,As we are now, you soon shall be,

Is nature without memory—

Yet as you are, so once were we,

As we are now, you soon shall be,

Blind fellows of the indifferent starsHealed of your bruises, of your scarsIn love and living, in the wars.

Blind fellows of the indifferent stars

Healed of your bruises, of your scars

In love and living, in the wars.

Come to us where the secret liesUnder the riddle of the skies,Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes.

Come to us where the secret lies

Under the riddle of the skies,

Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes.

Sink into nature and becomeThe mystery that strikes you dumb,Be clay and end your martyrdom.

Sink into nature and become

The mystery that strikes you dumb,

Be clay and end your martyrdom.

Rise up as thought, the secret know.As passionless as stars bestowYour glances on the world below,

Rise up as thought, the secret know.

As passionless as stars bestow

Your glances on the world below,

As a man looks at hand or knee.What is the turf of you, what the tree?Earth is a phantom—let it be.

As a man looks at hand or knee.

What is the turf of you, what the tree?

Earth is a phantom—let it be.

I would give you all my heart, and I have givenAll my heart to you to have and keepWith your heart, where my heart has found its heavenIn a light immortal, and a peace like sleep.Here is my heart, for you to have and treasure,Your woman's heart will treasure it,For a love that only love may find a measure,And only love like yours can measure it.In absence and in separation prayingBefore your love, my heart receive,My heart which kneels to you, so gently layingHands of deep prayer, too reverent to grieveFor lives divided, yet compassionate,As my poor heart is pitiful for yours.These hearts of ours, that know so deep a fate,Even as a heart that silently endures,Lie on an altar of consuming fire,Our hearts together, taking life thereof.Ashes must come of two hearts which aspireTo God, who has given love.

I would give you all my heart, and I have given

All my heart to you to have and keep

With your heart, where my heart has found its heaven

In a light immortal, and a peace like sleep.

Here is my heart, for you to have and treasure,

Your woman's heart will treasure it,

For a love that only love may find a measure,

And only love like yours can measure it.

In absence and in separation prayingBefore your love, my heart receive,My heart which kneels to you, so gently layingHands of deep prayer, too reverent to grieveFor lives divided, yet compassionate,As my poor heart is pitiful for yours.These hearts of ours, that know so deep a fate,Even as a heart that silently endures,Lie on an altar of consuming fire,Our hearts together, taking life thereof.Ashes must come of two hearts which aspireTo God, who has given love.

In absence and in separation praying

Before your love, my heart receive,

My heart which kneels to you, so gently laying

Hands of deep prayer, too reverent to grieve

For lives divided, yet compassionate,

As my poor heart is pitiful for yours.

These hearts of ours, that know so deep a fate,

Even as a heart that silently endures,

Lie on an altar of consuming fire,

Our hearts together, taking life thereof.

Ashes must come of two hearts which aspire

To God, who has given love.

Flower in the garden,Wholly itself and free,Yearning and joyous,Breathing its charmTo the passer-byOn the sighing air—Beloved flower!Flower desired for something beyondItself as a flower;Giving the promise of ecstasyBeyond its own being,Its place in the garden—A shadowed flameOf an absolute!Flower that I have takenFrom its place in the gardenTo realize the ultimate Beauty;Flower in the vase at my side,Breathing a sweeter lifeInto the air I breathe,A spirit that makes me faint,Sorrowful with a strange languor.Flower no less beautiful,But revealing an essenceThat changes my flower.O, my flower that is with me but lost,Lost in the disclosure of other hues,Other scents!Flower of passion, flower of love,Flower that I have won and lost,Mystical flower!

Flower in the garden,

Wholly itself and free,

Yearning and joyous,

Breathing its charm

To the passer-by

On the sighing air—

Beloved flower!

Flower desired for something beyond

Itself as a flower;

Giving the promise of ecstasy

Beyond its own being,

Its place in the garden—

A shadowed flame

Of an absolute!

Flower that I have takenFrom its place in the gardenTo realize the ultimate Beauty;Flower in the vase at my side,Breathing a sweeter lifeInto the air I breathe,A spirit that makes me faint,Sorrowful with a strange languor.Flower no less beautiful,But revealing an essenceThat changes my flower.O, my flower that is with me but lost,Lost in the disclosure of other hues,Other scents!

Flower that I have taken

From its place in the garden

To realize the ultimate Beauty;

Flower in the vase at my side,

Breathing a sweeter life

Into the air I breathe,

A spirit that makes me faint,

Sorrowful with a strange languor.

Flower no less beautiful,

But revealing an essence

That changes my flower.

O, my flower that is with me but lost,

Lost in the disclosure of other hues,

Other scents!

Flower of passion, flower of love,Flower that I have won and lost,Mystical flower!

Flower of passion, flower of love,

Flower that I have won and lost,

Mystical flower!

Deities!Inexorable revealers,Give me strength to endureThe gifts of the Muses,Daughters of Memory.When the sky is blue as Minerva's eyesLet me stand unshaken;When the sea sings to the rising sunLet me be unafraid;When the meadow lark falls like a meteorThrough the light of afternoon,An unloosened fountain of rapture,Keep my heart from spillingIts vital power;When at the dawnThe dim souls of crocuses hear the callsOf waking birds,Give me to live but master the loveliness.Keep my eyes unharmed from splendorsUnveiled by you,And my ears at peaceFilled no less with the musicOf Passion and Pain, growth and change.*****But O ye sacred and terrible powers,Reckless of my mortality,Strengthen me to behold a face,To know the spirit of a beloved oneYet to endure, yet to dare!

Deities!

Inexorable revealers,

Give me strength to endure

The gifts of the Muses,

Daughters of Memory.

When the sky is blue as Minerva's eyes

Let me stand unshaken;

When the sea sings to the rising sun

Let me be unafraid;

When the meadow lark falls like a meteor

Through the light of afternoon,

An unloosened fountain of rapture,

Keep my heart from spilling

Its vital power;

When at the dawn

The dim souls of crocuses hear the calls

Of waking birds,

Give me to live but master the loveliness.

Keep my eyes unharmed from splendors

Unveiled by you,

And my ears at peace

Filled no less with the music

Of Passion and Pain, growth and change.

*****

But O ye sacred and terrible powers,Reckless of my mortality,Strengthen me to behold a face,To know the spirit of a beloved oneYet to endure, yet to dare!

But O ye sacred and terrible powers,

Reckless of my mortality,

Strengthen me to behold a face,

To know the spirit of a beloved one

Yet to endure, yet to dare!

Arielle! Arielle!Gracious and fanciful,Laughing and joyous!Arielle girlish, queenly, majestical;Deep eyed for memory,Pensive for dreams.Arielle crowned with the light of thought,Mystical, reverent,Musing on the splendor of life,And the blossom of lovePressed into her hands—Arielle!Music awakes in the hall!Shadowy pools and glistening willows,And elfin shapes amid silver shadowsAre made into sound!Arielle listens with hidden eyes,Sitting amid her treasures,A presence like a lamp of alabaster,A yearning gardeniaThat broods in a shaft of light...Arielle clapping hands and runningAbout her rooms,Arranging cloths of gold and jars of crystal,And vases of ruby cloisonne.Arielle matching blues and reds:Pomegranates, apples in bowls of jade.Arielle reposing, lost in Plato,In the contemplation of Agni.Arielle, the cup to her lips,A laughing Thalia!Arielle!The breath of morning moves through the casement window—Arielle taking the cool of it on her brow,And the ecstasy of the robin's song into her heart.Arielle in prayer at dawnLaying hands upon secret powers:Lead me in the path of love to my love.Arielle merging the past and the present,As light increases light—Arielle adored—Arielle!

Arielle! Arielle!

Gracious and fanciful,

Laughing and joyous!

Arielle girlish, queenly, majestical;

Deep eyed for memory,

Pensive for dreams.

Arielle crowned with the light of thought,

Mystical, reverent,

Musing on the splendor of life,

And the blossom of love

Pressed into her hands—

Arielle!

Music awakes in the hall!Shadowy pools and glistening willows,And elfin shapes amid silver shadowsAre made into sound!Arielle listens with hidden eyes,Sitting amid her treasures,A presence like a lamp of alabaster,A yearning gardeniaThat broods in a shaft of light...Arielle clapping hands and runningAbout her rooms,Arranging cloths of gold and jars of crystal,And vases of ruby cloisonne.Arielle matching blues and reds:Pomegranates, apples in bowls of jade.Arielle reposing, lost in Plato,In the contemplation of Agni.Arielle, the cup to her lips,A laughing Thalia!Arielle!

Music awakes in the hall!

Shadowy pools and glistening willows,

And elfin shapes amid silver shadows

Are made into sound!

Arielle listens with hidden eyes,

Sitting amid her treasures,

A presence like a lamp of alabaster,

A yearning gardenia

That broods in a shaft of light...

Arielle clapping hands and running

About her rooms,

Arranging cloths of gold and jars of crystal,

And vases of ruby cloisonne.

Arielle matching blues and reds:

Pomegranates, apples in bowls of jade.

Arielle reposing, lost in Plato,

In the contemplation of Agni.

Arielle, the cup to her lips,

A laughing Thalia!

Arielle!

The breath of morning moves through the casement window—Arielle taking the cool of it on her brow,And the ecstasy of the robin's song into her heart.Arielle in prayer at dawnLaying hands upon secret powers:Lead me in the path of love to my love.Arielle merging the past and the present,As light increases light—Arielle adored—Arielle!

The breath of morning moves through the casement window—

Arielle taking the cool of it on her brow,

And the ecstasy of the robin's song into her heart.

Arielle in prayer at dawn

Laying hands upon secret powers:

Lead me in the path of love to my love.

Arielle merging the past and the present,

As light increases light—

Arielle adored—

Arielle!

Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrowThese I would hear no more:The cry of a new-born child at midnight;The sound of a closing door,That hushes the echo of departing feetWhen the loneliness of the roomIs haunted with the silenceOf a dead god's tomb;The songs of robins at the white dawn,Since I may never seeThe eyes they waked in the AprilNow gone from me;Music into whose essence enteredThe soul of an hour:—A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,The scent of a flower.

Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrowThese I would hear no more:The cry of a new-born child at midnight;The sound of a closing door,

Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrow

These I would hear no more:

The cry of a new-born child at midnight;

The sound of a closing door,

That hushes the echo of departing feetWhen the loneliness of the roomIs haunted with the silenceOf a dead god's tomb;

That hushes the echo of departing feet

When the loneliness of the room

Is haunted with the silence

Of a dead god's tomb;

The songs of robins at the white dawn,Since I may never seeThe eyes they waked in the AprilNow gone from me;

The songs of robins at the white dawn,

Since I may never see

The eyes they waked in the April

Now gone from me;

Music into whose essence enteredThe soul of an hour:—A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,The scent of a flower.

Music into whose essence entered

The soul of an hour:—

A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,

The scent of a flower.

Brothers and sisters, I'm mournin' for religion,But I can't get religion, it's my woman interferin'.I sing and I pray, and I'm real perseverin',But I can't get religion,That's all I have to say.I know there is a fountain, a Jesus, a comforter,A heaven, a Jerusalem, a day of Pentecost,Salvation for the wishin', blood for sin's remission,A covenant, a promise for souls that are lost.But I can't get religion, the salvation feelin',The vision of the Lamb, forgiveness and healin'.I have a sort of numbnessWhen I see the mourners kneelin'.I have a kind of dumbnessWhen the preacher is appealin'.I have a kind of wariness, even contrariness,Even while I'm fearin'The bottomless pit and the shut gates of heaven.It's my woman interferin'—For you see when they say:Come to the mercy seat, come, come,The spirit and the brideSay come, come,I think of my woman who bore so many children;I think of her a cookin' for harvesters in summer;I think of her a lyin' there, a dyin' there, the neighborsWho came in to fan her and how she never murmured;And then I seem to grow number and number,And something in me says:Why didn't Jesus help her for to die,Why did Jesus always pass her by,Let her break her health down as I was growing poorer,Let her lie and suffer with no medicine to cure her,I wouldn't treat a stray dog as Jesus acted to her.If these are devil words, I'm a child of the devil.And this is why I'm dumbAs the spirit and the bride say come!*****I am old and crippled—sixty in December.And I wonder if it's God that stretches out and hands usTroubles we remember?I'm alone besides, I need the Comforter,All the children's grown up, livin' out in Kansas.My old friend Billy died of lung fever....But the worst of it is I'm really a believer,Expect to go to hell if I don't get religion.And I need this religion to stop this awful grievin'About my woman lyin' there in the cemetery,And you can't stop that grievin' simply by believin'.So I mourn for religion,I mourn for religion,My old heart breaks for religion!

Brothers and sisters, I'm mournin' for religion,

But I can't get religion, it's my woman interferin'.

I sing and I pray, and I'm real perseverin',

But I can't get religion,

That's all I have to say.

I know there is a fountain, a Jesus, a comforter,

A heaven, a Jerusalem, a day of Pentecost,

Salvation for the wishin', blood for sin's remission,

A covenant, a promise for souls that are lost.

But I can't get religion, the salvation feelin',

The vision of the Lamb, forgiveness and healin'.

I have a sort of numbness

When I see the mourners kneelin'.

I have a kind of dumbness

When the preacher is appealin'.

I have a kind of wariness, even contrariness,

Even while I'm fearin'

The bottomless pit and the shut gates of heaven.

It's my woman interferin'—

For you see when they say:Come to the mercy seat, come, come,The spirit and the brideSay come, come,I think of my woman who bore so many children;I think of her a cookin' for harvesters in summer;I think of her a lyin' there, a dyin' there, the neighborsWho came in to fan her and how she never murmured;And then I seem to grow number and number,And something in me says:Why didn't Jesus help her for to die,Why did Jesus always pass her by,Let her break her health down as I was growing poorer,Let her lie and suffer with no medicine to cure her,I wouldn't treat a stray dog as Jesus acted to her.If these are devil words, I'm a child of the devil.And this is why I'm dumbAs the spirit and the bride say come!

For you see when they say:

Come to the mercy seat, come, come,

The spirit and the bride

Say come, come,

I think of my woman who bore so many children;

I think of her a cookin' for harvesters in summer;

I think of her a lyin' there, a dyin' there, the neighbors

Who came in to fan her and how she never murmured;

And then I seem to grow number and number,

And something in me says:

Why didn't Jesus help her for to die,

Why did Jesus always pass her by,

Let her break her health down as I was growing poorer,

Let her lie and suffer with no medicine to cure her,

I wouldn't treat a stray dog as Jesus acted to her.

If these are devil words, I'm a child of the devil.

And this is why I'm dumb

As the spirit and the bride say come!

*****

I am old and crippled—sixty in December.And I wonder if it's God that stretches out and hands usTroubles we remember?I'm alone besides, I need the Comforter,All the children's grown up, livin' out in Kansas.My old friend Billy died of lung fever....But the worst of it is I'm really a believer,Expect to go to hell if I don't get religion.And I need this religion to stop this awful grievin'About my woman lyin' there in the cemetery,And you can't stop that grievin' simply by believin'.So I mourn for religion,I mourn for religion,My old heart breaks for religion!

I am old and crippled—sixty in December.

And I wonder if it's God that stretches out and hands us

Troubles we remember?

I'm alone besides, I need the Comforter,

All the children's grown up, livin' out in Kansas.

My old friend Billy died of lung fever....

But the worst of it is I'm really a believer,

Expect to go to hell if I don't get religion.

And I need this religion to stop this awful grievin'

About my woman lyin' there in the cemetery,

And you can't stop that grievin' simply by believin'.

So I mourn for religion,

I mourn for religion,

My old heart breaks for religion!

Thyamis, a gallant of Memphis,Where melons were servedIced with snow from the Mountains of the Moon;Thyamis, a philanderer in AlexandrisRich in parchments and terebinth,Lies here in the museum.His lips are brown as peach leather,Through which his teeth are sticking,White as squash seeds.*****Knowing that he must die and leave herHe slew the lovely CharicleaWho sailed with him on the NileUnder the moon of Egypt.This is the body of CharicleaUndesiring the arms of Thyamis.This is the remnant of Chariclea,Wrapped in a gunny sack,Rotted with gums and balsams.*****As the sands of the desert are stirredBy the wind when the sun sets,The open door of the museumLets in the wind to shakeThe cerements of Chariclea,And the stray hairs on the forsaken headOf Thyamis.*****Of desire long dead;Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh;Of Thyamis dying who took to deathThe lovely Chariclea;Of Chariclea who shrankFrom the love death of ThyamisThe multitude passes, unknowing.

Thyamis, a gallant of Memphis,

Where melons were served

Iced with snow from the Mountains of the Moon;

Thyamis, a philanderer in Alexandris

Rich in parchments and terebinth,

Lies here in the museum.

His lips are brown as peach leather,

Through which his teeth are sticking,

White as squash seeds.

*****

Knowing that he must die and leave herHe slew the lovely CharicleaWho sailed with him on the NileUnder the moon of Egypt.This is the body of CharicleaUndesiring the arms of Thyamis.This is the remnant of Chariclea,Wrapped in a gunny sack,Rotted with gums and balsams.

Knowing that he must die and leave her

He slew the lovely Chariclea

Who sailed with him on the Nile

Under the moon of Egypt.

This is the body of Chariclea

Undesiring the arms of Thyamis.

This is the remnant of Chariclea,

Wrapped in a gunny sack,

Rotted with gums and balsams.

*****

As the sands of the desert are stirredBy the wind when the sun sets,The open door of the museumLets in the wind to shakeThe cerements of Chariclea,And the stray hairs on the forsaken headOf Thyamis.

As the sands of the desert are stirred

By the wind when the sun sets,

The open door of the museum

Lets in the wind to shake

The cerements of Chariclea,

And the stray hairs on the forsaken head

Of Thyamis.

*****

Of desire long dead;Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh;Of Thyamis dying who took to deathThe lovely Chariclea;Of Chariclea who shrankFrom the love death of ThyamisThe multitude passes, unknowing.

Of desire long dead;

Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh;

Of Thyamis dying who took to death

The lovely Chariclea;

Of Chariclea who shrank

From the love death of Thyamis

The multitude passes, unknowing.

I shall go down into this landOf the great Northwest:This land of the free ordinance,This land made free for the freeBy the patriarchs.*****Shall it be Michigan,Or Illinois,Or Indiana?These are my people,These are my lovers, my friends—Mingle my dust with theirs,Ye sacred powers!*****Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions,Bound for infinite harborsFloat over the length of this land.And in the centuries to comeThe rocks and trees of this land will turn,These fields and hills will turnUnder unending convoys of clouds—O ye clouds!Drench my dust and mingle itWith the dust of the pioneers;My mates, my friends,Toilers and sufferers,Builders and dreamers,Lovers of freedom.*****O Earth that looks into space,As a man in sleep looks up,And is voiceless, at peace,Divining the secret—I shall know the secretWhen I go down into this landOf the great Northwest!*****Draw my dustWith the dust of my belovedInto the substance of a great rock,Upon whose point a planet flames,Nightly, in a thrilling momentOf divine revelationThrough endless time!

I shall go down into this landOf the great Northwest:This land of the free ordinance,This land made free for the freeBy the patriarchs.

I shall go down into this land

Of the great Northwest:

This land of the free ordinance,

This land made free for the free

By the patriarchs.

*****

Shall it be Michigan,Or Illinois,Or Indiana?These are my people,These are my lovers, my friends—Mingle my dust with theirs,Ye sacred powers!

Shall it be Michigan,

Or Illinois,

Or Indiana?

These are my people,

These are my lovers, my friends—

Mingle my dust with theirs,

Ye sacred powers!

*****

Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions,Bound for infinite harborsFloat over the length of this land.And in the centuries to comeThe rocks and trees of this land will turn,These fields and hills will turnUnder unending convoys of clouds—O ye clouds!Drench my dust and mingle itWith the dust of the pioneers;My mates, my friends,Toilers and sufferers,Builders and dreamers,Lovers of freedom.

Clouds, like convoys on infinite missions,

Bound for infinite harbors

Float over the length of this land.

And in the centuries to come

The rocks and trees of this land will turn,

These fields and hills will turn

Under unending convoys of clouds—

O ye clouds!

Drench my dust and mingle it

With the dust of the pioneers;

My mates, my friends,

Toilers and sufferers,

Builders and dreamers,

Lovers of freedom.

*****

O Earth that looks into space,As a man in sleep looks up,And is voiceless, at peace,Divining the secret—I shall know the secretWhen I go down into this landOf the great Northwest!

O Earth that looks into space,

As a man in sleep looks up,

And is voiceless, at peace,

Divining the secret—

I shall know the secret

When I go down into this land

Of the great Northwest!

*****

Draw my dustWith the dust of my belovedInto the substance of a great rock,Upon whose point a planet flames,Nightly, in a thrilling momentOf divine revelationThrough endless time!

Draw my dust

With the dust of my beloved

Into the substance of a great rock,

Upon whose point a planet flames,

Nightly, in a thrilling moment

Of divine revelation

Through endless time!

Βη δἑ κατ'Ουλὑμπιο καρἡνων χωομενυς κηρ.—Iliad.

—Iliad.

ISome thought a bomb hitTrotter's garage.Some thought a cometBlew up the Lodge.Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge,Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing,And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow;And heard a great banging and a howling clangingOf a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow.IIMilem Alkire became a changed man,So the thing began, guess it if you can.He turned in an hour from a man who was sourTo a singing, dancing satyr like Pan.He hobbled and clattered as if nothing matteredDown in his cellar for any strange fellow,Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking,For the crowd that was drinking.All against the statutes in such case provided.Drew well water to cool the wine off,Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough.Milem Alkire for years had residedA quiet, pious, law abiding citizenTurned in an hour to a wag who deridedThe feelings of the people, the village steeple,And the ways that befit a man—This Spring Lake citizen.IIIAnd about the timeThat Milem AlkireBecame a wine seller,And begetter of crime,With parties on his lawnFrom mid-night to dawn,Making the wine freeUnder the pine tree,Starling Turner's wife ran away,A woman who before was anything but gay.Never had a lover in her life, so they say,But like other clay, had the longing to stray.She saw a cornet player,An idler, a strayer,And left her husband furious threatening to slay her,And cursing musicians who have no honest missions.So Starling Turner, a belated learnerOf life as music, laughter, folly,Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy,Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers,Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers,With prizes for fiddling from best to middling:A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling.Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad,Mad about music, the preachers looked sadFor music, the like of which the village never had....The children in the street were shockingly bad,And danced like pixies scantily clad;Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers,Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers,Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers,Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers,Roasted hooked geese in front of the police.Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use,The devil had let a thousand devils loose.IVThen folks began to read old books forbidden.Carpenters orated and expatiatedOn Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden,A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek.There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark.And wild talk of razing the village, effacingThe plain little houses and the town replacingWith carved stone, columns and temples gracingGardens and vistas the water front embracing.And others would create a brand new state.So fire broke out in the strangest places.The belated traveler beheld elfin facesSpringing from nothing, to vanish in a second.Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners.Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned,Till all the wise ones, doubters and scornersAlthough they winced, in some way evincedThat their minds were convinced.Something was wrong,The evidence was strong,The air was full of song:You woke out of sleep and heard a violin,A harp or a horn;And rose up and followed the sound growing thinAt the break of morn.VMusic, music, music was blownOver the waters, out of the woodlands,Grassy valleys and sunny meadow landsIn the mid spaces, tone on tone.The pasturing flocks were sleeker grownAnd multiplied in a way unknown....And little Alice bright of eyeDreamed and began to prophesy:And said the strayer, the cornet player,Who took Starling Turner's wife away,Is coming back at an early day:Look out, said Alice, to Imogene,Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen,You have danced too much on the village green.Look out for the cornet player, I mean.I know who he is for my eyes are keen.Your blood is desiring, but yet serene.I know his face and his bright desire,Laurel leaves are around his brow;He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre.His eyes are blue and his face is fire.Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire,Keep to the house, or the church's spire.VIAnd what was next? The girl disappeared.As Alice feared, no fate interfered.A posse collected, hunted and peered,Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared,And looked for Imogene, cried and cheeredWhen a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared.A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes,Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles,Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes,Runs over meadows for luring trifles:The wave of grain or a weed that tosses;And curse and say what a terrible loss isCome to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed,And then this fairest maid is abducted.Why are the innocent sacrificed?We are a people well conducted.What is the curse, or is it the war?Why is it every one here is housingFiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers.At Milem Alkire's why carousing;Everything that the good abhorIn lovers and romancers?The world is mad, the village is mad,Even the cattle bellow and run.Old maid, young maid, man and ladHave eaten of something half insane;Such antics never before were doneAnd never it seems may be againUnder the shining sun.And now comes villainy out of the fun.Come with the torch, come with the halter,Gather the posse, stay nor falter,Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peaceAnd hang him up in the maple tree'sHighest branch. For what is the lawIf it can't slip the noose and drawThis minstrel man to a thing of awe?VIIThen the pastor said: Talk of the gallowsIs just the thing for it's righteous malice;And we need hearts with piety callousFor work like this, I might say salusPopuli, but bright-eyed AliceCan help us in this matter kineticWho has grown psychic and grown prophetic,Sees round corners, and looks through doorsAnd spies old treasure under the floors.And I have heard that Alice averred,The cornet player's the self-same birdWho enticed the wife of Starling TurnerAnd kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn herLater for some one else, unless weCapture and hang the vile sojourner;So now for Alice, he said, and bless me!VIIIAlice came out to lead the mobCatch the scoundrel and finish the job.Down to Fruitport before it is darkCome, said Alice, Joan of Arc.Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists,Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggistsHustled and ran in the afternoon,Following Alice who led the wayChanting an ancient roundelay,A wild and haunting tune.Her hair streamed over her little shouldersBack in the wind for all beholders.And her little feet were as swift and whiteAs waves that dance in the noonday light.Youths were panting, middle aged menHad to rest and resume again.She ran the posse almost to death,All were gasping and out of breath.At last they halted upon the ridge.There! said Alice, beside the bridgeUnder its shadow. Look, he's thereWeaving lilies in Imogene's hair;His musical instrument laid asideNow he has charmed the maiden prideOf Imogene who is not his bride,Come, said Alice, before they hide.IXThey ran from the ridge,Looked under the bridge.There! he escapes, said Alice, the fay.Where? Howled the mob! which is the way?There's Imogene wrapped as if in a trance,Said the preacher, there where the waters dance.I saw as it were a shaft of lightSteal from her side, vanish from sight.The cobbler said: it was like a comet;The druggist, water by a bomb hit.Yes, said the lawyer, I heard a splashingAnd saw a light as of waters flashingOr a thousand arrows of splendor flyingI heard a booming, banging, clangingOf a bull's hide string, it was terrifying.No, said Alice, this form of light,That stole away and vanished from sight,That was the fellow, said Alice, the sprite.Go after him, follow through meadow and hollowThe God Apollo, the great Apollo!XThey went to Imogene then and took her,Spoke to her, slapped her hands and shook her,Asked her who it was that forsook her,Why she had left her home and wandered,What was the dream she sat and pondered,And Imogene said, it's a dream of dread,Now that the glory of it is fled.Where am I now, where is my lover?God of my dreams, singer and rover.I danced with the muses in flowering meadows;We lay on lawns of whispering shadows;We walked by moonlight where pine trees stoodFeathery clear in the crystal flood;He gave me honey and grapes for food.We rode on the clouds and counted the stars.He sang me songs of the ancient wars.He told me of cities and temples buildedUnder his hand, we waded riversBy star-light and by sun-light gilded;By shades where the green of the laurel shivers.But it came to this, and this I see:Life is beautiful if you are free,If you live yourself like the laurel tree.XIThen some of them teased her, the posse seized her,They tore the lilies out of her hair.Back to the village, exclaimed the preacher,Back to your home, exclaimed the teacher.You've been befooled, said Alice, the fay,And back went Imogene in despair,Weeping all the way!

Some thought a bomb hitTrotter's garage.Some thought a cometBlew up the Lodge.Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge,Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing,And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow;And heard a great banging and a howling clangingOf a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow.

Some thought a bomb hit

Trotter's garage.

Some thought a comet

Blew up the Lodge.

Milem Alkire was riding in a Dodge,

Saw the water splashing, and a great light flashing,

And a thousand arrows flying from the heaven's glow;

And heard a great banging and a howling clanging

Of a bull-hide's string to a monstrous bow.

Milem Alkire became a changed man,So the thing began, guess it if you can.He turned in an hour from a man who was sourTo a singing, dancing satyr like Pan.He hobbled and clattered as if nothing matteredDown in his cellar for any strange fellow,Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking,For the crowd that was drinking.All against the statutes in such case provided.

Milem Alkire became a changed man,

So the thing began, guess it if you can.

He turned in an hour from a man who was sour

To a singing, dancing satyr like Pan.

He hobbled and clattered as if nothing mattered

Down in his cellar for any strange fellow,

Bringing up the bottles, clinking, winking,

For the crowd that was drinking.

All against the statutes in such case provided.

Drew well water to cool the wine off,Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough.Milem Alkire for years had residedA quiet, pious, law abiding citizenTurned in an hour to a wag who deridedThe feelings of the people, the village steeple,And the ways that befit a man—This Spring Lake citizen.

Drew well water to cool the wine off,

Polished up the glasses with a humorous cough.

Milem Alkire for years had resided

A quiet, pious, law abiding citizen

Turned in an hour to a wag who derided

The feelings of the people, the village steeple,

And the ways that befit a man—

This Spring Lake citizen.

And about the timeThat Milem AlkireBecame a wine seller,And begetter of crime,With parties on his lawnFrom mid-night to dawn,Making the wine freeUnder the pine tree,Starling Turner's wife ran away,A woman who before was anything but gay.Never had a lover in her life, so they say,But like other clay, had the longing to stray.She saw a cornet player,An idler, a strayer,And left her husband furious threatening to slay her,And cursing musicians who have no honest missions.So Starling Turner, a belated learnerOf life as music, laughter, folly,Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy,Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers,Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers,With prizes for fiddling from best to middling:A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling.Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad,Mad about music, the preachers looked sadFor music, the like of which the village never had....The children in the street were shockingly bad,And danced like pixies scantily clad;Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers,Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers,Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers,Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers,Roasted hooked geese in front of the police.Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use,The devil had let a thousand devils loose.

And about the time

That Milem Alkire

Became a wine seller,

And begetter of crime,

With parties on his lawn

From mid-night to dawn,

Making the wine free

Under the pine tree,

Starling Turner's wife ran away,

A woman who before was anything but gay.

Never had a lover in her life, so they say,

But like other clay, had the longing to stray.

She saw a cornet player,

An idler, a strayer,

And left her husband furious threatening to slay her,

And cursing musicians who have no honest missions.

So Starling Turner, a belated learner

Of life as music, laughter, folly,

Grew suddenly jolly, forgot his melancholy,

Became a dancer and rounded up the fiddlers,

Got up a contest of fifty old fiddlers,

With prizes for fiddling from best to middling:

A set of fine harness for the best piece of fiddling.

Work stopped, business stopped, all went mad,

Mad about music, the preachers looked sad

For music, the like of which the village never had....

The children in the street were shockingly bad,

And danced like pixies scantily clad;

Knocked away the crutches from venerable hobblers,

Threw pebbles at the windows of grocers and cobblers,

Made fun of the preachers, the grammar school teachers,

Stole spring chickens and turkey gobblers,

Roasted hooked geese in front of the police.

Till the quidnuncs decided it wasn't any use,

The devil had let a thousand devils loose.

Then folks began to read old books forbidden.Carpenters orated and expatiatedOn Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden,A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek.There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark.And wild talk of razing the village, effacingThe plain little houses and the town replacingWith carved stone, columns and temples gracingGardens and vistas the water front embracing.And others would create a brand new state.So fire broke out in the strangest places.The belated traveler beheld elfin facesSpringing from nothing, to vanish in a second.Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners.Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned,Till all the wise ones, doubters and scornersAlthough they winced, in some way evincedThat their minds were convinced.Something was wrong,The evidence was strong,The air was full of song:You woke out of sleep and heard a violin,A harp or a horn;And rose up and followed the sound growing thinAt the break of morn.

Then folks began to read old books forbidden.

Carpenters orated and expatiated

On Orphic doctrines and wisdoms long hidden,

A Swede who couldn't speak began to talk Greek.

There were meetings in the park from dawn to dark.

And wild talk of razing the village, effacing

The plain little houses and the town replacing

With carved stone, columns and temples gracing

Gardens and vistas the water front embracing.

And others would create a brand new state.

So fire broke out in the strangest places.

The belated traveler beheld elfin faces

Springing from nothing, to vanish in a second.

Potatoes unthrown went whizzing round corners.

Voices were heard and white fingers beckoned,

Till all the wise ones, doubters and scorners

Although they winced, in some way evinced

That their minds were convinced.

Something was wrong,

The evidence was strong,

The air was full of song:

You woke out of sleep and heard a violin,

A harp or a horn;

And rose up and followed the sound growing thin

At the break of morn.

Music, music, music was blownOver the waters, out of the woodlands,Grassy valleys and sunny meadow landsIn the mid spaces, tone on tone.The pasturing flocks were sleeker grownAnd multiplied in a way unknown....And little Alice bright of eyeDreamed and began to prophesy:And said the strayer, the cornet player,Who took Starling Turner's wife away,Is coming back at an early day:Look out, said Alice, to Imogene,Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen,You have danced too much on the village green.Look out for the cornet player, I mean.I know who he is for my eyes are keen.Your blood is desiring, but yet serene.I know his face and his bright desire,Laurel leaves are around his brow;He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre.His eyes are blue and his face is fire.Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire,Keep to the house, or the church's spire.

Music, music, music was blown

Over the waters, out of the woodlands,

Grassy valleys and sunny meadow lands

In the mid spaces, tone on tone.

The pasturing flocks were sleeker grown

And multiplied in a way unknown....

And little Alice bright of eye

Dreamed and began to prophesy:

And said the strayer, the cornet player,

Who took Starling Turner's wife away,

Is coming back at an early day:

Look out, said Alice, to Imogene,

Red-lipped, bright-eyed, turned eighteen,

You have danced too much on the village green.

Look out for the cornet player, I mean.

I know who he is for my eyes are keen.

Your blood is desiring, but yet serene.

I know his face and his bright desire,

Laurel leaves are around his brow;

He carries a horn, but sometimes a lyre.

His eyes are blue and his face is fire.

Look out, said Alice, his touch is dire,

Keep to the house, or the church's spire.

And what was next? The girl disappeared.As Alice feared, no fate interfered.A posse collected, hunted and peered,Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared,And looked for Imogene, cried and cheeredWhen a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared.A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes,Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles,Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes,Runs over meadows for luring trifles:The wave of grain or a weed that tosses;And curse and say what a terrible loss isCome to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed,And then this fairest maid is abducted.Why are the innocent sacrificed?We are a people well conducted.What is the curse, or is it the war?Why is it every one here is housingFiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers.At Milem Alkire's why carousing;Everything that the good abhorIn lovers and romancers?The world is mad, the village is mad,Even the cattle bellow and run.Old maid, young maid, man and ladHave eaten of something half insane;Such antics never before were doneAnd never it seems may be againUnder the shining sun.And now comes villainy out of the fun.Come with the torch, come with the halter,Gather the posse, stay nor falter,Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peaceAnd hang him up in the maple tree'sHighest branch. For what is the lawIf it can't slip the noose and drawThis minstrel man to a thing of awe?

And what was next? The girl disappeared.

As Alice feared, no fate interfered.

A posse collected, hunted and peered,

Raced through the night till their eyes were bleared,

And looked for Imogene, cried and cheered

When a clew was found, or a doubt was cleared.

A posse with pitch-forks, scythes and axes,

Shot-guns, pistols, knives and rifles,

Hunts for Imogene, never relaxes,

Runs over meadows for luring trifles:

The wave of grain or a weed that tosses;

And curse and say what a terrible loss is

Come to Spring Lake: a wife's enticed,

And then this fairest maid is abducted.

Why are the innocent sacrificed?

We are a people well conducted.

What is the curse, or is it the war?

Why is it every one here is housing

Fiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers.

At Milem Alkire's why carousing;

Everything that the good abhor

In lovers and romancers?

The world is mad, the village is mad,

Even the cattle bellow and run.

Old maid, young maid, man and lad

Have eaten of something half insane;

Such antics never before were done

And never it seems may be again

Under the shining sun.

And now comes villainy out of the fun.

Come with the torch, come with the halter,

Gather the posse, stay nor falter,

Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peace

And hang him up in the maple tree's

Highest branch. For what is the law

If it can't slip the noose and draw

This minstrel man to a thing of awe?

Then the pastor said: Talk of the gallowsIs just the thing for it's righteous malice;And we need hearts with piety callousFor work like this, I might say salusPopuli, but bright-eyed AliceCan help us in this matter kineticWho has grown psychic and grown prophetic,Sees round corners, and looks through doorsAnd spies old treasure under the floors.And I have heard that Alice averred,The cornet player's the self-same birdWho enticed the wife of Starling TurnerAnd kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn herLater for some one else, unless weCapture and hang the vile sojourner;So now for Alice, he said, and bless me!

Then the pastor said: Talk of the gallows

Is just the thing for it's righteous malice;

And we need hearts with piety callous

For work like this, I might say salus

Populi, but bright-eyed Alice

Can help us in this matter kinetic

Who has grown psychic and grown prophetic,

Sees round corners, and looks through doors

And spies old treasure under the floors.

And I have heard that Alice averred,

The cornet player's the self-same bird

Who enticed the wife of Starling Turner

And kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn her

Later for some one else, unless we

Capture and hang the vile sojourner;

So now for Alice, he said, and bless me!

Alice came out to lead the mobCatch the scoundrel and finish the job.Down to Fruitport before it is darkCome, said Alice, Joan of Arc.Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists,Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggistsHustled and ran in the afternoon,Following Alice who led the wayChanting an ancient roundelay,A wild and haunting tune.Her hair streamed over her little shouldersBack in the wind for all beholders.And her little feet were as swift and whiteAs waves that dance in the noonday light.Youths were panting, middle aged menHad to rest and resume again.She ran the posse almost to death,All were gasping and out of breath.At last they halted upon the ridge.There! said Alice, beside the bridgeUnder its shadow. Look, he's thereWeaving lilies in Imogene's hair;His musical instrument laid asideNow he has charmed the maiden prideOf Imogene who is not his bride,Come, said Alice, before they hide.

Alice came out to lead the mob

Catch the scoundrel and finish the job.

Down to Fruitport before it is dark

Come, said Alice, Joan of Arc.

Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists,

Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggists

Hustled and ran in the afternoon,

Following Alice who led the way

Chanting an ancient roundelay,

A wild and haunting tune.

Her hair streamed over her little shoulders

Back in the wind for all beholders.

And her little feet were as swift and white

As waves that dance in the noonday light.

Youths were panting, middle aged men

Had to rest and resume again.

She ran the posse almost to death,

All were gasping and out of breath.

At last they halted upon the ridge.

There! said Alice, beside the bridge

Under its shadow. Look, he's there

Weaving lilies in Imogene's hair;

His musical instrument laid aside

Now he has charmed the maiden pride

Of Imogene who is not his bride,

Come, said Alice, before they hide.

They ran from the ridge,Looked under the bridge.There! he escapes, said Alice, the fay.Where? Howled the mob! which is the way?There's Imogene wrapped as if in a trance,Said the preacher, there where the waters dance.I saw as it were a shaft of lightSteal from her side, vanish from sight.The cobbler said: it was like a comet;The druggist, water by a bomb hit.Yes, said the lawyer, I heard a splashingAnd saw a light as of waters flashingOr a thousand arrows of splendor flyingI heard a booming, banging, clangingOf a bull's hide string, it was terrifying.No, said Alice, this form of light,That stole away and vanished from sight,That was the fellow, said Alice, the sprite.Go after him, follow through meadow and hollowThe God Apollo, the great Apollo!

They ran from the ridge,

Looked under the bridge.

There! he escapes, said Alice, the fay.

Where? Howled the mob! which is the way?

There's Imogene wrapped as if in a trance,

Said the preacher, there where the waters dance.

I saw as it were a shaft of light

Steal from her side, vanish from sight.

The cobbler said: it was like a comet;

The druggist, water by a bomb hit.

Yes, said the lawyer, I heard a splashing

And saw a light as of waters flashing

Or a thousand arrows of splendor flying

I heard a booming, banging, clanging

Of a bull's hide string, it was terrifying.

No, said Alice, this form of light,

That stole away and vanished from sight,

That was the fellow, said Alice, the sprite.

Go after him, follow through meadow and hollow

The God Apollo, the great Apollo!

They went to Imogene then and took her,Spoke to her, slapped her hands and shook her,Asked her who it was that forsook her,Why she had left her home and wandered,What was the dream she sat and pondered,And Imogene said, it's a dream of dread,Now that the glory of it is fled.Where am I now, where is my lover?God of my dreams, singer and rover.I danced with the muses in flowering meadows;We lay on lawns of whispering shadows;We walked by moonlight where pine trees stoodFeathery clear in the crystal flood;He gave me honey and grapes for food.We rode on the clouds and counted the stars.He sang me songs of the ancient wars.He told me of cities and temples buildedUnder his hand, we waded riversBy star-light and by sun-light gilded;By shades where the green of the laurel shivers.But it came to this, and this I see:Life is beautiful if you are free,If you live yourself like the laurel tree.

They went to Imogene then and took her,

Spoke to her, slapped her hands and shook her,

Asked her who it was that forsook her,

Why she had left her home and wandered,

What was the dream she sat and pondered,

And Imogene said, it's a dream of dread,

Now that the glory of it is fled.

Where am I now, where is my lover?

God of my dreams, singer and rover.

I danced with the muses in flowering meadows;

We lay on lawns of whispering shadows;

We walked by moonlight where pine trees stood

Feathery clear in the crystal flood;

He gave me honey and grapes for food.

We rode on the clouds and counted the stars.

He sang me songs of the ancient wars.

He told me of cities and temples builded

Under his hand, we waded rivers

By star-light and by sun-light gilded;

By shades where the green of the laurel shivers.

But it came to this, and this I see:

Life is beautiful if you are free,

If you live yourself like the laurel tree.

Then some of them teased her, the posse seized her,They tore the lilies out of her hair.Back to the village, exclaimed the preacher,Back to your home, exclaimed the teacher.You've been befooled, said Alice, the fay,And back went Imogene in despair,Weeping all the way!

Then some of them teased her, the posse seized her,

They tore the lilies out of her hair.

Back to the village, exclaimed the preacher,

Back to your home, exclaimed the teacher.

You've been befooled, said Alice, the fay,

And back went Imogene in despair,

Weeping all the way!

Trimmed but not cut too short; the temples shaved,Neck clipped around, not shaved, an oil shampoo,You have a world of time before the trainAnd when it comes it stops ten minutes—thenThe depot's just a block away.Oh yes,This is my own, my native town. But whenI earn the money to get out, I go.I've had my share of bad luck—seems to meWithout my fault, as least life's actinismMakes what we call our luck or lack of luck....Go down this street a block, find Burney ColeAnd ask him why I was not graduatedFrom Sepo's High School at the time he was.It was this way: I fell in love that springWith Lillie Balzer, and it ended us,Lillie and me, for finishing that year.I thought of Lillie morning, noon and nightAnd Lillie thought of me, and so we flunked.That thinned the class to Burney Cole, and heStood up and spoke twelve minutes scared to death.Progress of Science was his theme, committedTo memory, the gestures timed, they trained himOut in the woods near Big Creek.Lil and ISat there and laughed—the town was in the hall,Applause terrific, bouquets thick as hops.And when they handed Burney his diplomaThe crowd went wild.How does this razor work?Not shaving you too close? I try to please ...Burney was famous for a night, you see.They thought his piece was wonderful, such commandOf language, depth of thought beyond his years.Next morning with his ears and cheeks still burning,Flushed like a god, as Keats says, Burney stoodBehind the counter in the grocery storeBeginning then to earn the means to takeA course in Science—when a customerCame in and said: a piece of star tobacco,Young fellow, hurry! Such is fame—one nightYou're on a platform gathering in bouquets,Next morning without honor and forgotten,Commanded like a boot-black.Five years nowBurney has clerked, some say has given upThe course in science, and I hate to ask him ...But as for me, there was a lot of talk,And Lillie went away, began to sport.She's been around the world, is living nowIn Buenos Ayres. Love's a funny thing:It levels ranks, puts monarch or savantBeside the chorus girl and in her hands.I stayed here, did not have to leave for shame,But Lillie changed my life.When she was goneMy conscience hurt me, and that very fallWhen I was most susceptible, responsive,And penitent, we had a great revival.And just to use the lingo: after muchWrestling at the Seat of Mercy, prayersAnd ministrations then I saw the light,Became converted, got the ecstasy.I wrote to Lillie who was in ChicagoTo seek salvation, told her of myself.She wrote back, you are cracked—go take a pill....I know you've come to get your hair trimmed, shaved,Also to hear my story—you shall hear.The elders saw in me a likely manAnd said there is a preacher. First I knewThey had a purse made up to send me offTo learn theology, and so I went.I plunged into the stuff that preachers learn:The Hebrew language, Aramaic and Syriac;The Hebrew ideas—rapid survey—oh, yes,Rapid survey, that was the usual thing.Histories of Syria and Palestine;Theology of the Synoptics, eschatology.Doctrine of the Trinity, Docetism,And Christian writings to Eusebius.Well, in the midst of all of this what happens?A fellow shows me Draper and this stuffWent up like shale and soft rock in a blast.My room mate was John Smith, he handed meThis book of Draper's. What do you suppose?This scamp was there to get at secret things,Was laughing in his sleeve, had no belief.He used to say: "They'd never know me now."By which he meant he was a different personIn some round dozen places, and each placeWas different from the others, he was nativeTo each place, played his part there, was unknownAs fitted to another, hence his words"They'd never know me now."And so it wasThis John Smith acted through the course, came throughA finished preacher. But they found me outAs soon as Draper gnawed my faith in two.The good folks back in Sepo took awayThe purse they lent and left me high and dry.So I came back and learned the barber's trade,And here I am. But when I save enoughI mean to start a little magazineTo show what is the matter. Do you know?It's something on the shelf—not booze or jam:It's that old bible, precious family bible,That record of the Hebrew thought and life—That book that takes a course of years to study,Requires Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and CopticAnd epigraphy, metaphysics, notBecause the book itself is rich in theseBut just because when you would know a bookIn every character and turn of phraseAnd know what's back of it and went into itYou draw the learning of the world, that's all.Take Plato, if you will, and study himAfter this manner, you will travel farIn every land and realm. But this is nothing.The preachers are a handful to the world.They eat this dead stuff like bacteriaThat clean away decay. The harm is hereAmong the populace, the country, allThat makes for life as life.See what I mean?We have three thousand people in this town.Say in this state there are a thousand towns,And say in every town on every SundayIn every year this book is taught and preachedTo every human being from the timeIt's five years old as long as it will standAnd let itself be taught—what have you done?You have created, kept intact a body,An audience and voting strength—for whom,The reformer, the fanatic, non-conformist,The man of principle who wants a lawAnd those who, whether consciously or not,Live in the illusion that there is an end,A consummation, fifth act to this world,Millennium, as they say; and at the lastWhen you get rid of sin (but they must sayWhat sin is) then the world will be at peace,Life finished, perfect, nothing more to doBut tend to business and enjoy yourselfAnd die in peace, reach heaven. Don't you see?These people are deluded. For this stuffCalled life is like a pan of bread you knead:You push it down one place and up it puffsIn another place. And so while they controlThe stuff of life through Hebrew influenceOf duty, business, fear, ascetismAnd yes, materialism, for it is that,The dough escaped, puffs out, the best of it,Its greater, part escapes us. So I sayThat bible taught in every village, hamletAnd all its precepts, curses, notables,Preached fifty times a year creates the crowdThat runs the country at the bidding ofYour mediocrities, your little statesmen,Your little editors and moralists.And that's your culture, your AmericanKultur....I'll finish you with eggs, it's betterThan soap is for the hair. You've lots of time.I think I'll start my magazine next year.Step down this way—over the bowl, that's it—A moment while I ring this money up.As I was saying—is the water cold?—Now back into the chair—as I was sayingThat book upon the shelf has made our culture.We must undo it....Yes, your train is whistling—so long!

Trimmed but not cut too short; the temples shaved,

Neck clipped around, not shaved, an oil shampoo,

You have a world of time before the train

And when it comes it stops ten minutes—then

The depot's just a block away.

Oh yes,This is my own, my native town. But whenI earn the money to get out, I go.I've had my share of bad luck—seems to meWithout my fault, as least life's actinismMakes what we call our luck or lack of luck....

Oh yes,

This is my own, my native town. But when

I earn the money to get out, I go.

I've had my share of bad luck—seems to me

Without my fault, as least life's actinism

Makes what we call our luck or lack of luck....

Go down this street a block, find Burney ColeAnd ask him why I was not graduatedFrom Sepo's High School at the time he was.It was this way: I fell in love that springWith Lillie Balzer, and it ended us,Lillie and me, for finishing that year.I thought of Lillie morning, noon and nightAnd Lillie thought of me, and so we flunked.That thinned the class to Burney Cole, and heStood up and spoke twelve minutes scared to death.Progress of Science was his theme, committedTo memory, the gestures timed, they trained himOut in the woods near Big Creek.

Go down this street a block, find Burney Cole

And ask him why I was not graduated

From Sepo's High School at the time he was.

It was this way: I fell in love that spring

With Lillie Balzer, and it ended us,

Lillie and me, for finishing that year.

I thought of Lillie morning, noon and night

And Lillie thought of me, and so we flunked.

That thinned the class to Burney Cole, and he

Stood up and spoke twelve minutes scared to death.

Progress of Science was his theme, committed

To memory, the gestures timed, they trained him

Out in the woods near Big Creek.

Lil and ISat there and laughed—the town was in the hall,Applause terrific, bouquets thick as hops.And when they handed Burney his diplomaThe crowd went wild.How does this razor work?Not shaving you too close? I try to please ...Burney was famous for a night, you see.They thought his piece was wonderful, such commandOf language, depth of thought beyond his years.Next morning with his ears and cheeks still burning,Flushed like a god, as Keats says, Burney stoodBehind the counter in the grocery storeBeginning then to earn the means to takeA course in Science—when a customerCame in and said: a piece of star tobacco,Young fellow, hurry! Such is fame—one nightYou're on a platform gathering in bouquets,Next morning without honor and forgotten,Commanded like a boot-black.

Lil and I

Sat there and laughed—the town was in the hall,

Applause terrific, bouquets thick as hops.

And when they handed Burney his diploma

The crowd went wild.

How does this razor work?

Not shaving you too close? I try to please ...

Burney was famous for a night, you see.

They thought his piece was wonderful, such command

Of language, depth of thought beyond his years.

Next morning with his ears and cheeks still burning,

Flushed like a god, as Keats says, Burney stood

Behind the counter in the grocery store

Beginning then to earn the means to take

A course in Science—when a customer

Came in and said: a piece of star tobacco,

Young fellow, hurry! Such is fame—one night

You're on a platform gathering in bouquets,

Next morning without honor and forgotten,

Commanded like a boot-black.

Five years nowBurney has clerked, some say has given upThe course in science, and I hate to ask him ...But as for me, there was a lot of talk,And Lillie went away, began to sport.She's been around the world, is living nowIn Buenos Ayres. Love's a funny thing:It levels ranks, puts monarch or savantBeside the chorus girl and in her hands.I stayed here, did not have to leave for shame,But Lillie changed my life.

Five years now

Burney has clerked, some say has given up

The course in science, and I hate to ask him ...

But as for me, there was a lot of talk,

And Lillie went away, began to sport.

She's been around the world, is living now

In Buenos Ayres. Love's a funny thing:

It levels ranks, puts monarch or savant

Beside the chorus girl and in her hands.

I stayed here, did not have to leave for shame,

But Lillie changed my life.

When she was goneMy conscience hurt me, and that very fallWhen I was most susceptible, responsive,And penitent, we had a great revival.And just to use the lingo: after muchWrestling at the Seat of Mercy, prayersAnd ministrations then I saw the light,Became converted, got the ecstasy.I wrote to Lillie who was in ChicagoTo seek salvation, told her of myself.She wrote back, you are cracked—go take a pill....I know you've come to get your hair trimmed, shaved,Also to hear my story—you shall hear.The elders saw in me a likely manAnd said there is a preacher. First I knewThey had a purse made up to send me offTo learn theology, and so I went.

When she was gone

My conscience hurt me, and that very fall

When I was most susceptible, responsive,

And penitent, we had a great revival.

And just to use the lingo: after much

Wrestling at the Seat of Mercy, prayers

And ministrations then I saw the light,

Became converted, got the ecstasy.

I wrote to Lillie who was in Chicago

To seek salvation, told her of myself.

She wrote back, you are cracked—go take a pill....

I know you've come to get your hair trimmed, shaved,

Also to hear my story—you shall hear.

The elders saw in me a likely man

And said there is a preacher. First I knew

They had a purse made up to send me off

To learn theology, and so I went.

I plunged into the stuff that preachers learn:The Hebrew language, Aramaic and Syriac;The Hebrew ideas—rapid survey—oh, yes,Rapid survey, that was the usual thing.Histories of Syria and Palestine;Theology of the Synoptics, eschatology.Doctrine of the Trinity, Docetism,And Christian writings to Eusebius.Well, in the midst of all of this what happens?A fellow shows me Draper and this stuffWent up like shale and soft rock in a blast.My room mate was John Smith, he handed meThis book of Draper's. What do you suppose?This scamp was there to get at secret things,Was laughing in his sleeve, had no belief.He used to say: "They'd never know me now."By which he meant he was a different personIn some round dozen places, and each placeWas different from the others, he was nativeTo each place, played his part there, was unknownAs fitted to another, hence his words"They'd never know me now."

I plunged into the stuff that preachers learn:

The Hebrew language, Aramaic and Syriac;

The Hebrew ideas—rapid survey—oh, yes,

Rapid survey, that was the usual thing.

Histories of Syria and Palestine;

Theology of the Synoptics, eschatology.

Doctrine of the Trinity, Docetism,

And Christian writings to Eusebius.

Well, in the midst of all of this what happens?

A fellow shows me Draper and this stuff

Went up like shale and soft rock in a blast.

My room mate was John Smith, he handed me

This book of Draper's. What do you suppose?

This scamp was there to get at secret things,

Was laughing in his sleeve, had no belief.

He used to say: "They'd never know me now."

By which he meant he was a different person

In some round dozen places, and each place

Was different from the others, he was native

To each place, played his part there, was unknown

As fitted to another, hence his words

"They'd never know me now."

And so it wasThis John Smith acted through the course, came throughA finished preacher. But they found me outAs soon as Draper gnawed my faith in two.The good folks back in Sepo took awayThe purse they lent and left me high and dry.So I came back and learned the barber's trade,And here I am. But when I save enoughI mean to start a little magazineTo show what is the matter. Do you know?

And so it was

This John Smith acted through the course, came through

A finished preacher. But they found me out

As soon as Draper gnawed my faith in two.

The good folks back in Sepo took away

The purse they lent and left me high and dry.

So I came back and learned the barber's trade,

And here I am. But when I save enough

I mean to start a little magazine

To show what is the matter. Do you know?

It's something on the shelf—not booze or jam:It's that old bible, precious family bible,That record of the Hebrew thought and life—That book that takes a course of years to study,Requires Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and CopticAnd epigraphy, metaphysics, notBecause the book itself is rich in theseBut just because when you would know a bookIn every character and turn of phraseAnd know what's back of it and went into itYou draw the learning of the world, that's all.Take Plato, if you will, and study himAfter this manner, you will travel farIn every land and realm. But this is nothing.The preachers are a handful to the world.They eat this dead stuff like bacteriaThat clean away decay. The harm is hereAmong the populace, the country, allThat makes for life as life.

It's something on the shelf—not booze or jam:

It's that old bible, precious family bible,

That record of the Hebrew thought and life—

That book that takes a course of years to study,

Requires Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek and Coptic

And epigraphy, metaphysics, not

Because the book itself is rich in these

But just because when you would know a book

In every character and turn of phrase

And know what's back of it and went into it

You draw the learning of the world, that's all.

Take Plato, if you will, and study him

After this manner, you will travel far

In every land and realm. But this is nothing.

The preachers are a handful to the world.

They eat this dead stuff like bacteria

That clean away decay. The harm is here

Among the populace, the country, all

That makes for life as life.

See what I mean?We have three thousand people in this town.Say in this state there are a thousand towns,And say in every town on every SundayIn every year this book is taught and preachedTo every human being from the timeIt's five years old as long as it will standAnd let itself be taught—what have you done?You have created, kept intact a body,An audience and voting strength—for whom,The reformer, the fanatic, non-conformist,The man of principle who wants a lawAnd those who, whether consciously or not,Live in the illusion that there is an end,A consummation, fifth act to this world,Millennium, as they say; and at the lastWhen you get rid of sin (but they must sayWhat sin is) then the world will be at peace,Life finished, perfect, nothing more to doBut tend to business and enjoy yourselfAnd die in peace, reach heaven. Don't you see?These people are deluded. For this stuffCalled life is like a pan of bread you knead:You push it down one place and up it puffsIn another place. And so while they controlThe stuff of life through Hebrew influenceOf duty, business, fear, ascetismAnd yes, materialism, for it is that,The dough escaped, puffs out, the best of it,Its greater, part escapes us. So I sayThat bible taught in every village, hamletAnd all its precepts, curses, notables,Preached fifty times a year creates the crowdThat runs the country at the bidding ofYour mediocrities, your little statesmen,Your little editors and moralists.And that's your culture, your AmericanKultur....

See what I mean?

We have three thousand people in this town.

Say in this state there are a thousand towns,

And say in every town on every Sunday

In every year this book is taught and preached

To every human being from the time

It's five years old as long as it will stand

And let itself be taught—what have you done?

You have created, kept intact a body,

An audience and voting strength—for whom,

The reformer, the fanatic, non-conformist,

The man of principle who wants a law

And those who, whether consciously or not,

Live in the illusion that there is an end,

A consummation, fifth act to this world,

Millennium, as they say; and at the last

When you get rid of sin (but they must say

What sin is) then the world will be at peace,

Life finished, perfect, nothing more to do

But tend to business and enjoy yourself

And die in peace, reach heaven. Don't you see?

These people are deluded. For this stuff

Called life is like a pan of bread you knead:

You push it down one place and up it puffs

In another place. And so while they control

The stuff of life through Hebrew influence

Of duty, business, fear, ascetism

And yes, materialism, for it is that,

The dough escaped, puffs out, the best of it,

Its greater, part escapes us. So I say

That bible taught in every village, hamlet

And all its precepts, curses, notables,

Preached fifty times a year creates the crowd

That runs the country at the bidding of

Your mediocrities, your little statesmen,

Your little editors and moralists.

And that's your culture, your American

Kultur....

I'll finish you with eggs, it's betterThan soap is for the hair. You've lots of time.I think I'll start my magazine next year.Step down this way—over the bowl, that's it—A moment while I ring this money up.As I was saying—is the water cold?—Now back into the chair—as I was sayingThat book upon the shelf has made our culture.We must undo it....Yes, your train is whistling—so long!

I'll finish you with eggs, it's better

Than soap is for the hair. You've lots of time.

I think I'll start my magazine next year.

Step down this way—over the bowl, that's it—

A moment while I ring this money up.

As I was saying—is the water cold?—

Now back into the chair—as I was saying

That book upon the shelf has made our culture.

We must undo it....

Yes, your train is whistling—so long!

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