THE FOLDING MIRROR

No more of searching, Doctor—let it go.It can't be lost. I have a memoryI put it in a drawer, or againI seem to see me tuck it in a pocketOf some portmanteau. If you find the letterDeliver it to Moore. But if it's lost,The story is not lost. I tell you thisTo save the story from my side. Attend!It was this way:Allegra had becomeA child requiring care, and nutritiveInstruction in religion, morals, well,They call me blasphemer and sensualist,But read my poems. ChristianityWas never of rejected things with me.The Decalogue is good enough, I think.And Shelley's theories, atheist speculationsI never shared—nor social dreams. The schemeOf having all things, women, too, in commonMeans common women. I have sinned, I know—I call it sin. The marriage vow I honor,And woman's virtue. Though I stray, I holdThat women should be chaste, though man is not.That's why I placed Allegra in a convent....Now to the letter, and my story of it.The mother, Claire, Claire Claremont, as you know—Pined for Allegra; would possess the childAnd take her from the convent—where? No doubtTo Shelley's nest, where William Godwin's daughterRaised on free love, and Shelley preaching it,And Claire in whom 'tis bred, hold sway, who read,Talk, argue, dream of freedom, all the thingsOpposed to what is in the present order.You know the notes to "Queen Mab." Well, I sayThis suits me not.So Shelley and his wife,Mary, the planet of an hour, since quenched,Conceive I keep Allegra where she isFrom wounded pride, or pique. Hell fire! They thinkI'm hurt for thinking Claire and Shelley joinTheir lips in love, and masque my jealousyBy just this pose of morals, make reprisalUnder a lying flag, and keep AllegraTo punish Claire and sate my jealousyBy this hypocrisy—It makes me laugh.But to pursue. A maid who was dischargedFrom Shelley's household told the credible taleThat Claire was Shelley's mistress, and the HoppnersHeard and believed—why not? As she is fair,And Shelley wrote "Love is like understandingWhich brighter grows gazing on many truths,Increases by division," that himselfCould not accept the code, a man should chooseOne woman and leave all the rest, why not?As for myself, I have not preached this doctrine,Though living it as men do in the world....Oh yes, I know this love called spiritual,Of which old maids, whose milk has gone to brainAnd curdled in the process, and who hate meFor taking men and women as they are,Talk to create belief for self and others.Denial makes philosophies, religions.Indulgence leaves one sane, objectifiesThe eternal womanly, freeing brain of fumes,To work with master hands with love and life.The story rose, however.Then comes ShelleyBearing a letter from his wife, denyingThat Claire and Shelley loved, you understand—By the flesh. Sweet, was it not? Naïve!This letter I should hand the Hoppners, whoBelieved the story, and who held a placePersuasive touching poor Allegra. Well,So Shelley comes and makes the point, the childIs in ill health, Claire, too, in a decline,And hands this letter to me for the Hoppners.And I've misplaced it. Frankly, from the first,Had no fixed purpose to deliver it.What principle makes me collaboratorWith such fantastic business? To resume:He acted like the boy he was. I smiled—Against the flaming rage that burned his face—My mocking smile, he thought, the Don JuanUpcurved my lips. I read his very thoughtBetween words spoken; words that he suppressed:It was that I was glad that Claire was illBecause of that male mood when love of manFinds sustenance where suffering lays lowThe object of desire: If she suffers,The man subdues, devours her. She escapesIf free of love. Oh yes, and this he thought:That I was glad she suffered, since my gloryHad failed to hold her, failed to satisfyHer noble heart! God's wounds! Why Shelley thoughtShe turned to him and with his spirit foundA purity of peace and sweetest friendship,And faith that saves and serves, as men and womenAre to each other souls to serve and save!Poor fool! I read it all, or pieced it outWith words that I picked up from time to time....There was this further thing: I am a man,So say they, who accepts the dying creedThat woman's love is lawless and a toyWhen given if no priest has sanctified it—Not quite, perhaps. The point is further on.In any case 'tis this: that this belief,Mine or part mine, and coloring my acts,Shadowed no whit the brow of Lady Claire.And that I, greatest lover of my time,Had won this lady's body but to loseThe lady's soul, a soul that slipped and fledOut of the hands that clasped her flesh, becauseShe knew me through her gift, thought less of me,And no wise felt herself bound to my lifeBecause she gave her body. Kept her mind,Soul, free, untouched by that gift, by the giftWas cognizant of what is false and poor—(I use some words I heard) in me. And thusI lost her soul, though earlier I had gainedWhat seemed all to me, all I had the geniusTo comprehend in woman! Then comes ShelleyAnd finds her soul, the genuine prize, and IGrow sullen with a consciousness of visionInferior to his. All this they thought.Oh Jesus, what a lie!I have loved Nature, love her now: and womanIs Nature, and my love for nature meansInclusion of the sex. I have not soaredTo heights that sickened me and made me laughAt what I sought—or turned from it. No moonsBehind the clouds; no terrors and no symbols,No Emilia Vivianni's have I had.I know, believe me, love for woman callsA man's soul up to heights too rare to live in.I have not risen, therefore, will not riseWhere thinking stops, because the blood leaves brainTherefore have had no falls, and no recoilsChasing the Plato vision, the star, the wonder,The beauty and the terror, harmonyOf nature's art; the passion that would makeThe loved one of the self-same womb with me,A sister, spouse or angel, dæmon, pilotOf life and fate.How much of truth is here?Dreams seen most vividly by Petrarch, Dante,Who loved without achievement, balking nature,Till Passion, like an involute, pressed inHarder and harder on its starving leaves,Becomes a fragrance—sublimate of selfSucked out of sorrow's earth, at last becomesA meditative madness. All is writtenFairly across my page. "She walks in beauty:""When we two parted," "Could love like a river,""Bright be the place of thy soul." Lines, linesIn "Harold," "Don Juan." Yes, I have loved,But saw how far love lures, how far to venture,Knowing what can and what cannot be madeOf the mystery, the wonder, therefore neverHave had to laugh at self; find VivianniA housemaid shelling corn—not threading pearls.Or sit, with idiot eyes, my bones half broken,Icarus bumped amid a field of stones.I know the hour of farewell. I have said itWhen my heart trembled, stopped as when a horseBraces its terrored feet to keep from plungingOver the precipice. Farewell! Farewell!I know to say, and turn, and pass my way.Why! For that matter, even now behold!Do I feel less than Shelley would in this?I leave the Countess for the war in Greece.What's done is done. What's lived is lived. Come, Doctor,Let's practice with the pistols. Mother of God,What is this thing called Life?

No more of searching, Doctor—let it go.

It can't be lost. I have a memory

I put it in a drawer, or again

I seem to see me tuck it in a pocket

Of some portmanteau. If you find the letter

Deliver it to Moore. But if it's lost,

The story is not lost. I tell you this

To save the story from my side. Attend!

It was this way:

Allegra had becomeA child requiring care, and nutritiveInstruction in religion, morals, well,They call me blasphemer and sensualist,But read my poems. ChristianityWas never of rejected things with me.The Decalogue is good enough, I think.And Shelley's theories, atheist speculationsI never shared—nor social dreams. The schemeOf having all things, women, too, in commonMeans common women. I have sinned, I know—I call it sin. The marriage vow I honor,And woman's virtue. Though I stray, I holdThat women should be chaste, though man is not.That's why I placed Allegra in a convent....

Allegra had become

A child requiring care, and nutritive

Instruction in religion, morals, well,

They call me blasphemer and sensualist,

But read my poems. Christianity

Was never of rejected things with me.

The Decalogue is good enough, I think.

And Shelley's theories, atheist speculations

I never shared—nor social dreams. The scheme

Of having all things, women, too, in common

Means common women. I have sinned, I know—

I call it sin. The marriage vow I honor,

And woman's virtue. Though I stray, I hold

That women should be chaste, though man is not.

That's why I placed Allegra in a convent....

Now to the letter, and my story of it.

The mother, Claire, Claire Claremont, as you know—Pined for Allegra; would possess the childAnd take her from the convent—where? No doubtTo Shelley's nest, where William Godwin's daughterRaised on free love, and Shelley preaching it,And Claire in whom 'tis bred, hold sway, who read,Talk, argue, dream of freedom, all the thingsOpposed to what is in the present order.You know the notes to "Queen Mab." Well, I sayThis suits me not.

The mother, Claire, Claire Claremont, as you know—

Pined for Allegra; would possess the child

And take her from the convent—where? No doubt

To Shelley's nest, where William Godwin's daughter

Raised on free love, and Shelley preaching it,

And Claire in whom 'tis bred, hold sway, who read,

Talk, argue, dream of freedom, all the things

Opposed to what is in the present order.

You know the notes to "Queen Mab." Well, I say

This suits me not.

So Shelley and his wife,Mary, the planet of an hour, since quenched,Conceive I keep Allegra where she isFrom wounded pride, or pique. Hell fire! They thinkI'm hurt for thinking Claire and Shelley joinTheir lips in love, and masque my jealousyBy just this pose of morals, make reprisalUnder a lying flag, and keep AllegraTo punish Claire and sate my jealousyBy this hypocrisy—It makes me laugh.

So Shelley and his wife,

Mary, the planet of an hour, since quenched,

Conceive I keep Allegra where she is

From wounded pride, or pique. Hell fire! They think

I'm hurt for thinking Claire and Shelley join

Their lips in love, and masque my jealousy

By just this pose of morals, make reprisal

Under a lying flag, and keep Allegra

To punish Claire and sate my jealousy

By this hypocrisy—It makes me laugh.

But to pursue. A maid who was dischargedFrom Shelley's household told the credible taleThat Claire was Shelley's mistress, and the HoppnersHeard and believed—why not? As she is fair,And Shelley wrote "Love is like understandingWhich brighter grows gazing on many truths,Increases by division," that himselfCould not accept the code, a man should chooseOne woman and leave all the rest, why not?As for myself, I have not preached this doctrine,Though living it as men do in the world....

But to pursue. A maid who was discharged

From Shelley's household told the credible tale

That Claire was Shelley's mistress, and the Hoppners

Heard and believed—why not? As she is fair,

And Shelley wrote "Love is like understanding

Which brighter grows gazing on many truths,

Increases by division," that himself

Could not accept the code, a man should choose

One woman and leave all the rest, why not?

As for myself, I have not preached this doctrine,

Though living it as men do in the world....

Oh yes, I know this love called spiritual,Of which old maids, whose milk has gone to brainAnd curdled in the process, and who hate meFor taking men and women as they are,Talk to create belief for self and others.

Oh yes, I know this love called spiritual,

Of which old maids, whose milk has gone to brain

And curdled in the process, and who hate me

For taking men and women as they are,

Talk to create belief for self and others.

Denial makes philosophies, religions.Indulgence leaves one sane, objectifiesThe eternal womanly, freeing brain of fumes,To work with master hands with love and life.

Denial makes philosophies, religions.

Indulgence leaves one sane, objectifies

The eternal womanly, freeing brain of fumes,

To work with master hands with love and life.

The story rose, however.

Then comes ShelleyBearing a letter from his wife, denyingThat Claire and Shelley loved, you understand—By the flesh. Sweet, was it not? Naïve!This letter I should hand the Hoppners, whoBelieved the story, and who held a placePersuasive touching poor Allegra. Well,So Shelley comes and makes the point, the childIs in ill health, Claire, too, in a decline,And hands this letter to me for the Hoppners.

Then comes Shelley

Bearing a letter from his wife, denying

That Claire and Shelley loved, you understand—

By the flesh. Sweet, was it not? Naïve!

This letter I should hand the Hoppners, who

Believed the story, and who held a place

Persuasive touching poor Allegra. Well,

So Shelley comes and makes the point, the child

Is in ill health, Claire, too, in a decline,

And hands this letter to me for the Hoppners.

And I've misplaced it. Frankly, from the first,Had no fixed purpose to deliver it.What principle makes me collaboratorWith such fantastic business? To resume:He acted like the boy he was. I smiled—Against the flaming rage that burned his face—My mocking smile, he thought, the Don JuanUpcurved my lips. I read his very thoughtBetween words spoken; words that he suppressed:It was that I was glad that Claire was illBecause of that male mood when love of manFinds sustenance where suffering lays lowThe object of desire: If she suffers,The man subdues, devours her. She escapesIf free of love. Oh yes, and this he thought:That I was glad she suffered, since my gloryHad failed to hold her, failed to satisfyHer noble heart! God's wounds! Why Shelley thoughtShe turned to him and with his spirit foundA purity of peace and sweetest friendship,And faith that saves and serves, as men and womenAre to each other souls to serve and save!Poor fool! I read it all, or pieced it outWith words that I picked up from time to time....

And I've misplaced it. Frankly, from the first,

Had no fixed purpose to deliver it.

What principle makes me collaborator

With such fantastic business? To resume:

He acted like the boy he was. I smiled—

Against the flaming rage that burned his face—

My mocking smile, he thought, the Don Juan

Upcurved my lips. I read his very thought

Between words spoken; words that he suppressed:

It was that I was glad that Claire was ill

Because of that male mood when love of man

Finds sustenance where suffering lays low

The object of desire: If she suffers,

The man subdues, devours her. She escapes

If free of love. Oh yes, and this he thought:

That I was glad she suffered, since my glory

Had failed to hold her, failed to satisfy

Her noble heart! God's wounds! Why Shelley thought

She turned to him and with his spirit found

A purity of peace and sweetest friendship,

And faith that saves and serves, as men and women

Are to each other souls to serve and save!

Poor fool! I read it all, or pieced it out

With words that I picked up from time to time....

There was this further thing: I am a man,So say they, who accepts the dying creedThat woman's love is lawless and a toyWhen given if no priest has sanctified it—Not quite, perhaps. The point is further on.

There was this further thing: I am a man,

So say they, who accepts the dying creed

That woman's love is lawless and a toy

When given if no priest has sanctified it—

Not quite, perhaps. The point is further on.

In any case 'tis this: that this belief,Mine or part mine, and coloring my acts,Shadowed no whit the brow of Lady Claire.And that I, greatest lover of my time,Had won this lady's body but to loseThe lady's soul, a soul that slipped and fledOut of the hands that clasped her flesh, becauseShe knew me through her gift, thought less of me,And no wise felt herself bound to my lifeBecause she gave her body. Kept her mind,Soul, free, untouched by that gift, by the giftWas cognizant of what is false and poor—(I use some words I heard) in me. And thusI lost her soul, though earlier I had gainedWhat seemed all to me, all I had the geniusTo comprehend in woman! Then comes ShelleyAnd finds her soul, the genuine prize, and IGrow sullen with a consciousness of visionInferior to his. All this they thought.Oh Jesus, what a lie!

In any case 'tis this: that this belief,

Mine or part mine, and coloring my acts,

Shadowed no whit the brow of Lady Claire.

And that I, greatest lover of my time,

Had won this lady's body but to lose

The lady's soul, a soul that slipped and fled

Out of the hands that clasped her flesh, because

She knew me through her gift, thought less of me,

And no wise felt herself bound to my life

Because she gave her body. Kept her mind,

Soul, free, untouched by that gift, by the gift

Was cognizant of what is false and poor—

(I use some words I heard) in me. And thus

I lost her soul, though earlier I had gained

What seemed all to me, all I had the genius

To comprehend in woman! Then comes Shelley

And finds her soul, the genuine prize, and I

Grow sullen with a consciousness of vision

Inferior to his. All this they thought.

Oh Jesus, what a lie!

I have loved Nature, love her now: and womanIs Nature, and my love for nature meansInclusion of the sex. I have not soaredTo heights that sickened me and made me laughAt what I sought—or turned from it. No moonsBehind the clouds; no terrors and no symbols,No Emilia Vivianni's have I had.I know, believe me, love for woman callsA man's soul up to heights too rare to live in.I have not risen, therefore, will not riseWhere thinking stops, because the blood leaves brainTherefore have had no falls, and no recoilsChasing the Plato vision, the star, the wonder,The beauty and the terror, harmonyOf nature's art; the passion that would makeThe loved one of the self-same womb with me,A sister, spouse or angel, dæmon, pilotOf life and fate.

I have loved Nature, love her now: and woman

Is Nature, and my love for nature means

Inclusion of the sex. I have not soared

To heights that sickened me and made me laugh

At what I sought—or turned from it. No moons

Behind the clouds; no terrors and no symbols,

No Emilia Vivianni's have I had.

I know, believe me, love for woman calls

A man's soul up to heights too rare to live in.

I have not risen, therefore, will not rise

Where thinking stops, because the blood leaves brain

Therefore have had no falls, and no recoils

Chasing the Plato vision, the star, the wonder,

The beauty and the terror, harmony

Of nature's art; the passion that would make

The loved one of the self-same womb with me,

A sister, spouse or angel, dæmon, pilot

Of life and fate.

How much of truth is here?

Dreams seen most vividly by Petrarch, Dante,Who loved without achievement, balking nature,Till Passion, like an involute, pressed inHarder and harder on its starving leaves,Becomes a fragrance—sublimate of selfSucked out of sorrow's earth, at last becomesA meditative madness. All is writtenFairly across my page. "She walks in beauty:""When we two parted," "Could love like a river,""Bright be the place of thy soul." Lines, linesIn "Harold," "Don Juan." Yes, I have loved,But saw how far love lures, how far to venture,Knowing what can and what cannot be madeOf the mystery, the wonder, therefore neverHave had to laugh at self; find VivianniA housemaid shelling corn—not threading pearls.Or sit, with idiot eyes, my bones half broken,Icarus bumped amid a field of stones.

Dreams seen most vividly by Petrarch, Dante,

Who loved without achievement, balking nature,

Till Passion, like an involute, pressed in

Harder and harder on its starving leaves,

Becomes a fragrance—sublimate of self

Sucked out of sorrow's earth, at last becomes

A meditative madness. All is written

Fairly across my page. "She walks in beauty:"

"When we two parted," "Could love like a river,"

"Bright be the place of thy soul." Lines, lines

In "Harold," "Don Juan." Yes, I have loved,

But saw how far love lures, how far to venture,

Knowing what can and what cannot be made

Of the mystery, the wonder, therefore never

Have had to laugh at self; find Vivianni

A housemaid shelling corn—not threading pearls.

Or sit, with idiot eyes, my bones half broken,

Icarus bumped amid a field of stones.

I know the hour of farewell. I have said itWhen my heart trembled, stopped as when a horseBraces its terrored feet to keep from plungingOver the precipice. Farewell! Farewell!I know to say, and turn, and pass my way.

I know the hour of farewell. I have said it

When my heart trembled, stopped as when a horse

Braces its terrored feet to keep from plunging

Over the precipice. Farewell! Farewell!

I know to say, and turn, and pass my way.

Why! For that matter, even now behold!Do I feel less than Shelley would in this?I leave the Countess for the war in Greece.What's done is done. What's lived is lived. Come, Doctor,Let's practice with the pistols. Mother of God,What is this thing called Life?

Why! For that matter, even now behold!

Do I feel less than Shelley would in this?

I leave the Countess for the war in Greece.

What's done is done. What's lived is lived. Come, Doctor,

Let's practice with the pistols. Mother of God,

What is this thing called Life?

A folding mirror! What may it be?Nothing? Or something? Let me see!Its silver chain is hung to the skyOn a planet nail. And it fronts my eye.No stars reflect themselves at first,The mirrors are dustless, vacant and clean.Not even my face shows—am I cursed?What may the mirrors mean?*****I watch like a cat that waits to mangleA breathless rat in an alley nook.And a little figure steps into the angleMade by the folding mirrors. Look!His thin legs wobble, bend and dangleLike radish roots. He takes the crookOut of his arms and raises them up,As if in panic, or supplication.He bends and peers, whines like a pup,Walks to and fro in his desperation,Pinches his arms and beats his breast;Runs quivering fingers between his hair,Wavers for weariness, sighs for rest,Looks up to the planet that seems to bearThe silver chain like a brad in the wall.Upsprings, searches the mirrors again;Sees for the first the prodigalWaste of stars in the black inane.Stamps with his feet upon the voidHe stands on, paces on, why, he wondersIs he upborned like an asteroid?Hark! The limitless blackness thunders:The Infinite growls, he whirls and shivers,Runs to cover the mirrors to climb.They yield like the waters of phantom rivers.He acts like a soul new born that quiversBefore the mirrors of Space and Time.*****Now what's to do? He must fill in.This emptiness with horror is shod.When did this pageant of things begin?Somewhere hiding there is a God.Some one drove that planet nailInto the blue wall; some one hungThe silver chain. And what is the taleOf the mirrors here in the blackness swung?The soul is naked, weak and alone,And sees its nakedness in the glass.It must create from wood and stone,Wire and reeds, color and brass.It must create though it be but a mime,Make a reality all its ownBefore the mirror of white called Time,Before the mirror of blue called Space.Clasp the vastness between their folds,Find laws, raise altars, dream of a face—Make that real which the hope beholds.*****Our terrored manikin commences,Fattens his littleness with clothes.With crowns and miters puffs his senses,Crushes the grape to drown his woes.Fills full the mirrors with faces. NowThey are dancing before them, age and youth,Laurels or thorns are bound on a brow.They hunt and slay for a thing called Truth.Dig for treasure, toil for riches,Struggle for place—it is well enough!Some lift their busts into chosen niches.All are hungry for peace and love.And only a few are blind, disputeThe thing is a dream. If there be worthIt lies in the strings of the lyre or lute,Sounds that never return to earth;Dreams to seeing eyes reflected,Caught from infinite realms afar.How could they be seen, or recollectedExcept for the Real—except for a Star?*****God in the blackness, whirlwind, lightning,God in the blinding fire of the sunBefore these empty mirrors brighteningSee what we do, what we have done!Out of an astral substance moldingMusic and laws for our hearts' control,Yes, and a hope that the mirrors' foldingLets slip through a growing soul.Are you not proud of us, do you not pity?Is all the glory thine alone?Then if it be, you must take the cityBuilded, demolished stone from stone.All of our madness, weariness, error,Blindness, weakness, pain and loss,Fumbling feebly before the mirror,Yours is the crown, but yours the cross!Yours is the juice of grape or poppiesTo fill the void with a make believe;Yours the hope where never a prop is,The opiates, too, that dull, deceive,No less than nature that lifts eternalVision of Life to quiet the heart:Verse and color that stamp the infernalDragon of Fear with the feet of Art.Yours and ours the consolationsIn loneliness and in terror wroughtOut of our spirits' desolations,Out of our spirits' love and thought!

A folding mirror! What may it be?

Nothing? Or something? Let me see!

Its silver chain is hung to the sky

On a planet nail. And it fronts my eye.

No stars reflect themselves at first,

The mirrors are dustless, vacant and clean.

Not even my face shows—am I cursed?

What may the mirrors mean?

*****

I watch like a cat that waits to mangleA breathless rat in an alley nook.And a little figure steps into the angleMade by the folding mirrors. Look!His thin legs wobble, bend and dangleLike radish roots. He takes the crookOut of his arms and raises them up,As if in panic, or supplication.He bends and peers, whines like a pup,Walks to and fro in his desperation,Pinches his arms and beats his breast;Runs quivering fingers between his hair,Wavers for weariness, sighs for rest,Looks up to the planet that seems to bearThe silver chain like a brad in the wall.Upsprings, searches the mirrors again;Sees for the first the prodigalWaste of stars in the black inane.Stamps with his feet upon the voidHe stands on, paces on, why, he wondersIs he upborned like an asteroid?Hark! The limitless blackness thunders:The Infinite growls, he whirls and shivers,Runs to cover the mirrors to climb.They yield like the waters of phantom rivers.He acts like a soul new born that quiversBefore the mirrors of Space and Time.

I watch like a cat that waits to mangle

A breathless rat in an alley nook.

And a little figure steps into the angle

Made by the folding mirrors. Look!

His thin legs wobble, bend and dangle

Like radish roots. He takes the crook

Out of his arms and raises them up,

As if in panic, or supplication.

He bends and peers, whines like a pup,

Walks to and fro in his desperation,

Pinches his arms and beats his breast;

Runs quivering fingers between his hair,

Wavers for weariness, sighs for rest,

Looks up to the planet that seems to bear

The silver chain like a brad in the wall.

Upsprings, searches the mirrors again;

Sees for the first the prodigal

Waste of stars in the black inane.

Stamps with his feet upon the void

He stands on, paces on, why, he wonders

Is he upborned like an asteroid?

Hark! The limitless blackness thunders:

The Infinite growls, he whirls and shivers,

Runs to cover the mirrors to climb.

They yield like the waters of phantom rivers.

He acts like a soul new born that quivers

Before the mirrors of Space and Time.

*****

Now what's to do? He must fill in.This emptiness with horror is shod.When did this pageant of things begin?Somewhere hiding there is a God.Some one drove that planet nailInto the blue wall; some one hungThe silver chain. And what is the taleOf the mirrors here in the blackness swung?The soul is naked, weak and alone,And sees its nakedness in the glass.It must create from wood and stone,Wire and reeds, color and brass.It must create though it be but a mime,Make a reality all its ownBefore the mirror of white called Time,Before the mirror of blue called Space.Clasp the vastness between their folds,Find laws, raise altars, dream of a face—Make that real which the hope beholds.

Now what's to do? He must fill in.

This emptiness with horror is shod.

When did this pageant of things begin?

Somewhere hiding there is a God.

Some one drove that planet nail

Into the blue wall; some one hung

The silver chain. And what is the tale

Of the mirrors here in the blackness swung?

The soul is naked, weak and alone,

And sees its nakedness in the glass.

It must create from wood and stone,

Wire and reeds, color and brass.

It must create though it be but a mime,

Make a reality all its own

Before the mirror of white called Time,

Before the mirror of blue called Space.

Clasp the vastness between their folds,

Find laws, raise altars, dream of a face—

Make that real which the hope beholds.

*****

Our terrored manikin commences,Fattens his littleness with clothes.With crowns and miters puffs his senses,Crushes the grape to drown his woes.Fills full the mirrors with faces. NowThey are dancing before them, age and youth,Laurels or thorns are bound on a brow.They hunt and slay for a thing called Truth.Dig for treasure, toil for riches,Struggle for place—it is well enough!Some lift their busts into chosen niches.All are hungry for peace and love.And only a few are blind, disputeThe thing is a dream. If there be worthIt lies in the strings of the lyre or lute,Sounds that never return to earth;Dreams to seeing eyes reflected,Caught from infinite realms afar.How could they be seen, or recollectedExcept for the Real—except for a Star?

Our terrored manikin commences,

Fattens his littleness with clothes.

With crowns and miters puffs his senses,

Crushes the grape to drown his woes.

Fills full the mirrors with faces. Now

They are dancing before them, age and youth,

Laurels or thorns are bound on a brow.

They hunt and slay for a thing called Truth.

Dig for treasure, toil for riches,

Struggle for place—it is well enough!

Some lift their busts into chosen niches.

All are hungry for peace and love.

And only a few are blind, dispute

The thing is a dream. If there be worth

It lies in the strings of the lyre or lute,

Sounds that never return to earth;

Dreams to seeing eyes reflected,

Caught from infinite realms afar.

How could they be seen, or recollected

Except for the Real—except for a Star?

*****

God in the blackness, whirlwind, lightning,God in the blinding fire of the sunBefore these empty mirrors brighteningSee what we do, what we have done!Out of an astral substance moldingMusic and laws for our hearts' control,Yes, and a hope that the mirrors' foldingLets slip through a growing soul.Are you not proud of us, do you not pity?Is all the glory thine alone?Then if it be, you must take the cityBuilded, demolished stone from stone.All of our madness, weariness, error,Blindness, weakness, pain and loss,Fumbling feebly before the mirror,Yours is the crown, but yours the cross!Yours is the juice of grape or poppiesTo fill the void with a make believe;Yours the hope where never a prop is,The opiates, too, that dull, deceive,No less than nature that lifts eternalVision of Life to quiet the heart:Verse and color that stamp the infernalDragon of Fear with the feet of Art.Yours and ours the consolationsIn loneliness and in terror wroughtOut of our spirits' desolations,Out of our spirits' love and thought!

God in the blackness, whirlwind, lightning,

God in the blinding fire of the sun

Before these empty mirrors brightening

See what we do, what we have done!

Out of an astral substance molding

Music and laws for our hearts' control,

Yes, and a hope that the mirrors' folding

Lets slip through a growing soul.

Are you not proud of us, do you not pity?

Is all the glory thine alone?

Then if it be, you must take the city

Builded, demolished stone from stone.

All of our madness, weariness, error,

Blindness, weakness, pain and loss,

Fumbling feebly before the mirror,

Yours is the crown, but yours the cross!

Yours is the juice of grape or poppies

To fill the void with a make believe;

Yours the hope where never a prop is,

The opiates, too, that dull, deceive,

No less than nature that lifts eternal

Vision of Life to quiet the heart:

Verse and color that stamp the infernal

Dragon of Fear with the feet of Art.

Yours and ours the consolations

In loneliness and in terror wrought

Out of our spirits' desolations,

Out of our spirits' love and thought!

Eyes that have long looked on the world,Taken and stored the soul of outward things,Dread to look on themselves,In the mirror to gaze upon their mirrorings!There to behold what time has done, what thoughtHas changed their look and light.I have lost my face through sorrow and dreamsAnd dare not find it, lest it smiteThis self to-day, since I may not restoreMy old self who in gladness without terrorBeheld and knew myselfEach morning in the mirror!In the long quest of love I may have foundA spirit after whom my passion lusted.But I had trust not giving love,I have given love to hearts I have not trusted.One thing has come that I would never see,Hidden or trembling in my eyes:Love in the mirror shown fatigued and mild,Hopeless and wise.

Eyes that have long looked on the world,Taken and stored the soul of outward things,Dread to look on themselves,In the mirror to gaze upon their mirrorings!

Eyes that have long looked on the world,

Taken and stored the soul of outward things,

Dread to look on themselves,

In the mirror to gaze upon their mirrorings!

There to behold what time has done, what thoughtHas changed their look and light.I have lost my face through sorrow and dreamsAnd dare not find it, lest it smite

There to behold what time has done, what thought

Has changed their look and light.

I have lost my face through sorrow and dreams

And dare not find it, lest it smite

This self to-day, since I may not restoreMy old self who in gladness without terrorBeheld and knew myselfEach morning in the mirror!

This self to-day, since I may not restore

My old self who in gladness without terror

Beheld and knew myself

Each morning in the mirror!

In the long quest of love I may have foundA spirit after whom my passion lusted.But I had trust not giving love,I have given love to hearts I have not trusted.

In the long quest of love I may have found

A spirit after whom my passion lusted.

But I had trust not giving love,

I have given love to hearts I have not trusted.

One thing has come that I would never see,Hidden or trembling in my eyes:Love in the mirror shown fatigued and mild,Hopeless and wise.

One thing has come that I would never see,

Hidden or trembling in my eyes:

Love in the mirror shown fatigued and mild,

Hopeless and wise.

The wild birds among the reedsCry, exult and stretch their wings.Out of the sky they driftAnd sink to the water's rushes.But the wild birds beat their wings and cryTo the newcomer out of the sky!Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky?Or do they cry to him because of remembered placesAnd remembered daysSpent togetherIn the north-land, or the south-land?Is this the ecstasy of renewal,Or the ecstasy of beginning?For the wild bird touches his billAgainst a mate;He brushes her wing with his wing;He quivers with delightFor the cool sky of blue,And the touch of her wing!The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water,Some for the south,Some for the north.They are gone—Lost in the sky!In what water do these mates of a morningExult on the morrow?What wild birds will cry to them as they sinkOut of an unknown sky?To whose cry will she quiverThrough her burnished wings to-morrow,In the north-land,In the south-land,Far away?

The wild birds among the reedsCry, exult and stretch their wings.Out of the sky they driftAnd sink to the water's rushes.But the wild birds beat their wings and cryTo the newcomer out of the sky!

The wild birds among the reeds

Cry, exult and stretch their wings.

Out of the sky they drift

And sink to the water's rushes.

But the wild birds beat their wings and cry

To the newcomer out of the sky!

Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky?Or do they cry to him because of remembered placesAnd remembered daysSpent togetherIn the north-land, or the south-land?

Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky?

Or do they cry to him because of remembered places

And remembered days

Spent together

In the north-land, or the south-land?

Is this the ecstasy of renewal,Or the ecstasy of beginning?For the wild bird touches his billAgainst a mate;He brushes her wing with his wing;He quivers with delightFor the cool sky of blue,And the touch of her wing!

Is this the ecstasy of renewal,

Or the ecstasy of beginning?

For the wild bird touches his bill

Against a mate;

He brushes her wing with his wing;

He quivers with delight

For the cool sky of blue,

And the touch of her wing!

The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water,Some for the south,Some for the north.They are gone—Lost in the sky!

The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water,

Some for the south,

Some for the north.

They are gone—

Lost in the sky!

In what water do these mates of a morningExult on the morrow?What wild birds will cry to them as they sinkOut of an unknown sky?To whose cry will she quiverThrough her burnished wings to-morrow,In the north-land,In the south-land,Far away?

In what water do these mates of a morning

Exult on the morrow?

What wild birds will cry to them as they sink

Out of an unknown sky?

To whose cry will she quiver

Through her burnished wings to-morrow,

In the north-land,

In the south-land,

Far away?

She sleeps beneath a canopy of carnation silk,Embroidered with Venetian lace,Between linens that crush in the handSoft as down.Waking, she looks through a windowCurtained with carnation silk,Embroidered with Venetian lace,The walls are hung with velvetEmbossed with afleur de lis,And around her is the silence of richness,Where foot-falls are like exhalationsFrom carpets of moss.Little clocks tinkle.Medallions priceless as jewelsLie by jars suspiring like coals of fire.And a maid prepares the bath,Tincturing delicious water with exquisite essences.And she is served with coffeeIn cups as thin as petals,Sitting amid pillows that breatheThe souls of freesia!All things are hers:Fishes from all seas,Fruits from all climes.The city lies at her command,And is summoned by buttonsWhich are pressed for her.Noiselessly feet move on many floors,Serving her.Wheels that turn under coachesOf crystal and ebony,And yachts dreaming in strange waters,And wings—all are hers!And she is free:Her husband comes and goesFrom his suite below hers.She never sees him,Nor knows his ways, nor his days.But she is very wearyAnd all alone amid her servants,And guests that come and go.Her lips are red,Her skin is soft and smooth—But the page blurs before her eyes.Her eyelids are languid,And droop from weariness,Though she will not restFrom the long pursuit of love!Her hair is white;The skin of her faultless neckEdges in creasesAs she turns her perfect head.And the days dawn and die.What day that dawns will bring her love?And day by day she waits for the dawnOf a new life, a great love!But every morning brings its remembranceOf the increasing years that are gone.And every evening brings its fearOf death which must come,Until her nerves are shakenLike a woman's hair in the wind—What must be done?Some one tells her that God is love.And when the fears comeShe says to self over and over,"God is love! God is love!All is well."And she wins a little oblivion,Through saying "God is love,"From the truth in her heart which cries:"Love is life,Love is a lover,And love is God!"She is a flowerWhich the spring has nourished,And the summer exhausted.Fall is at hand.Weird zephyrs stir her leaves and blossoms;And she says to herself, "It is not fall,For God is love!"My poor flower!May this therapy ease you into sleep,And the folding of jewelless hands!You are beginning to be sickOf the incurable disease of age,And the weariness of futile flesh!

She sleeps beneath a canopy of carnation silk,

Embroidered with Venetian lace,

Between linens that crush in the hand

Soft as down.

Waking, she looks through a window

Curtained with carnation silk,

Embroidered with Venetian lace,

The walls are hung with velvet

Embossed with afleur de lis,

And around her is the silence of richness,

Where foot-falls are like exhalations

From carpets of moss.

Little clocks tinkle.

Medallions priceless as jewels

Lie by jars suspiring like coals of fire.

And a maid prepares the bath,

Tincturing delicious water with exquisite essences.

And she is served with coffee

In cups as thin as petals,

Sitting amid pillows that breathe

The souls of freesia!

All things are hers:Fishes from all seas,Fruits from all climes.The city lies at her command,And is summoned by buttonsWhich are pressed for her.Noiselessly feet move on many floors,Serving her.Wheels that turn under coachesOf crystal and ebony,And yachts dreaming in strange waters,And wings—all are hers!And she is free:Her husband comes and goesFrom his suite below hers.She never sees him,Nor knows his ways, nor his days.

All things are hers:

Fishes from all seas,

Fruits from all climes.

The city lies at her command,

And is summoned by buttons

Which are pressed for her.

Noiselessly feet move on many floors,

Serving her.

Wheels that turn under coaches

Of crystal and ebony,

And yachts dreaming in strange waters,

And wings—all are hers!

And she is free:

Her husband comes and goes

From his suite below hers.

She never sees him,

Nor knows his ways, nor his days.

But she is very wearyAnd all alone amid her servants,And guests that come and go.Her lips are red,Her skin is soft and smooth—But the page blurs before her eyes.Her eyelids are languid,And droop from weariness,Though she will not restFrom the long pursuit of love!Her hair is white;The skin of her faultless neckEdges in creasesAs she turns her perfect head.And the days dawn and die.What day that dawns will bring her love?And day by day she waits for the dawnOf a new life, a great love!

But she is very weary

And all alone amid her servants,

And guests that come and go.

Her lips are red,

Her skin is soft and smooth—

But the page blurs before her eyes.

Her eyelids are languid,

And droop from weariness,

Though she will not rest

From the long pursuit of love!

Her hair is white;

The skin of her faultless neck

Edges in creases

As she turns her perfect head.

And the days dawn and die.

What day that dawns will bring her love?

And day by day she waits for the dawn

Of a new life, a great love!

But every morning brings its remembranceOf the increasing years that are gone.And every evening brings its fearOf death which must come,Until her nerves are shakenLike a woman's hair in the wind—What must be done?Some one tells her that God is love.And when the fears comeShe says to self over and over,"God is love! God is love!All is well."And she wins a little oblivion,Through saying "God is love,"From the truth in her heart which cries:"Love is life,Love is a lover,And love is God!"

But every morning brings its remembrance

Of the increasing years that are gone.

And every evening brings its fear

Of death which must come,

Until her nerves are shaken

Like a woman's hair in the wind—

What must be done?

Some one tells her that God is love.

And when the fears come

She says to self over and over,

"God is love! God is love!

All is well."

And she wins a little oblivion,

Through saying "God is love,"

From the truth in her heart which cries:

"Love is life,

Love is a lover,

And love is God!"

She is a flowerWhich the spring has nourished,And the summer exhausted.Fall is at hand.Weird zephyrs stir her leaves and blossoms;And she says to herself, "It is not fall,For God is love!"

She is a flower

Which the spring has nourished,

And the summer exhausted.

Fall is at hand.

Weird zephyrs stir her leaves and blossoms;

And she says to herself, "It is not fall,

For God is love!"

My poor flower!May this therapy ease you into sleep,And the folding of jewelless hands!You are beginning to be sickOf the incurable disease of age,And the weariness of futile flesh!

My poor flower!

May this therapy ease you into sleep,

And the folding of jewelless hands!

You are beginning to be sick

Of the incurable disease of age,

And the weariness of futile flesh!

Scarce had I written: it were bestTo crush this love, to give you up,Drink at one draught the bitter cup,And kill this new life in my breast,Than Parker's breathing seemed to giveOminous sound the end was near.I did so want this man to live—This negro soldier, dear.'Twas three in the morning, all was stillBut Parker's rattle in the throat,Outside I heard the whippoorwill.The new moon like an Indian boatHung just above the darkened grove,Where you and I had pledged our love,When you were here. Such precious hours,Such fleeting moments then were ours ...Alone here in the silent ward,With Parker dying, I was scared.His breath came short, his lips were blue.I asked him: "Is there something more,Parker, that I can do for you?""Please hold my hand," he said. BeforeI took it, it was growing cold—Death, how quick it comes!Then next I seemed to hear the drums—For I had fainted for his eyesThat stared with such a wide surprise,As the lids fell apart they stared,As if they saw what to beholdHad startled his poor soul which faredWhere it would not. I heard the drums,The bugle next, lay there so faintWith Parker's eyes still in my view,Like bubble motes which flit and paintThemselves upon the heaven's blue.An orderly had mailed meanwhileThat letter, to you, there I layToo weak to write again, unsayWhat I had written.Down the aisle,Between our beds a step I heard,A voice: "Our order's here, we leaveIn half an hour for France." I stirredLike a dead thing, could scarce conceiveWhat tragedy was come. No chanceTo write you or to telegraph.In twelve hours more, as in a tranceI looked from Ellis Island, whereMy chums could gayly talk and laugh.In two hours more we sailed for France.All this was hard, but still to bearThe knowledge of you, your despair,Or change, or bitterness, if you thoughtThat letter came from me, was wroughtOut of a heart that could not stakeIts own blood for your sake.I will come back to you at lengthIf I but live and have the strength.How will you like me with hair white,And wasted cheeks, deep lined and pale?It all began that dreadful nightOf Parker's death, the strain and fright,The letter it seemed best to write—From then to now I have been frail.Our ship just missed a submarine,And here the hardships, gas-gangrene,The horrors and the deaths have strippedMy life of everything. Is it to proveFor duty, you, though bloody-lipped,And fallen my unconquerable loveFor country and for you through all,Whatever fate befall?What is my soul's great anguish for?For what this tragedy of war?For what the fate that says to us:Part hands and be magnanimous?For what the judgment which decreesThe mother love in me to cease?For separation, hopeless milesOf land and water us between?For what the devil force that smilesAt man's immedicable pain?I have not lost my faith in God.Life has grown dark, I only say:Dear God, my feet have lost the way.Religion, wisdom do not giveA place to stand, a space to live.I have not lost my faith in love,That somehow it must rise aboveThe clouds of earth, I still can restIn dreams sometimes upon your breast.But, oh, it seems sometimes a playWhere gods are picking a bouquet:The blossom of war, my soul or yoursMore fragrant grown as it endures....

Scarce had I written: it were best

To crush this love, to give you up,

Drink at one draught the bitter cup,

And kill this new life in my breast,

Than Parker's breathing seemed to give

Ominous sound the end was near.

I did so want this man to live—

This negro soldier, dear.

'Twas three in the morning, all was stillBut Parker's rattle in the throat,Outside I heard the whippoorwill.The new moon like an Indian boatHung just above the darkened grove,Where you and I had pledged our love,When you were here. Such precious hours,Such fleeting moments then were ours ...Alone here in the silent ward,With Parker dying, I was scared.His breath came short, his lips were blue.I asked him: "Is there something more,Parker, that I can do for you?""Please hold my hand," he said. BeforeI took it, it was growing cold—Death, how quick it comes!Then next I seemed to hear the drums—For I had fainted for his eyesThat stared with such a wide surprise,As the lids fell apart they stared,As if they saw what to beholdHad startled his poor soul which faredWhere it would not. I heard the drums,The bugle next, lay there so faintWith Parker's eyes still in my view,Like bubble motes which flit and paintThemselves upon the heaven's blue.An orderly had mailed meanwhileThat letter, to you, there I layToo weak to write again, unsayWhat I had written.

'Twas three in the morning, all was still

But Parker's rattle in the throat,

Outside I heard the whippoorwill.

The new moon like an Indian boat

Hung just above the darkened grove,

Where you and I had pledged our love,

When you were here. Such precious hours,

Such fleeting moments then were ours ...

Alone here in the silent ward,

With Parker dying, I was scared.

His breath came short, his lips were blue.

I asked him: "Is there something more,

Parker, that I can do for you?"

"Please hold my hand," he said. Before

I took it, it was growing cold—

Death, how quick it comes!

Then next I seemed to hear the drums—

For I had fainted for his eyes

That stared with such a wide surprise,

As the lids fell apart they stared,

As if they saw what to behold

Had startled his poor soul which fared

Where it would not. I heard the drums,

The bugle next, lay there so faint

With Parker's eyes still in my view,

Like bubble motes which flit and paint

Themselves upon the heaven's blue.

An orderly had mailed meanwhile

That letter, to you, there I lay

Too weak to write again, unsay

What I had written.

Down the aisle,Between our beds a step I heard,A voice: "Our order's here, we leaveIn half an hour for France." I stirredLike a dead thing, could scarce conceiveWhat tragedy was come. No chanceTo write you or to telegraph.In twelve hours more, as in a tranceI looked from Ellis Island, whereMy chums could gayly talk and laugh.In two hours more we sailed for France.All this was hard, but still to bearThe knowledge of you, your despair,Or change, or bitterness, if you thoughtThat letter came from me, was wroughtOut of a heart that could not stakeIts own blood for your sake.

Down the aisle,

Between our beds a step I heard,

A voice: "Our order's here, we leave

In half an hour for France." I stirred

Like a dead thing, could scarce conceive

What tragedy was come. No chance

To write you or to telegraph.

In twelve hours more, as in a trance

I looked from Ellis Island, where

My chums could gayly talk and laugh.

In two hours more we sailed for France.

All this was hard, but still to bear

The knowledge of you, your despair,

Or change, or bitterness, if you thought

That letter came from me, was wrought

Out of a heart that could not stake

Its own blood for your sake.

I will come back to you at lengthIf I but live and have the strength.How will you like me with hair white,And wasted cheeks, deep lined and pale?It all began that dreadful nightOf Parker's death, the strain and fright,The letter it seemed best to write—From then to now I have been frail.Our ship just missed a submarine,And here the hardships, gas-gangrene,The horrors and the deaths have strippedMy life of everything. Is it to proveFor duty, you, though bloody-lipped,And fallen my unconquerable loveFor country and for you through all,Whatever fate befall?

I will come back to you at length

If I but live and have the strength.

How will you like me with hair white,

And wasted cheeks, deep lined and pale?

It all began that dreadful night

Of Parker's death, the strain and fright,

The letter it seemed best to write—

From then to now I have been frail.

Our ship just missed a submarine,

And here the hardships, gas-gangrene,

The horrors and the deaths have stripped

My life of everything. Is it to prove

For duty, you, though bloody-lipped,

And fallen my unconquerable love

For country and for you through all,

Whatever fate befall?

What is my soul's great anguish for?For what this tragedy of war?For what the fate that says to us:Part hands and be magnanimous?For what the judgment which decreesThe mother love in me to cease?For separation, hopeless milesOf land and water us between?For what the devil force that smilesAt man's immedicable pain?

What is my soul's great anguish for?

For what this tragedy of war?

For what the fate that says to us:

Part hands and be magnanimous?

For what the judgment which decrees

The mother love in me to cease?

For separation, hopeless miles

Of land and water us between?

For what the devil force that smiles

At man's immedicable pain?

I have not lost my faith in God.Life has grown dark, I only say:Dear God, my feet have lost the way.Religion, wisdom do not giveA place to stand, a space to live.I have not lost my faith in love,That somehow it must rise aboveThe clouds of earth, I still can restIn dreams sometimes upon your breast.But, oh, it seems sometimes a playWhere gods are picking a bouquet:The blossom of war, my soul or yoursMore fragrant grown as it endures....

I have not lost my faith in God.

Life has grown dark, I only say:

Dear God, my feet have lost the way.

Religion, wisdom do not give

A place to stand, a space to live.

I have not lost my faith in love,

That somehow it must rise above

The clouds of earth, I still can rest

In dreams sometimes upon your breast.

But, oh, it seems sometimes a play

Where gods are picking a bouquet:

The blossom of war, my soul or yours

More fragrant grown as it endures....

Homer saw nations, armies, multitudes—You saw them in the intimate interludesOf Brutus' soul at midnight in a tentWhen the infection festers the event.Ulysses' course is changed by the sea's trough.You saw an epoch when a hat blows off.Orestes fled the Furies, won his peaceThrough Apollo in old Greece.But who unbars the mouse traps of your world,Or kills the ambushed serpent where it's curled?Your Fates return, and Fortinbras draws inOn Hamlet's impotence and Gertrude's sin.All oceans in a raindrop, drops of dewContaining perfect heavens starred and blue;Angels who mother Calibans, and hopesAre of your vision—great mosaics huedWith thoughts of princes, poets, misanthropes,Reveal their minute colors closer viewed.Atomies, maggots, worms or gilded flies,Nothing too small or foul is for your eyes.You made a culture of dreams lost or wonLike Robert Browning, Emily Dickinson.You looked in heaven when the lightning shone,Then saw a fairy's whip of cricket bone.For gods and men bacteriologistOf spiritual microbes hidden which subsistIn moments of red joy—calm satiristOf worlds forsaken for a woman's hair,Kings slain, states crumbled, heroes false or fair,The madness of the flesh, love on the wrack,A white maid married to a soldier black.Incests, adulteries and secret sins,The fall of monarchs and of manikins.All men at last a rattling empty pod,All men destroyed like flies for sport of God.All Life at last an idiot's furious tale—You had the strength to say this and not quail!For you what were the unities, the rulesOf Plautus, Corneille or the Grecian schools?Flame through a pipe will sing, perhaps, when blownAgainst the craftsman's silver, but the toneOf worlds in conflagration, that's to beThe sacred fire with wings outspread and free,Wherein an Athens falls, a Sidon stands,And where a freezing clown may warm his hands.If you could empty out a tiger's brainAnd wire up its spinal cord againTo Sappho's brain, it would no doubt devourThe tiger's nerves and sinews in an hour.Such muscles and such bones could not endureThe avid hunger of a fire so pure.And you, Will Shakspeare, spirit sensitive,You lived past fifty, that is long to liveAnd feed a flame like yours, and let the flameRemake itself and lap at flesh and frame.I say with Jesus, wisdom's eyes are blindTo seek a poet out and think to findA slender reed that's shaken by the wind.Come cyclops of the counter, millionaires,Lawyers and statesmen in the world's affairs,And thin away like flesh which acid eatsUnder the passion even of John Keats.But if you felt and saw love, agony,As Shakspeare knew them you would quickly die.There is no tragedy like the gift of song,It keeps you mortal but demands you strong;It gives you God's eyes blurred with human tears,And crowns a thousand lives in fifty years.Enter the breathless silence where God dwells,See and record all heavens and all hells!

Homer saw nations, armies, multitudes—

You saw them in the intimate interludes

Of Brutus' soul at midnight in a tent

When the infection festers the event.

Ulysses' course is changed by the sea's trough.

You saw an epoch when a hat blows off.

Orestes fled the Furies, won his peace

Through Apollo in old Greece.

But who unbars the mouse traps of your world,

Or kills the ambushed serpent where it's curled?

Your Fates return, and Fortinbras draws in

On Hamlet's impotence and Gertrude's sin.

All oceans in a raindrop, drops of dew

Containing perfect heavens starred and blue;

Angels who mother Calibans, and hopes

Are of your vision—great mosaics hued

With thoughts of princes, poets, misanthropes,

Reveal their minute colors closer viewed.

Atomies, maggots, worms or gilded flies,

Nothing too small or foul is for your eyes.

You made a culture of dreams lost or won

Like Robert Browning, Emily Dickinson.

You looked in heaven when the lightning shone,

Then saw a fairy's whip of cricket bone.

For gods and men bacteriologist

Of spiritual microbes hidden which subsist

In moments of red joy—calm satirist

Of worlds forsaken for a woman's hair,

Kings slain, states crumbled, heroes false or fair,

The madness of the flesh, love on the wrack,

A white maid married to a soldier black.

Incests, adulteries and secret sins,

The fall of monarchs and of manikins.

All men at last a rattling empty pod,

All men destroyed like flies for sport of God.

All Life at last an idiot's furious tale—

You had the strength to say this and not quail!

For you what were the unities, the rules

Of Plautus, Corneille or the Grecian schools?

Flame through a pipe will sing, perhaps, when blown

Against the craftsman's silver, but the tone

Of worlds in conflagration, that's to be

The sacred fire with wings outspread and free,

Wherein an Athens falls, a Sidon stands,

And where a freezing clown may warm his hands.

If you could empty out a tiger's brainAnd wire up its spinal cord againTo Sappho's brain, it would no doubt devourThe tiger's nerves and sinews in an hour.Such muscles and such bones could not endureThe avid hunger of a fire so pure.And you, Will Shakspeare, spirit sensitive,You lived past fifty, that is long to liveAnd feed a flame like yours, and let the flameRemake itself and lap at flesh and frame.I say with Jesus, wisdom's eyes are blindTo seek a poet out and think to findA slender reed that's shaken by the wind.Come cyclops of the counter, millionaires,Lawyers and statesmen in the world's affairs,And thin away like flesh which acid eatsUnder the passion even of John Keats.But if you felt and saw love, agony,As Shakspeare knew them you would quickly die.There is no tragedy like the gift of song,It keeps you mortal but demands you strong;It gives you God's eyes blurred with human tears,And crowns a thousand lives in fifty years.Enter the breathless silence where God dwells,See and record all heavens and all hells!

If you could empty out a tiger's brain

And wire up its spinal cord again

To Sappho's brain, it would no doubt devour

The tiger's nerves and sinews in an hour.

Such muscles and such bones could not endure

The avid hunger of a fire so pure.

And you, Will Shakspeare, spirit sensitive,

You lived past fifty, that is long to live

And feed a flame like yours, and let the flame

Remake itself and lap at flesh and frame.

I say with Jesus, wisdom's eyes are blind

To seek a poet out and think to find

A slender reed that's shaken by the wind.

Come cyclops of the counter, millionaires,

Lawyers and statesmen in the world's affairs,

And thin away like flesh which acid eats

Under the passion even of John Keats.

But if you felt and saw love, agony,

As Shakspeare knew them you would quickly die.

There is no tragedy like the gift of song,

It keeps you mortal but demands you strong;

It gives you God's eyes blurred with human tears,

And crowns a thousand lives in fifty years.

Enter the breathless silence where God dwells,

See and record all heavens and all hells!

Love began with both of them so gentlyMeeting, neither thought nor looked intently.Afterward her breath invoked the fire—Breath to breath set burning their desire.Is there aught in flesh or is it spiritConscious of its kindred soul when near it?Woe to flesh or soul that's wholly wakenedWhile the other's soul-depths lie unshakened!How could she give him all sacred blisses,Long embraces, in the darkness kisses,If she was not his, all else forgetting,Lovers gone and other loves' regretting?That was just the place her gold was leadened—Flesh there too alive, to him all deadened.She could harp not to his playing wholly,Yet his heart strings trembled for her solely.So this love play hastened to the curtain.Each one spoke his lines in accents certain,While at times behind the wings her glancesWarmed the prompter's treasonous advances.Is there greater martyrdom than this is?You have staked your soul where the abyss is.You have given all—oh sorry barterYou have lit the fire for you the martyr.You will still love on, or turn to hating,Days depart, your heart stays in its waiting,Where's the blame? She gave her heart's half measure,All she had, for all your soul's full treasure.What's the half to keep, could you achieve it?What your treasure if you could retrieve it?Never more shall you again bestow it ...Now you have a song if you're a poet.Now you're ever dumb if song's denied you,You shall be more dumb than all beside you,While your soul is shaken by its torrents—Dante songless in a Dante Florence.Age shall not make strong, nor deeper learning.Grief grows clearer with your eye's discerning.Pass the years, but oh the soil grows faster—Richer for the roots of your disaster.Ends the play—for what is life but dying?What is love but fire forever crying?What your soul but love's pure carbon fuel?Love and life make ashes of the jewel!

Love began with both of them so gentlyMeeting, neither thought nor looked intently.Afterward her breath invoked the fire—Breath to breath set burning their desire.

Love began with both of them so gently

Meeting, neither thought nor looked intently.

Afterward her breath invoked the fire—

Breath to breath set burning their desire.

Is there aught in flesh or is it spiritConscious of its kindred soul when near it?Woe to flesh or soul that's wholly wakenedWhile the other's soul-depths lie unshakened!

Is there aught in flesh or is it spirit

Conscious of its kindred soul when near it?

Woe to flesh or soul that's wholly wakened

While the other's soul-depths lie unshakened!

How could she give him all sacred blisses,Long embraces, in the darkness kisses,If she was not his, all else forgetting,Lovers gone and other loves' regretting?

How could she give him all sacred blisses,

Long embraces, in the darkness kisses,

If she was not his, all else forgetting,

Lovers gone and other loves' regretting?

That was just the place her gold was leadened—Flesh there too alive, to him all deadened.She could harp not to his playing wholly,Yet his heart strings trembled for her solely.

That was just the place her gold was leadened—

Flesh there too alive, to him all deadened.

She could harp not to his playing wholly,

Yet his heart strings trembled for her solely.

So this love play hastened to the curtain.Each one spoke his lines in accents certain,While at times behind the wings her glancesWarmed the prompter's treasonous advances.

So this love play hastened to the curtain.

Each one spoke his lines in accents certain,

While at times behind the wings her glances

Warmed the prompter's treasonous advances.

Is there greater martyrdom than this is?You have staked your soul where the abyss is.You have given all—oh sorry barterYou have lit the fire for you the martyr.

Is there greater martyrdom than this is?

You have staked your soul where the abyss is.

You have given all—oh sorry barter

You have lit the fire for you the martyr.

You will still love on, or turn to hating,Days depart, your heart stays in its waiting,Where's the blame? She gave her heart's half measure,All she had, for all your soul's full treasure.

You will still love on, or turn to hating,

Days depart, your heart stays in its waiting,

Where's the blame? She gave her heart's half measure,

All she had, for all your soul's full treasure.

What's the half to keep, could you achieve it?What your treasure if you could retrieve it?Never more shall you again bestow it ...Now you have a song if you're a poet.

What's the half to keep, could you achieve it?

What your treasure if you could retrieve it?

Never more shall you again bestow it ...

Now you have a song if you're a poet.

Now you're ever dumb if song's denied you,You shall be more dumb than all beside you,While your soul is shaken by its torrents—Dante songless in a Dante Florence.

Now you're ever dumb if song's denied you,

You shall be more dumb than all beside you,

While your soul is shaken by its torrents—

Dante songless in a Dante Florence.

Age shall not make strong, nor deeper learning.Grief grows clearer with your eye's discerning.Pass the years, but oh the soil grows faster—Richer for the roots of your disaster.

Age shall not make strong, nor deeper learning.

Grief grows clearer with your eye's discerning.

Pass the years, but oh the soil grows faster—

Richer for the roots of your disaster.

Ends the play—for what is life but dying?What is love but fire forever crying?What your soul but love's pure carbon fuel?Love and life make ashes of the jewel!

Ends the play—for what is life but dying?

What is love but fire forever crying?

What your soul but love's pure carbon fuel?

Love and life make ashes of the jewel!

IOn the gray paper of this mist and fogWith dust for the erasure and with smokeFor drawing crayons, be this charcoal scrawl:The breed of Gog in the kingdom of Magog,Skyscrapers, helmeted, stand sentinelAmid the obscuring fumes of coal and coke,Raised by enchantment out of the sand and bog.This sky-line, the Sierras of the lake,Cuts with dulled teeth,Which twist and break,The imponderable and drifting steam.And restlessly beneathThis man-created mountain chain,Like the flow of a prairie riverEndlessly by day and night, foreverAlong the boulevards pedestrians streamIn a shuffle like dancers to a low refrain:Forever by day and nightPursuing as of old the lure of delight,And the ghosts of pleasure or pain.Their rhythmic feet sound like the falling of rain,Or the hush of the waves, when the roarIs blown by a wind off shore.IIFrom a tower like a mountain promontoryThe cesspool of a railroad lies to viewFouling the marble of the city's glory:A crapulous sluice of garbage and of carsWhere engines rush and whistle, smudge the blueWith filth like the trail of slugs.It is a trench of steel which barsFree access to the common shore, and hugsIn a coil of lazar arms the boulevard.Cattle and hogs delivered here for slaughterCorrupt the loveliness of the water front.They low and grunt,Switched back and forth within the tangled yard.But from this tower the amethystine water,The water of jade or slate,Is visible with its importunateGestures against the sky to still retreatsIn Michigan, of quiet woods and hillsBeyond the simmering passion of these streets,And all their endless ills....IIIBut over the switch yard stands the InstituteGuarded by lions on the avenue,Colossal lions standing for attack;Between whose feet luminous and resoluteChildren of the city passing throughTo palettes, compasses, the demoniacSpirit of the city shall subdue.Lions are in the loop and jackals too.They have no trainers but the alderman,Who uses them to hunt with, but in timeThe city shall behold its nobler planAchieved by hands that rhyme,Workers who architect and build,And out of thought its substance re-arrange,Till all its prophecies shall be fulfilled.Through numbers, science and artThe city shall know change,And win dominion over water and light,The cyclop's mastery of the mart;The devils overcome,Which stalk the squalid ways by nightOf poverty and the slum,Where the crook is spawned, the burglar and the bum.These youths who pass the lions shall assuageThe city's thirst and hunger,And save it from the wastage and the wageOf the demagogue, the precinct monger.IVThis is the city of great doges hiddenIn guarded offices and country places.The city strives against the things forbiddenBy the doges, on whose facesThe city at large never looks;Doges who could accomplish if they wouldIn a month the city's beauty and good.Yet this city in a hundred years has risenOut of a haunt of foxes, wolves and rooks,And breaks asunder now the bars of the prisonOf dead days and dying. It has spreadFor many a rood its boundaries, like the sprawledAnd fallen Hephaestos, and has tenantedIts neighborhoods increasing and unwalledWith peoples from all lands.From Milwaukee Avenue to the populous millsOf South Chicago, from the Sheridan DriveThrough forests where the water smilesTo Harlem for miles and miles.It reaches out its hands,Powerful and aliveWith dreams to touch tomorrow, which it willsTo dawn and which shall dawn....And like lights that twinkle through the stenchAnd putrid mist of abattoirs,Great souls are here, separate and withdrawn,Companionless, whom darkness cannot quench.Seeing they are the chrysalis which must feedUpon its own thoughts and the life to be,Its flight among the stars.Beauty is here, like half protected flowers,Blooms and will cast its multiplying seed,Until one mass of color shall succeedThe shaley places of these arid hours.VChicago! by this inland seaIn the land of Lincoln, in the stateOf souls who held the nation's fate,City both old and young, I consecrateYour future years to truth and liberty.Be this the record frail and incompleteOf one who saw you, mingled with the massesAlong these magical mountain passesWith restless yet with hopeful feet.Could they return to see you who have sleptThese fifty years, who laid your first foundations!And oh! could we behold you who have keptTheir promises for you, when new generationsShall walk this boulevard made fairIn chiseled marble, looking at the lakeOf clearer water under a bluer air.We who shall sleep then nor awake,Have left the labor to you and the careAsk great fulfillment, for ourselves a prayer!

On the gray paper of this mist and fogWith dust for the erasure and with smokeFor drawing crayons, be this charcoal scrawl:The breed of Gog in the kingdom of Magog,Skyscrapers, helmeted, stand sentinelAmid the obscuring fumes of coal and coke,Raised by enchantment out of the sand and bog.This sky-line, the Sierras of the lake,Cuts with dulled teeth,Which twist and break,The imponderable and drifting steam.And restlessly beneathThis man-created mountain chain,Like the flow of a prairie riverEndlessly by day and night, foreverAlong the boulevards pedestrians streamIn a shuffle like dancers to a low refrain:Forever by day and nightPursuing as of old the lure of delight,And the ghosts of pleasure or pain.Their rhythmic feet sound like the falling of rain,Or the hush of the waves, when the roarIs blown by a wind off shore.

On the gray paper of this mist and fog

With dust for the erasure and with smoke

For drawing crayons, be this charcoal scrawl:

The breed of Gog in the kingdom of Magog,

Skyscrapers, helmeted, stand sentinel

Amid the obscuring fumes of coal and coke,

Raised by enchantment out of the sand and bog.

This sky-line, the Sierras of the lake,

Cuts with dulled teeth,

Which twist and break,

The imponderable and drifting steam.

And restlessly beneath

This man-created mountain chain,

Like the flow of a prairie river

Endlessly by day and night, forever

Along the boulevards pedestrians stream

In a shuffle like dancers to a low refrain:

Forever by day and night

Pursuing as of old the lure of delight,

And the ghosts of pleasure or pain.

Their rhythmic feet sound like the falling of rain,

Or the hush of the waves, when the roar

Is blown by a wind off shore.

From a tower like a mountain promontoryThe cesspool of a railroad lies to viewFouling the marble of the city's glory:A crapulous sluice of garbage and of carsWhere engines rush and whistle, smudge the blueWith filth like the trail of slugs.It is a trench of steel which barsFree access to the common shore, and hugsIn a coil of lazar arms the boulevard.Cattle and hogs delivered here for slaughterCorrupt the loveliness of the water front.They low and grunt,Switched back and forth within the tangled yard.But from this tower the amethystine water,The water of jade or slate,Is visible with its importunateGestures against the sky to still retreatsIn Michigan, of quiet woods and hillsBeyond the simmering passion of these streets,And all their endless ills....

From a tower like a mountain promontory

The cesspool of a railroad lies to view

Fouling the marble of the city's glory:

A crapulous sluice of garbage and of cars

Where engines rush and whistle, smudge the blue

With filth like the trail of slugs.

It is a trench of steel which bars

Free access to the common shore, and hugs

In a coil of lazar arms the boulevard.

Cattle and hogs delivered here for slaughter

Corrupt the loveliness of the water front.

They low and grunt,

Switched back and forth within the tangled yard.

But from this tower the amethystine water,

The water of jade or slate,

Is visible with its importunate

Gestures against the sky to still retreats

In Michigan, of quiet woods and hills

Beyond the simmering passion of these streets,

And all their endless ills....

But over the switch yard stands the InstituteGuarded by lions on the avenue,Colossal lions standing for attack;Between whose feet luminous and resoluteChildren of the city passing throughTo palettes, compasses, the demoniacSpirit of the city shall subdue.Lions are in the loop and jackals too.They have no trainers but the alderman,Who uses them to hunt with, but in timeThe city shall behold its nobler planAchieved by hands that rhyme,Workers who architect and build,And out of thought its substance re-arrange,Till all its prophecies shall be fulfilled.Through numbers, science and artThe city shall know change,And win dominion over water and light,The cyclop's mastery of the mart;The devils overcome,Which stalk the squalid ways by nightOf poverty and the slum,Where the crook is spawned, the burglar and the bum.These youths who pass the lions shall assuageThe city's thirst and hunger,And save it from the wastage and the wageOf the demagogue, the precinct monger.

But over the switch yard stands the Institute

Guarded by lions on the avenue,

Colossal lions standing for attack;

Between whose feet luminous and resolute

Children of the city passing through

To palettes, compasses, the demoniac

Spirit of the city shall subdue.

Lions are in the loop and jackals too.

They have no trainers but the alderman,

Who uses them to hunt with, but in time

The city shall behold its nobler plan

Achieved by hands that rhyme,

Workers who architect and build,

And out of thought its substance re-arrange,

Till all its prophecies shall be fulfilled.

Through numbers, science and art

The city shall know change,

And win dominion over water and light,

The cyclop's mastery of the mart;

The devils overcome,

Which stalk the squalid ways by night

Of poverty and the slum,

Where the crook is spawned, the burglar and the bum.

These youths who pass the lions shall assuage

The city's thirst and hunger,

And save it from the wastage and the wage

Of the demagogue, the precinct monger.

This is the city of great doges hiddenIn guarded offices and country places.The city strives against the things forbiddenBy the doges, on whose facesThe city at large never looks;Doges who could accomplish if they wouldIn a month the city's beauty and good.Yet this city in a hundred years has risenOut of a haunt of foxes, wolves and rooks,And breaks asunder now the bars of the prisonOf dead days and dying. It has spreadFor many a rood its boundaries, like the sprawledAnd fallen Hephaestos, and has tenantedIts neighborhoods increasing and unwalledWith peoples from all lands.From Milwaukee Avenue to the populous millsOf South Chicago, from the Sheridan DriveThrough forests where the water smilesTo Harlem for miles and miles.It reaches out its hands,Powerful and aliveWith dreams to touch tomorrow, which it willsTo dawn and which shall dawn....And like lights that twinkle through the stenchAnd putrid mist of abattoirs,Great souls are here, separate and withdrawn,Companionless, whom darkness cannot quench.Seeing they are the chrysalis which must feedUpon its own thoughts and the life to be,Its flight among the stars.Beauty is here, like half protected flowers,Blooms and will cast its multiplying seed,Until one mass of color shall succeedThe shaley places of these arid hours.

This is the city of great doges hidden

In guarded offices and country places.

The city strives against the things forbidden

By the doges, on whose faces

The city at large never looks;

Doges who could accomplish if they would

In a month the city's beauty and good.

Yet this city in a hundred years has risen

Out of a haunt of foxes, wolves and rooks,

And breaks asunder now the bars of the prison

Of dead days and dying. It has spread

For many a rood its boundaries, like the sprawled

And fallen Hephaestos, and has tenanted

Its neighborhoods increasing and unwalled

With peoples from all lands.

From Milwaukee Avenue to the populous mills

Of South Chicago, from the Sheridan Drive

Through forests where the water smiles

To Harlem for miles and miles.

It reaches out its hands,

Powerful and alive

With dreams to touch tomorrow, which it wills

To dawn and which shall dawn....

And like lights that twinkle through the stench

And putrid mist of abattoirs,

Great souls are here, separate and withdrawn,

Companionless, whom darkness cannot quench.

Seeing they are the chrysalis which must feed

Upon its own thoughts and the life to be,

Its flight among the stars.

Beauty is here, like half protected flowers,

Blooms and will cast its multiplying seed,

Until one mass of color shall succeed

The shaley places of these arid hours.

Chicago! by this inland seaIn the land of Lincoln, in the stateOf souls who held the nation's fate,City both old and young, I consecrateYour future years to truth and liberty.Be this the record frail and incompleteOf one who saw you, mingled with the massesAlong these magical mountain passesWith restless yet with hopeful feet.Could they return to see you who have sleptThese fifty years, who laid your first foundations!And oh! could we behold you who have keptTheir promises for you, when new generationsShall walk this boulevard made fairIn chiseled marble, looking at the lakeOf clearer water under a bluer air.We who shall sleep then nor awake,Have left the labor to you and the careAsk great fulfillment, for ourselves a prayer!

Chicago! by this inland sea

In the land of Lincoln, in the state

Of souls who held the nation's fate,

City both old and young, I consecrate

Your future years to truth and liberty.

Be this the record frail and incomplete

Of one who saw you, mingled with the masses

Along these magical mountain passes

With restless yet with hopeful feet.

Could they return to see you who have slept

These fifty years, who laid your first foundations!

And oh! could we behold you who have kept

Their promises for you, when new generations

Shall walk this boulevard made fair

In chiseled marble, looking at the lake

Of clearer water under a bluer air.

We who shall sleep then nor awake,

Have left the labor to you and the care

Ask great fulfillment, for ourselves a prayer!

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