Chapter 123

XXXVIIFor which I get the eye, the hand, the heart, the wholeO' the wondrous wife again!XXXVIIIBut no, play out your rôleI' the pageant! 'T is not fit your phantom leave the stage:I want you, there, to make you, here, confess you wageSuccessful warfare, pique those proud ones, and advanceClaim to ... equality? nay, but predominanceIn physique o'er them all, where Helen heads the sceneClosed by its tiniest of tail-tips, pert Fifine.How ravishingly pure you stand in pale constraint!My new-created shape, without or touch or taint,Inviolate of life and worldliness and sin—Fettered, I hold my flower, her own cup's weight would winFrom off the tall slight stalk a-top of which she turnsAnd trembles, makes appeal to one who roughly earnsHer thanks instead of blame, (did lily only know,)By thus constraining length of lily, letting snowOf cup-crown, that 's her face, look from its guardian stake,Superb on all that crawls beneath, and mutely makeDefiance, with the mouth's white movement of disdain,To all that stoops, retires, and hovers round again!How windingly the limbs delay to lead up, reachWhere, crowned, the head waits calm: as if reluctant, each,That eye should traverse quick such lengths of loveliness,From feet, which just are found embedded in the dressDeep swathed about with folds and flowings virginal,Up to the pleated breasts, rebellious 'neath their pall,As if the vesture's snow were moulding sleep not death,Must melt and so release; whereat, from the fine sheath,The flower-cup-crown starts free, the face is unconcealed,And what shall now divert me, once the sweet face revealed,From all I loved so long, so lingeringly left?XXXIXBecause indeed your face fits into just the cleftO' the heart of me, Elvire, makes right and whole once moreAll that was half itself without you! As before,My truant finds its place! Doubtlessly sea-shells yearn,If plundered by sad chance: would pray their pearls return,Let negligently slip away into the wave!Never may eyes desist, those eyes so gray and grave,From their slow sure supply of the effluent soul within!And, would you humor me? I dare to ask, unpinThe web of that brown hair! O'erwash o' the sudden, butAs promptly, too, disclose, on either side, the jutOf alabaster brow! So part rich rillets dyedDeep by the woodland leaf, when down they pour, each sideO' the rock-top, pushed by Spring!XL"And where i' the world is allThis wonder, you detail so trippingly, espied?My mirror would reflect a tall, thin, pale, deep-eyedPersonage, pretty once, it may be, doubtless stillLoving,—a certain grace yet lingers, if you will,—But all this wonder, where?"XLIWhy, where but in the senseAnd soul of me, Art's judge? Art is my evidenceThat something was, is, might be; but no more thing itself,Than flame is fuel. Once the verse-book laid on shelf,The picture turned to wall, the music fled from ear,—Each beauty, born of each, grows clearer and more clear,Mine henceforth, ever mine!XLIIBut if I would retraceEffect, in Art, to cause,—corroborate, eraseWhat 's right or wrong i' the lines, test fancy in my brainBy fact which gave it birth? I re-peruse in vainThe verse, I fail to find that vision of delightI' the Bazzi's lost-profile, eye-edge so exquisite.And, music: what? that burst of pillared cloud by dayAnd pillared fire by night, was product, must we say,Of modulating just, by enharmonic change,—The augmented sixth resolved,—from out the straighter rangeOf D sharp minor—leap of disimprisoned thrall—Into thy light and life, D major natural?XLIIIElvire, will you partake in what I shall impart?I seem to understand the way heart chooses heartBy help of the outside form,—a reason for our wildDiversity in choice,—why each grows reconciledTo what is absent, what superfluous in the maskOf flesh that 's meant to yield,—did nature ply her taskAs artist should,—precise the features of the soul,Which, if in any case they found expression, wholeI' the traits, would give a type, undoubtedly displayA novel, true, distinct perfection in its way.Never shall I believe any two souls were madeSimilar; granting, then, each soul of every gradeWas meant to be itself, prove in itself complete,And, in completion, good,—nay, best o' the kind,—as meetNeeds must it be that show on the outside correspondWith inward substance,—flesh, the dress which soul has donned,Exactly reproduce,—were only justice doneInside and outside too,—types perfect every one.How happens it that here we meet a mysteryInsoluble to man, a plaguy puzzle? WhyEach soul is either made imperfect, and deservesAs rude a face to match; or else a bungler swerves,And nature, on a soul worth rendering aright,Works ill, or proves perverse, or, in her own despite,—Here too much, there too little,—bids each face, more or less,Retire from beauty, make approach to ugliness?And yet succeeds the same: since, what is wanting to success,If somehow every face, no matter how deform,Evidence, to some one of hearts on earth, that, warmBeneath the veriest ash, there hides a spark of soulWhich, quickened by love's breath, may yet pervade the wholeO' the gray, and, free again, be fire?—of worth the same,Howe'er produced, for, great or little, flame is flame.A mystery, whereof solution is to seek.XLIVI find it in the fact that each soul, just as weakIts own way as its fellow,—departure from designAs flagrant in the flesh,—goes striving to combineWith what shall right the wrong, the under or aboveThe standard: supplement unloveliness by love.—Ask Plato else! And this corroborates the sage,That Art,—which I may style the love of loving, rageOf knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of thingsFor truth's sake, whole and sole, not any good, truth bringsThe knower, seer, feeler, beside,—instinctive ArtMust fumble for the whole, once fixing on a partHowever poor, surpass the fragment, and aspireTo reconstruct thereby the ultimate entire.Art, working with a will, discards the superflux,Contributes to defect, toils on till,—fiat lux,—There 's the restored, the prime, the individual type!XLVLook, for example now! This piece of broken pipe(Some shipman's solace erst) shall act as crayon; andWhat tablet better serves my purpose than the sand?—Smooth slab whereon I draw, no matter with what skill,A face, and yet another, and yet another still.There lie my three prime types of beauty!XLVILaugh your best!"Exaggeration and absurdity?" Confessed!Yet, what may that face mean, no matter for its nose,A yard long, or its chin, a foot short?XLVII"You suppose,Horror?" Exactly! What 's the odds if, more or lessBy yard or foot, the features do manage to expressSuch meaning in the main? Were I of Gérôme's force,Nor feeble as you see, quick should my crayon courseO'er outline, curb, excite, till,—so completion speedsWith Gérôme well at work,—observe how brow recedes,Head shudders back on spine, as if one haled the hair,Would have the full-face front what pin-point eye's sharp stareAnnounces; mouth agape to drink the flowing fate,While chin protrudes to meet the burst o' the wave: elateAlmost, spurred on to brave necessity, expendAll life left, in one flash, as fire does at its end.Retrenchment and addition effect a masterpiece,Not change i' the motive: here dimmish, there increase—And who wants Horror, has it.XLVIIIWho wants some other showOf soul, may seek elsewhere—this second of the row?What does it give for germ, monadic mere intentOf mind in face, faint first of meanings ever meant?Why, possibly, a grin, that, strengthened, grows a laugh;That, softened, leaves a smile; that, tempered, bids you quaffAt such a magic cup as English Reynolds onceCompounded: for the witch pulls out of you responseLike Garrick's to Thalia, however due may beYour homage claimed by that stiff-stoled Melpomene!XLIXAnd just this one face more! Pardon the bold pretence!May there not lurk some hint, struggle toward evidenceIn that compressed mouth, those strained nostrils, steadfast eyesOf utter passion, absolute self-sacrifice,Which—could I but subdue the wild grotesque, refineThat bulge of brow, make blunt that nose's aquiline,And let, although compressed, a point of pulp appearI' the mouth—would give at last the portrait of Elvire?LWell, and if so succeed hand-practice on awryPreposterous art-mistake, shall soul-proficiencyDespair,—when exercised on nature, which at worstAlways implies success,—however crossed and curstBy failure,—such as art would emulate in vain?Shall any soul despair of setting free againTrait after trait, until the type as wholly startForth, visible to sense, as that minutest part,(Whate'er the chance,) which first arresting eye, warned soulThat, under wrong enough and ravage, lay the wholeO' the loveliness it "loved"—I take the accepted phrase?LISo I account for tastes: each chooses, none gainsaysThe fancy of his fellow, a paradise for him,A hell for all beside. You can but crown the brimO' the cup; if it be full, what matters less or more?Let each, i' the world, amend his love, as I, o' the shore,My sketch, and the result as undisputed be!Their handiwork to them, and my Elvire to me:—Result more beautiful than beauty's self, when lo,What was my Rafael turns my Michelagnolo!LIIFor, we two boast, beside our pearl, a diamond.I' the palace-gallery, the corridor beyond,Upheaves itself a marble, a magnitude man-shapedAs snow might be. One hand—the Master's—smoothed and scrapedThat mass, he hammered on and hewed at, till he hurledLife out of death, and left a challenge: for the world,Death still,—since who shall dare, close to the image, sayIf this be purposed Art, or mere mimetic playOf Nature?—wont to deal with crag or cloud, as stuffTo fashion novel forms, like forms we know, enoughFor recognition, but enough unlike the same,To leave no hope ourselves may profit by her game;Death therefore to the world. Step back a pace or two!And then, who dares dispute the gradual birth its dueOf breathing life, or breathless immortality,Where out she stands, and yet stops short, half bold, half shy,Hesitates on the threshold of things, since partly blentWith stuff she needs must quit, her native elementI' the mind o' the Master,—what 's the creature, dear-divineYet earthly-awful too, so manly-feminine,Pretends this white advance? What startling brain-escapeOf Michelagnolo takes elemental shape?I think he meant the daughter of the old man o' the sea,Emerging from her wave, goddess Eidotheé—She who, in elvish sport, spite with benevolenceMixed Mab-wise up, must needs instruct the Hero whenceSalvation dawns o'er that mad misery of his isle.Yes, she imparts to him, by what a pranksome wileHe may surprise her sire, asleep beneath a rock,When he has told their tale, amid his webfoot flockOf sea-beasts, "fine fat seals with bitter breath!" laughs sheAt whom she likes to save, no less: Eidotheé,Whom you shall never face evolved, in earth, in air,In wave; but, manifest i' the soul's domain, why, thereShe ravishingly moves to meet you, all through aidO' the soul! Bid shine what should, dismiss into the shadeWhat should not be,—and there triumphs the paramountEmprise o' the Master! But, attempt to make accountOf what the sense, without soul's help perceives? I boughtThat work—(despite plain proof, whose hand it was had wroughtI' the rough: I think we trace the tool of triple tooth,Here, there, and everywhere)—bought dearly that uncouthUnwieldy bulk, for just ten dollars—"Bulk, would fetch—Converted into lime—some five pauls!" grinned a wretch,Who, bound on business, paused to hear the bargaining,And would have pitied me "but for the fun o' the thing!"LIIIShall such a wretch be—you? Must—while I show ElvireShaming all other forms, seen as I see her hereI' the soul,—this other-you perversely look outside,And ask me, "Where i' the world is charm to be descriedI' the tall thin personage, with paled eye, pensive face,Any amount of love, and some remains of grace?"See yourself in my soul!LIVAnd what a world for eachMust somehow be i' the soul,—accept that mode of speech,—Whether an aura gird the soul, wherein it seemsTo float and move, a belt of all the glints and gleamsIt struck from out that world, its weaklier fellows foundSo dead and cold; or whether these not so much surround,As pass into the soul itself, add worth to worth,As wine enriches blood, and straightway send it forth,Conquering and to conquer, through all eternity,That 's battle without end.LVI search but cannot seeWhat purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it triesConclusions with, unless the fruit of victoriesStay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its ownForever, by some mode whereby shall be made knownThe gain of every life. Death reads the title clear—What each soul for itself conquered from out things here:Since, in the seeing soul, all worth lies, I assert,—And naught i' the world, which, save for soul that sees, inertWas, is, and would be ever,—stuff for transmuting,—nullAnd void until man's breath evoke the beautiful—But, touched aright, prompt yields each particle its tongueOf elemental flame,—no matter whence flame sprungFrom gums and spice, or else from straw and rottenness,So long as soul has power to make them burn, expressWhat lights and warms henceforth, leaves only ash behind,Howe'er the chance: if soul be privileged to findFood so soon that, by first snatch of eye, suck of breath,It can absorb pure life: or, rather, meeting deathI' the shape of ugliness, by fortunate recoilSo put on its resource, it find therein a foilFor a new birth of life, the challenged soul's responseTo ugliness and death,—creation for the nonce.LVII gather heart through just such conquests of the soul,Through evocation out of that which, on the whole,Was rough, ungainly, partial accomplishment, at best,And—what, at worst, save failure to spit at and detest?——Through transference of all, achieved in visible things,To where, secured from wrong, rest soul's imaginings—Through ardor to bring help just where completion halts,Do justice to the purpose, ignore the slips and faults—And, last, through waging with deformity a fightWhich wrings thence, at the end, precise its opposite.I praise the loyalty o' the scholar,—stung by tauntOf fools, "Does this evince thy Master men so vaunt?Did he then perpetrate the plain abortion here?"—Who cries, "His work am I! full fraught by him, I clearHis fame from each result of accident and time,Myself restore his work to its fresh morning-prime,Not daring touch the mass of marble, fools deride,But putting my idea in plaster by its side,His, since mine; I, he made, vindicate who made me!"LVIIFor you must know, I too achieved Eidotheé,In silence and by night—dared justify the linesPlain to my soul, although, to sense, that triple-tine'sAchievement halt halfway, break down, or leave a blank.If she stood forth at last, the Master was to thank!Yet may there not have smiled approval in his eyes—That one at least was left who, born to recognizePerfection in the piece imperfect, worked, that night,In silence, such his faith, until the appositeDesign was out of him, truth palpable once more?And then—for at one blow, its fragments strewed the floor—Recalled the same to live within his soul as heretofore.LVIIIAnd, even as I hold and have Eidotheé,I say, I cannot think that gain,—which would not beExcept a special soul had gained it,—that such gainCan ever be estranged, do aught but appertainImmortally, by right firm, indefeasible,To who performed the feat, through God's grace and man's will!Gain, never shared by those who practised with earth's stuff,And spoiled whate'er they touched, leaving its roughness rough,Its blankness bare, and, when the ugliness opposed,Either struck work or laughed "He doted or he dozed!"LIXWhile, oh, how all the more will love become intenseHereafter, when "to love" means yearning to dispense,Each soul, its own amount of gain through its own modeOf practising with life, upon some soul which owedIts treasure, all diverse and yet in worth the same,To new work and changed way! Things furnish you rose-flame,Which burn up red, green, blue, nay, yellow more than needs,For me, I nowise doubt; why doubt a time succeedsWhen each one may impart, and each receive, both shareThe chemic secret, learn,—where I lit force, why thereYou drew forth lambent pity,—where I found only foodFor self-indulgence, you still blew a spark at broodI' the grayest ember, stopped not till self-sacrifice imbuedHeaven's face with flame? What joy, when each may supplementThe other, changing each, as changed, till, wholly blent,Our old things shall be new, and, what we both ignite,Fuse, lose the varicolor in achromatic white!Exemplifying law, apparent even nowIn the eternal progress,—love's law, which I avowAnd thus would formulate: each soul lives, longs and worksFor itself, by itself, because a lodestar lurks,An other than itself,—in whatsoe'er the nicheOf mistiest heaven it hide, whoe'er the GlumdalclichMay grasp the Gulliver: or it, or he, or she—Theosutos e broteios eper kekramene,—(For fun's sake, where the phrase has fastened, leave it fixed!So soft it says,—"God, man, or both together mixed!")This, guessed at through the flesh, by parts which prove the whole,This constitutes the soul discernible by soul—Elvire, by me!LX"And then"—(pray you, permit remainThis hand upon my arm!—your cheek dried, if you deign,Choosing my shoulder)—"then!"—(Stand up for, boldly stateThe objection in its length and breadth!) "You abdicate,With boast yet on your lip, soul's empire, and acceptThe rule of sense; the Man, from monarch's throne has stept—Leapt, rather, at one bound, to base, and there lies, Brute.You talk of soul,—how soul, in search of soul to suit,Must needs review the sex, the army, rank and fileOf womankind, report no face nor form so vileBut that a certain worth, by certain signs, may thenceEvolve itself and stand confessed—to soul—by sense.Sense? Oh, the loyal bee endeavors for the hive!Disinterested hunts the flower-field through, aliveNot one mean moment, no,—suppose on flower he light,—To his peculiar drop, petal-dew perquisite,Matter-of-course snatched snack: unless he taste, how try?This, light on tongue-tip laid, allows him pack his thigh,Transport all he counts prize, provision for the comb,Food for the future day,—a banquet, but at home!Soul? Ere you reach Fifine's, some flesh may be to pass!That bombéd brow, that eye, a kindling chrysopras,Beneath its stiff black lash, inquisitive how speedsEach functionary limb, how play of foot succeeds,And how you let escape or duly sympathizeWith gastro-knemian grace,—true, your soul tastes and tries,And trifles time with these, but, fear not, will arriveAt essence in the core, bring honey home to hive,Brain-stock and heart-stuff both—to strike objectors dumb—Since only soul affords the soul fit pabulum!Be frank for charity! Who is it you deceive—Yourself or me or God, with all this make-believe?"LXIAnd frank I will respond as you interrogate.Ah, Music, wouldst thou help! Words struggle with the weightSo feebly of the False, thick element betweenOur soul, the True, and Truth! which, but that interveneFalse shows of things, were reached as easily by thoughtReducible to word, as now by yearnings wroughtUp with thy fine free force, O Music, that canst thrid,Electrically win a passage through the lidOf earthly sepulchre, our words may push against,Hardly transpierce as thou! Not dissipate, thou deign'st,So much as tricksily elude what words attemptTo heave away, i' the mass, and let the soul, exemptFrom all that vapory obstruction, view, insteadOf glimmer underneath, a glory overhead.Not feebly, like our phrase, against the barrier goIn suspirative swell the authentic notes I know,By help whereof, I would our souls were found withoutThe pale, above the dense and dim which breeds the doubt!But Music, dumb for you, withdraws her help from me;And, since to weary words recourse again must be,At least permit they rest their burden here and there,Music-like: cover space! My answer,—need you careIf it exceed the bounds, reply to questioningYou never meant should plague? Once fairly on the wing,Let me flap far and wide!LXIIFor this is just the time,The place, the mood in you and me, when all things chime.Clash forth life's common chord, whence, list how there ascendHarmonics far and faint, till our perception end,—Reverberated notes whence we construct the scaleEmbracing what we know and feel and are! How failTo find or, better, lose your question, in this quickReply which nature yields, ample and catholic?For, arm in arm, we too have reached, nay, passed, you see,The village-precinct; sun sets mild on Sainte-Marie—We only catch the spire, and yet I seem to knowWhat 's hid i' the turn o' the hill: how all the graves must glowSoberly, as each warms its little iron cross,Flourished about with gold, and graced (if private lossBe fresh) with stiff rope-wreath of yellow crisp bead-bloomsWhich tempt down birds to pay their supper, 'mid the tombs,With prattle good as song, amuse the dead awhile,If couched they hear beneath the matted camomile!LXIIIBid them good-by before last friend has sung and supped!Because we pick our path and need our eyes,—abruptDescent enough,—but here 's the beach, and there 's the bay,And, opposite, the streak of Île Noirmoutier.Thither the waters tend; they freshen as they haste,At feel o' the night-wind, though, by cliff and cliff embraced,This breadth of blue retains its self-possession still;As you and I intend to do, who take our fillOf sights and sounds—soft sound, the countless hum and skipOf insects we disturb, and that good fellowshipOf rabbits our footfall sends huddling, each to hideHe best knows how and where; and what whirred past, wings wide?That was, an owl, their young may justlier apprehend!Though you refuse to speak, your beating heart, my friend,I feel against my arm,—though your bent head forbidsA look into your eyes, yet, on my cheek, their lidsThat ope and shut, soft send a silken thrill the same.Well, out of all and each these nothings, comes—what cameOften enough before, the something that would aimOnce more at the old mark: the impulse to at lastSucceed where hitherto was failure in the past,And yet again essay the adventure. Clearlier singsNo bird to its couched corpse, "Into the truth of things—Out of their falseness rise, and reach thou, and remain!LXIV"That rise into the true out of the false—explain?"May an example serve? In yonder bay I bathed,This sunny morning: swam my best, then hung, half swathedWith chill, and half with warmth, i' the channel's midmost deep:You know how one—not treads, but stands in water? KeepBody and limbs below, hold head back, uplift chin,And, for the rest, leave care! If brow, eyes, mouth, should winTheir freedom,—excellent! If they must brook the surge,No matter though they sink, let but the nose emerge.So, all of me in brine lay soaking: did I careOne jot? I kept alive by man's due breath of airI' the nostrils, high and dry. At times, o'er these would runThe ripple, even wash the wavelet,—morning's sunTempted advance, no doubt: and always flash of froth,Fish-outbreak, bubbling by, would find me nothing lothTo rise and look around; then all was oversweptWith dark and death at once. But trust the old adept!Back went again the head, a merest motion made,Fin-fashion, either hand, and nostril soon conveyedAssurance light and life were still in reach as erst:Always the last and—wait and watch—sometimes the first.Try to ascend breast-high? wave arms wide free of tether?Be in the air and leave the water altogether?Under went all again, till I resigned myselfTo only breathe the air, that 's footed by an elf,And only swim the water, that 's native to a fish.But there is no denying that, ere I curbed my wish,And schooled my restive arms, salt entered mouth and eyesOften enough—sun, sky, and air so tantalize!Still, the adept swims, this accorded, that denied;Can always breathe, sometimes see and be satisfied!LXVI liken to this play o' the body—fruitless strifeTo slip the sea and hold the heaven—my spirit's life'Twixt false, whence it would break, and true, where it would bide.I move in, yet resist, am upborne every sideBy what I beat against, an element too grossTo live in, did not soul duly obtain her doseOf life-breath, and inhale from truth's pure plenitudeAbove her, snatch and gain enough to just illudeWith hope that some brave bound may baffle evermoreThe obstructing medium, make who swam henceforward soar:—Gain scarcely snatched when, foiled by the very effort, souse,Underneath ducks the soul, her truthward yearnings dowseDeeper in falsehood! ay, but fitted less and lessTo bear in nose and mouth old briny bitternessProved alien more and more: since each experience provesAir—the essential good, not sea, wherein who movesMust thence, in the act, escape, apart from will or wish.Move a mere hand to take water-weed, jelly-fish,Upward you tend! And yet our business with the seaIs not with air, but just o' the water, watery:We must endure the false, no particle of whichDo we acquaint us with, but up we mount a pitchAbove it, find our head reach truth, while hands exploreThe false below: so much while here we bathe,—no more!LXVINow, there is one prime point (hear and be edified!)One truth more true for me than any truth beside—To-wit, that I am I, who have the power to swim,The skill to understand the law whereby each limbMay bear to keep immersed, since, in return, made sureThat its mere movement lifts head clean through coverture.By practice with the false, I reach the true? Why, thenceIt follows, that the more I gain self-confidence,Get proof I know the trick, can float, sink, rise, at will,The better I submit to what I have the skillTo conquer in my turn, even now, and by and byLeave wholly for the land, and there laugh, shake me dryTo last drop, saturate with noonday—no need moreOf wet and fret, plagued once: on Pornic's placid shore,Abundant air to breathe, sufficient sun to feel!Meantime I buoy myself: no whit my senses reelWhen over me there breaks a billow; nor, elateToo much by some brief taste, I quaff intemperateThe air, o'ertop breast-high the wave-environment.Full well I know the thing I grasp, as if intentTo hold,—my wandering wave,—will not be grasped at all:The solid-seeming grasped, the handful great or smallMust go to nothing, glide through fingers fast enough;But none the less, to treat liquidity as stuff—Though failure—certainly succeeds beyond its aim,Sends head above, past thing that hands miss, or the same.LXVIISo with this wash o' the world, wherein lifelong we drift;We push and paddle through the foam by making shiftTo breathe above at whiles when, after deepest duckDown underneath the show, we put forth hand and pluckAt what seems somehow like reality—a soul.I catch at this and that, to capture and control,Presume I hold a prize, discover that my painsAre run to naught: my hands are balked, my head regainsThe surface where I breathe and look about, a space.The soul that helped me mount? Swallowed up in the raceO' the tide, come who knows whence, gone gayly who knows where!I thought the prize was mine; I flattered myself there.It did its duty, though: I felt it, it felt me;Or, where I look about and breathe, I should not be.The main point is—the false fluidity was boundAcknowledge that it frothed o'er substance, nowise foundFluid, but firm and true. Man, outcast, "howls,"—at rods?—If "sent in playful spray a-shivering to his gods!"Childishest childe, man makes thereby no bad exchange.Stay with the flat-fish, thou! We like the upper rangeWhere the "gods" live, perchance the dæmons also dwell:Where operates a Power, which every throb and swellOf human heart invites that human soul approach,"Sent" near and nearer still, however "spray" encroachOn "shivering" flesh below, to altitudes, which gained,Evil proves good, wrong right, obscurity explained,And "howling" childishness. Whose howl have we to thank.If all the dogs 'gan bark and puppies whine, till sankEach yelper's tail 'twixt legs? for Huntsman Common-senseCame to the rescue, bade prompt thwack of thong dispenseQuiet i' the kennel; taught that ocean might be blue,And rolling and much more, and yet the soul have, too,Its touch of God's own flame, which he may so expand,"Who measurèd the waters i' the hollow of his hand,"That ocean's self shall dry, turn dewdrop in respectOf all-triumphant fire, matter with intellectOnce fairly matched; bade him who egged on hounds to bay,Go curse, i' the poultry yard, his kind: "there let him lay"The swan's one addled egg: which yet shall put to use,Rub breast-bone warm against, so many a sterile goose!LXVIIINo, I want sky not sea, prefer the larks to shrimps,And never dive so deep but that I get a glimpseO' the blue above, a breath of the air around. Elvire,I seize—by catching at the melted beryl here,The tawny hair that just has trickled off,—Fifine!Did not we two trip forth to just enjoy the scene,The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage—Dabble, and there an end, with foam and froth o'er face,Till suddenly Fifine suggested change of place?Now we taste æther, scorn the ware, and interchange apaceNo ordinary thoughts, but such as evidenceThe cultivated mind in both. On what pretenceAre you and I to sneer at who lent help to hand,And gave the lucky lift?LXIXStill sour? I understand!One ugly circumstance discredits my fair plan—That Woman does the work: I waive the help of Man."Why should experiment be tried with only waves,When solid spars float round? Still some Thalassia savesToo pertinaciously, as though no Triton, bluffAs e'er blew brine from conch, were free to help enough!Surely, to recognize a man, his mates serve best!Why is there not the same or greater interestIn the strong spouse as in the pretty partner, pray,Were recognition just your object, as you say,Amid this element o' the false?"

XXXVII

For which I get the eye, the hand, the heart, the wholeO' the wondrous wife again!

For which I get the eye, the hand, the heart, the whole

O' the wondrous wife again!

XXXVIII

But no, play out your rôleI' the pageant! 'T is not fit your phantom leave the stage:I want you, there, to make you, here, confess you wageSuccessful warfare, pique those proud ones, and advanceClaim to ... equality? nay, but predominanceIn physique o'er them all, where Helen heads the sceneClosed by its tiniest of tail-tips, pert Fifine.How ravishingly pure you stand in pale constraint!My new-created shape, without or touch or taint,Inviolate of life and worldliness and sin—Fettered, I hold my flower, her own cup's weight would winFrom off the tall slight stalk a-top of which she turnsAnd trembles, makes appeal to one who roughly earnsHer thanks instead of blame, (did lily only know,)By thus constraining length of lily, letting snowOf cup-crown, that 's her face, look from its guardian stake,Superb on all that crawls beneath, and mutely makeDefiance, with the mouth's white movement of disdain,To all that stoops, retires, and hovers round again!How windingly the limbs delay to lead up, reachWhere, crowned, the head waits calm: as if reluctant, each,That eye should traverse quick such lengths of loveliness,From feet, which just are found embedded in the dressDeep swathed about with folds and flowings virginal,Up to the pleated breasts, rebellious 'neath their pall,As if the vesture's snow were moulding sleep not death,Must melt and so release; whereat, from the fine sheath,The flower-cup-crown starts free, the face is unconcealed,And what shall now divert me, once the sweet face revealed,From all I loved so long, so lingeringly left?

But no, play out your rôle

I' the pageant! 'T is not fit your phantom leave the stage:

I want you, there, to make you, here, confess you wage

Successful warfare, pique those proud ones, and advance

Claim to ... equality? nay, but predominance

In physique o'er them all, where Helen heads the scene

Closed by its tiniest of tail-tips, pert Fifine.

How ravishingly pure you stand in pale constraint!

My new-created shape, without or touch or taint,

Inviolate of life and worldliness and sin—

Fettered, I hold my flower, her own cup's weight would win

From off the tall slight stalk a-top of which she turns

And trembles, makes appeal to one who roughly earns

Her thanks instead of blame, (did lily only know,)

By thus constraining length of lily, letting snow

Of cup-crown, that 's her face, look from its guardian stake,

Superb on all that crawls beneath, and mutely make

Defiance, with the mouth's white movement of disdain,

To all that stoops, retires, and hovers round again!

How windingly the limbs delay to lead up, reach

Where, crowned, the head waits calm: as if reluctant, each,

That eye should traverse quick such lengths of loveliness,

From feet, which just are found embedded in the dress

Deep swathed about with folds and flowings virginal,

Up to the pleated breasts, rebellious 'neath their pall,

As if the vesture's snow were moulding sleep not death,

Must melt and so release; whereat, from the fine sheath,

The flower-cup-crown starts free, the face is unconcealed,

And what shall now divert me, once the sweet face revealed,

From all I loved so long, so lingeringly left?

XXXIX

Because indeed your face fits into just the cleftO' the heart of me, Elvire, makes right and whole once moreAll that was half itself without you! As before,My truant finds its place! Doubtlessly sea-shells yearn,If plundered by sad chance: would pray their pearls return,Let negligently slip away into the wave!Never may eyes desist, those eyes so gray and grave,From their slow sure supply of the effluent soul within!And, would you humor me? I dare to ask, unpinThe web of that brown hair! O'erwash o' the sudden, butAs promptly, too, disclose, on either side, the jutOf alabaster brow! So part rich rillets dyedDeep by the woodland leaf, when down they pour, each sideO' the rock-top, pushed by Spring!

Because indeed your face fits into just the cleft

O' the heart of me, Elvire, makes right and whole once more

All that was half itself without you! As before,

My truant finds its place! Doubtlessly sea-shells yearn,

If plundered by sad chance: would pray their pearls return,

Let negligently slip away into the wave!

Never may eyes desist, those eyes so gray and grave,

From their slow sure supply of the effluent soul within!

And, would you humor me? I dare to ask, unpin

The web of that brown hair! O'erwash o' the sudden, but

As promptly, too, disclose, on either side, the jut

Of alabaster brow! So part rich rillets dyed

Deep by the woodland leaf, when down they pour, each side

O' the rock-top, pushed by Spring!

"And where i' the world is allThis wonder, you detail so trippingly, espied?My mirror would reflect a tall, thin, pale, deep-eyedPersonage, pretty once, it may be, doubtless stillLoving,—a certain grace yet lingers, if you will,—But all this wonder, where?"

"And where i' the world is all

This wonder, you detail so trippingly, espied?

My mirror would reflect a tall, thin, pale, deep-eyed

Personage, pretty once, it may be, doubtless still

Loving,—a certain grace yet lingers, if you will,—

But all this wonder, where?"

XLI

Why, where but in the senseAnd soul of me, Art's judge? Art is my evidenceThat something was, is, might be; but no more thing itself,Than flame is fuel. Once the verse-book laid on shelf,The picture turned to wall, the music fled from ear,—Each beauty, born of each, grows clearer and more clear,Mine henceforth, ever mine!

Why, where but in the sense

And soul of me, Art's judge? Art is my evidence

That something was, is, might be; but no more thing itself,

Than flame is fuel. Once the verse-book laid on shelf,

The picture turned to wall, the music fled from ear,—

Each beauty, born of each, grows clearer and more clear,

Mine henceforth, ever mine!

XLII

But if I would retraceEffect, in Art, to cause,—corroborate, eraseWhat 's right or wrong i' the lines, test fancy in my brainBy fact which gave it birth? I re-peruse in vainThe verse, I fail to find that vision of delightI' the Bazzi's lost-profile, eye-edge so exquisite.And, music: what? that burst of pillared cloud by dayAnd pillared fire by night, was product, must we say,Of modulating just, by enharmonic change,—The augmented sixth resolved,—from out the straighter rangeOf D sharp minor—leap of disimprisoned thrall—Into thy light and life, D major natural?

But if I would retrace

Effect, in Art, to cause,—corroborate, erase

What 's right or wrong i' the lines, test fancy in my brain

By fact which gave it birth? I re-peruse in vain

The verse, I fail to find that vision of delight

I' the Bazzi's lost-profile, eye-edge so exquisite.

And, music: what? that burst of pillared cloud by day

And pillared fire by night, was product, must we say,

Of modulating just, by enharmonic change,—

The augmented sixth resolved,—from out the straighter range

Of D sharp minor—leap of disimprisoned thrall—

Into thy light and life, D major natural?

XLIII

Elvire, will you partake in what I shall impart?I seem to understand the way heart chooses heartBy help of the outside form,—a reason for our wildDiversity in choice,—why each grows reconciledTo what is absent, what superfluous in the maskOf flesh that 's meant to yield,—did nature ply her taskAs artist should,—precise the features of the soul,Which, if in any case they found expression, wholeI' the traits, would give a type, undoubtedly displayA novel, true, distinct perfection in its way.Never shall I believe any two souls were madeSimilar; granting, then, each soul of every gradeWas meant to be itself, prove in itself complete,And, in completion, good,—nay, best o' the kind,—as meetNeeds must it be that show on the outside correspondWith inward substance,—flesh, the dress which soul has donned,Exactly reproduce,—were only justice doneInside and outside too,—types perfect every one.How happens it that here we meet a mysteryInsoluble to man, a plaguy puzzle? WhyEach soul is either made imperfect, and deservesAs rude a face to match; or else a bungler swerves,And nature, on a soul worth rendering aright,Works ill, or proves perverse, or, in her own despite,—Here too much, there too little,—bids each face, more or less,Retire from beauty, make approach to ugliness?And yet succeeds the same: since, what is wanting to success,If somehow every face, no matter how deform,Evidence, to some one of hearts on earth, that, warmBeneath the veriest ash, there hides a spark of soulWhich, quickened by love's breath, may yet pervade the wholeO' the gray, and, free again, be fire?—of worth the same,Howe'er produced, for, great or little, flame is flame.A mystery, whereof solution is to seek.

Elvire, will you partake in what I shall impart?

I seem to understand the way heart chooses heart

By help of the outside form,—a reason for our wild

Diversity in choice,—why each grows reconciled

To what is absent, what superfluous in the mask

Of flesh that 's meant to yield,—did nature ply her task

As artist should,—precise the features of the soul,

Which, if in any case they found expression, whole

I' the traits, would give a type, undoubtedly display

A novel, true, distinct perfection in its way.

Never shall I believe any two souls were made

Similar; granting, then, each soul of every grade

Was meant to be itself, prove in itself complete,

And, in completion, good,—nay, best o' the kind,—as meet

Needs must it be that show on the outside correspond

With inward substance,—flesh, the dress which soul has donned,

Exactly reproduce,—were only justice done

Inside and outside too,—types perfect every one.

How happens it that here we meet a mystery

Insoluble to man, a plaguy puzzle? Why

Each soul is either made imperfect, and deserves

As rude a face to match; or else a bungler swerves,

And nature, on a soul worth rendering aright,

Works ill, or proves perverse, or, in her own despite,

—Here too much, there too little,—bids each face, more or less,

Retire from beauty, make approach to ugliness?

And yet succeeds the same: since, what is wanting to success,

If somehow every face, no matter how deform,

Evidence, to some one of hearts on earth, that, warm

Beneath the veriest ash, there hides a spark of soul

Which, quickened by love's breath, may yet pervade the whole

O' the gray, and, free again, be fire?—of worth the same,

Howe'er produced, for, great or little, flame is flame.

A mystery, whereof solution is to seek.

XLIV

I find it in the fact that each soul, just as weakIts own way as its fellow,—departure from designAs flagrant in the flesh,—goes striving to combineWith what shall right the wrong, the under or aboveThe standard: supplement unloveliness by love.—Ask Plato else! And this corroborates the sage,That Art,—which I may style the love of loving, rageOf knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of thingsFor truth's sake, whole and sole, not any good, truth bringsThe knower, seer, feeler, beside,—instinctive ArtMust fumble for the whole, once fixing on a partHowever poor, surpass the fragment, and aspireTo reconstruct thereby the ultimate entire.Art, working with a will, discards the superflux,Contributes to defect, toils on till,—fiat lux,—There 's the restored, the prime, the individual type!

I find it in the fact that each soul, just as weak

Its own way as its fellow,—departure from design

As flagrant in the flesh,—goes striving to combine

With what shall right the wrong, the under or above

The standard: supplement unloveliness by love.

—Ask Plato else! And this corroborates the sage,

That Art,—which I may style the love of loving, rage

Of knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of things

For truth's sake, whole and sole, not any good, truth brings

The knower, seer, feeler, beside,—instinctive Art

Must fumble for the whole, once fixing on a part

However poor, surpass the fragment, and aspire

To reconstruct thereby the ultimate entire.

Art, working with a will, discards the superflux,

Contributes to defect, toils on till,—fiat lux,—

There 's the restored, the prime, the individual type!

XLV

Look, for example now! This piece of broken pipe(Some shipman's solace erst) shall act as crayon; andWhat tablet better serves my purpose than the sand?—Smooth slab whereon I draw, no matter with what skill,A face, and yet another, and yet another still.There lie my three prime types of beauty!

Look, for example now! This piece of broken pipe

(Some shipman's solace erst) shall act as crayon; and

What tablet better serves my purpose than the sand?

—Smooth slab whereon I draw, no matter with what skill,

A face, and yet another, and yet another still.

There lie my three prime types of beauty!

XLVI

Laugh your best!"Exaggeration and absurdity?" Confessed!Yet, what may that face mean, no matter for its nose,A yard long, or its chin, a foot short?

Laugh your best!

"Exaggeration and absurdity?" Confessed!

Yet, what may that face mean, no matter for its nose,

A yard long, or its chin, a foot short?

XLVII

"You suppose,Horror?" Exactly! What 's the odds if, more or lessBy yard or foot, the features do manage to expressSuch meaning in the main? Were I of Gérôme's force,Nor feeble as you see, quick should my crayon courseO'er outline, curb, excite, till,—so completion speedsWith Gérôme well at work,—observe how brow recedes,Head shudders back on spine, as if one haled the hair,Would have the full-face front what pin-point eye's sharp stareAnnounces; mouth agape to drink the flowing fate,While chin protrudes to meet the burst o' the wave: elateAlmost, spurred on to brave necessity, expendAll life left, in one flash, as fire does at its end.Retrenchment and addition effect a masterpiece,Not change i' the motive: here dimmish, there increase—And who wants Horror, has it.

"You suppose,

Horror?" Exactly! What 's the odds if, more or less

By yard or foot, the features do manage to express

Such meaning in the main? Were I of Gérôme's force,

Nor feeble as you see, quick should my crayon course

O'er outline, curb, excite, till,—so completion speeds

With Gérôme well at work,—observe how brow recedes,

Head shudders back on spine, as if one haled the hair,

Would have the full-face front what pin-point eye's sharp stare

Announces; mouth agape to drink the flowing fate,

While chin protrudes to meet the burst o' the wave: elate

Almost, spurred on to brave necessity, expend

All life left, in one flash, as fire does at its end.

Retrenchment and addition effect a masterpiece,

Not change i' the motive: here dimmish, there increase—

And who wants Horror, has it.

XLVIII

Who wants some other showOf soul, may seek elsewhere—this second of the row?What does it give for germ, monadic mere intentOf mind in face, faint first of meanings ever meant?Why, possibly, a grin, that, strengthened, grows a laugh;That, softened, leaves a smile; that, tempered, bids you quaffAt such a magic cup as English Reynolds onceCompounded: for the witch pulls out of you responseLike Garrick's to Thalia, however due may beYour homage claimed by that stiff-stoled Melpomene!

Who wants some other show

Of soul, may seek elsewhere—this second of the row?

What does it give for germ, monadic mere intent

Of mind in face, faint first of meanings ever meant?

Why, possibly, a grin, that, strengthened, grows a laugh;

That, softened, leaves a smile; that, tempered, bids you quaff

At such a magic cup as English Reynolds once

Compounded: for the witch pulls out of you response

Like Garrick's to Thalia, however due may be

Your homage claimed by that stiff-stoled Melpomene!

XLIX

And just this one face more! Pardon the bold pretence!May there not lurk some hint, struggle toward evidenceIn that compressed mouth, those strained nostrils, steadfast eyesOf utter passion, absolute self-sacrifice,Which—could I but subdue the wild grotesque, refineThat bulge of brow, make blunt that nose's aquiline,And let, although compressed, a point of pulp appearI' the mouth—would give at last the portrait of Elvire?

And just this one face more! Pardon the bold pretence!

May there not lurk some hint, struggle toward evidence

In that compressed mouth, those strained nostrils, steadfast eyes

Of utter passion, absolute self-sacrifice,

Which—could I but subdue the wild grotesque, refine

That bulge of brow, make blunt that nose's aquiline,

And let, although compressed, a point of pulp appear

I' the mouth—would give at last the portrait of Elvire?

Well, and if so succeed hand-practice on awryPreposterous art-mistake, shall soul-proficiencyDespair,—when exercised on nature, which at worstAlways implies success,—however crossed and curstBy failure,—such as art would emulate in vain?Shall any soul despair of setting free againTrait after trait, until the type as wholly startForth, visible to sense, as that minutest part,(Whate'er the chance,) which first arresting eye, warned soulThat, under wrong enough and ravage, lay the wholeO' the loveliness it "loved"—I take the accepted phrase?

Well, and if so succeed hand-practice on awry

Preposterous art-mistake, shall soul-proficiency

Despair,—when exercised on nature, which at worst

Always implies success,—however crossed and curst

By failure,—such as art would emulate in vain?

Shall any soul despair of setting free again

Trait after trait, until the type as wholly start

Forth, visible to sense, as that minutest part,

(Whate'er the chance,) which first arresting eye, warned soul

That, under wrong enough and ravage, lay the whole

O' the loveliness it "loved"—I take the accepted phrase?

So I account for tastes: each chooses, none gainsaysThe fancy of his fellow, a paradise for him,A hell for all beside. You can but crown the brimO' the cup; if it be full, what matters less or more?Let each, i' the world, amend his love, as I, o' the shore,My sketch, and the result as undisputed be!Their handiwork to them, and my Elvire to me:—Result more beautiful than beauty's self, when lo,What was my Rafael turns my Michelagnolo!

So I account for tastes: each chooses, none gainsays

The fancy of his fellow, a paradise for him,

A hell for all beside. You can but crown the brim

O' the cup; if it be full, what matters less or more?

Let each, i' the world, amend his love, as I, o' the shore,

My sketch, and the result as undisputed be!

Their handiwork to them, and my Elvire to me:

—Result more beautiful than beauty's self, when lo,

What was my Rafael turns my Michelagnolo!

LII

For, we two boast, beside our pearl, a diamond.I' the palace-gallery, the corridor beyond,Upheaves itself a marble, a magnitude man-shapedAs snow might be. One hand—the Master's—smoothed and scrapedThat mass, he hammered on and hewed at, till he hurledLife out of death, and left a challenge: for the world,Death still,—since who shall dare, close to the image, sayIf this be purposed Art, or mere mimetic playOf Nature?—wont to deal with crag or cloud, as stuffTo fashion novel forms, like forms we know, enoughFor recognition, but enough unlike the same,To leave no hope ourselves may profit by her game;Death therefore to the world. Step back a pace or two!And then, who dares dispute the gradual birth its dueOf breathing life, or breathless immortality,Where out she stands, and yet stops short, half bold, half shy,Hesitates on the threshold of things, since partly blentWith stuff she needs must quit, her native elementI' the mind o' the Master,—what 's the creature, dear-divineYet earthly-awful too, so manly-feminine,Pretends this white advance? What startling brain-escapeOf Michelagnolo takes elemental shape?I think he meant the daughter of the old man o' the sea,Emerging from her wave, goddess Eidotheé—She who, in elvish sport, spite with benevolenceMixed Mab-wise up, must needs instruct the Hero whenceSalvation dawns o'er that mad misery of his isle.Yes, she imparts to him, by what a pranksome wileHe may surprise her sire, asleep beneath a rock,When he has told their tale, amid his webfoot flockOf sea-beasts, "fine fat seals with bitter breath!" laughs sheAt whom she likes to save, no less: Eidotheé,Whom you shall never face evolved, in earth, in air,In wave; but, manifest i' the soul's domain, why, thereShe ravishingly moves to meet you, all through aidO' the soul! Bid shine what should, dismiss into the shadeWhat should not be,—and there triumphs the paramountEmprise o' the Master! But, attempt to make accountOf what the sense, without soul's help perceives? I boughtThat work—(despite plain proof, whose hand it was had wroughtI' the rough: I think we trace the tool of triple tooth,Here, there, and everywhere)—bought dearly that uncouthUnwieldy bulk, for just ten dollars—"Bulk, would fetch—Converted into lime—some five pauls!" grinned a wretch,Who, bound on business, paused to hear the bargaining,And would have pitied me "but for the fun o' the thing!"

For, we two boast, beside our pearl, a diamond.

I' the palace-gallery, the corridor beyond,

Upheaves itself a marble, a magnitude man-shaped

As snow might be. One hand—the Master's—smoothed and scraped

That mass, he hammered on and hewed at, till he hurled

Life out of death, and left a challenge: for the world,

Death still,—since who shall dare, close to the image, say

If this be purposed Art, or mere mimetic play

Of Nature?—wont to deal with crag or cloud, as stuff

To fashion novel forms, like forms we know, enough

For recognition, but enough unlike the same,

To leave no hope ourselves may profit by her game;

Death therefore to the world. Step back a pace or two!

And then, who dares dispute the gradual birth its due

Of breathing life, or breathless immortality,

Where out she stands, and yet stops short, half bold, half shy,

Hesitates on the threshold of things, since partly blent

With stuff she needs must quit, her native element

I' the mind o' the Master,—what 's the creature, dear-divine

Yet earthly-awful too, so manly-feminine,

Pretends this white advance? What startling brain-escape

Of Michelagnolo takes elemental shape?

I think he meant the daughter of the old man o' the sea,

Emerging from her wave, goddess Eidotheé—

She who, in elvish sport, spite with benevolence

Mixed Mab-wise up, must needs instruct the Hero whence

Salvation dawns o'er that mad misery of his isle.

Yes, she imparts to him, by what a pranksome wile

He may surprise her sire, asleep beneath a rock,

When he has told their tale, amid his webfoot flock

Of sea-beasts, "fine fat seals with bitter breath!" laughs she

At whom she likes to save, no less: Eidotheé,

Whom you shall never face evolved, in earth, in air,

In wave; but, manifest i' the soul's domain, why, there

She ravishingly moves to meet you, all through aid

O' the soul! Bid shine what should, dismiss into the shade

What should not be,—and there triumphs the paramount

Emprise o' the Master! But, attempt to make account

Of what the sense, without soul's help perceives? I bought

That work—(despite plain proof, whose hand it was had wrought

I' the rough: I think we trace the tool of triple tooth,

Here, there, and everywhere)—bought dearly that uncouth

Unwieldy bulk, for just ten dollars—"Bulk, would fetch—

Converted into lime—some five pauls!" grinned a wretch,

Who, bound on business, paused to hear the bargaining,

And would have pitied me "but for the fun o' the thing!"

LIII

Shall such a wretch be—you? Must—while I show ElvireShaming all other forms, seen as I see her hereI' the soul,—this other-you perversely look outside,And ask me, "Where i' the world is charm to be descriedI' the tall thin personage, with paled eye, pensive face,Any amount of love, and some remains of grace?"See yourself in my soul!

Shall such a wretch be—you? Must—while I show Elvire

Shaming all other forms, seen as I see her here

I' the soul,—this other-you perversely look outside,

And ask me, "Where i' the world is charm to be descried

I' the tall thin personage, with paled eye, pensive face,

Any amount of love, and some remains of grace?"

See yourself in my soul!

LIV

And what a world for eachMust somehow be i' the soul,—accept that mode of speech,—Whether an aura gird the soul, wherein it seemsTo float and move, a belt of all the glints and gleamsIt struck from out that world, its weaklier fellows foundSo dead and cold; or whether these not so much surround,As pass into the soul itself, add worth to worth,As wine enriches blood, and straightway send it forth,Conquering and to conquer, through all eternity,That 's battle without end.

And what a world for each

Must somehow be i' the soul,—accept that mode of speech,—

Whether an aura gird the soul, wherein it seems

To float and move, a belt of all the glints and gleams

It struck from out that world, its weaklier fellows found

So dead and cold; or whether these not so much surround,

As pass into the soul itself, add worth to worth,

As wine enriches blood, and straightway send it forth,

Conquering and to conquer, through all eternity,

That 's battle without end.

I search but cannot seeWhat purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it triesConclusions with, unless the fruit of victoriesStay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its ownForever, by some mode whereby shall be made knownThe gain of every life. Death reads the title clear—What each soul for itself conquered from out things here:Since, in the seeing soul, all worth lies, I assert,—And naught i' the world, which, save for soul that sees, inertWas, is, and would be ever,—stuff for transmuting,—nullAnd void until man's breath evoke the beautiful—But, touched aright, prompt yields each particle its tongueOf elemental flame,—no matter whence flame sprungFrom gums and spice, or else from straw and rottenness,So long as soul has power to make them burn, expressWhat lights and warms henceforth, leaves only ash behind,Howe'er the chance: if soul be privileged to findFood so soon that, by first snatch of eye, suck of breath,It can absorb pure life: or, rather, meeting deathI' the shape of ugliness, by fortunate recoilSo put on its resource, it find therein a foilFor a new birth of life, the challenged soul's responseTo ugliness and death,—creation for the nonce.

I search but cannot see

What purpose serves the soul that strives, or world it tries

Conclusions with, unless the fruit of victories

Stay, one and all, stored up and guaranteed its own

Forever, by some mode whereby shall be made known

The gain of every life. Death reads the title clear—

What each soul for itself conquered from out things here:

Since, in the seeing soul, all worth lies, I assert,—

And naught i' the world, which, save for soul that sees, inert

Was, is, and would be ever,—stuff for transmuting,—null

And void until man's breath evoke the beautiful—

But, touched aright, prompt yields each particle its tongue

Of elemental flame,—no matter whence flame sprung

From gums and spice, or else from straw and rottenness,

So long as soul has power to make them burn, express

What lights and warms henceforth, leaves only ash behind,

Howe'er the chance: if soul be privileged to find

Food so soon that, by first snatch of eye, suck of breath,

It can absorb pure life: or, rather, meeting death

I' the shape of ugliness, by fortunate recoil

So put on its resource, it find therein a foil

For a new birth of life, the challenged soul's response

To ugliness and death,—creation for the nonce.

LVI

I gather heart through just such conquests of the soul,Through evocation out of that which, on the whole,Was rough, ungainly, partial accomplishment, at best,And—what, at worst, save failure to spit at and detest?——Through transference of all, achieved in visible things,To where, secured from wrong, rest soul's imaginings—Through ardor to bring help just where completion halts,Do justice to the purpose, ignore the slips and faults—And, last, through waging with deformity a fightWhich wrings thence, at the end, precise its opposite.I praise the loyalty o' the scholar,—stung by tauntOf fools, "Does this evince thy Master men so vaunt?Did he then perpetrate the plain abortion here?"—Who cries, "His work am I! full fraught by him, I clearHis fame from each result of accident and time,Myself restore his work to its fresh morning-prime,Not daring touch the mass of marble, fools deride,But putting my idea in plaster by its side,His, since mine; I, he made, vindicate who made me!"

I gather heart through just such conquests of the soul,

Through evocation out of that which, on the whole,

Was rough, ungainly, partial accomplishment, at best,

And—what, at worst, save failure to spit at and detest?—

—Through transference of all, achieved in visible things,

To where, secured from wrong, rest soul's imaginings—

Through ardor to bring help just where completion halts,

Do justice to the purpose, ignore the slips and faults—

And, last, through waging with deformity a fight

Which wrings thence, at the end, precise its opposite.

I praise the loyalty o' the scholar,—stung by taunt

Of fools, "Does this evince thy Master men so vaunt?

Did he then perpetrate the plain abortion here?"—

Who cries, "His work am I! full fraught by him, I clear

His fame from each result of accident and time,

Myself restore his work to its fresh morning-prime,

Not daring touch the mass of marble, fools deride,

But putting my idea in plaster by its side,

His, since mine; I, he made, vindicate who made me!"

LVII

For you must know, I too achieved Eidotheé,In silence and by night—dared justify the linesPlain to my soul, although, to sense, that triple-tine'sAchievement halt halfway, break down, or leave a blank.If she stood forth at last, the Master was to thank!Yet may there not have smiled approval in his eyes—That one at least was left who, born to recognizePerfection in the piece imperfect, worked, that night,In silence, such his faith, until the appositeDesign was out of him, truth palpable once more?And then—for at one blow, its fragments strewed the floor—Recalled the same to live within his soul as heretofore.

For you must know, I too achieved Eidotheé,

In silence and by night—dared justify the lines

Plain to my soul, although, to sense, that triple-tine's

Achievement halt halfway, break down, or leave a blank.

If she stood forth at last, the Master was to thank!

Yet may there not have smiled approval in his eyes—

That one at least was left who, born to recognize

Perfection in the piece imperfect, worked, that night,

In silence, such his faith, until the apposite

Design was out of him, truth palpable once more?

And then—for at one blow, its fragments strewed the floor—

Recalled the same to live within his soul as heretofore.

LVIII

And, even as I hold and have Eidotheé,I say, I cannot think that gain,—which would not beExcept a special soul had gained it,—that such gainCan ever be estranged, do aught but appertainImmortally, by right firm, indefeasible,To who performed the feat, through God's grace and man's will!Gain, never shared by those who practised with earth's stuff,And spoiled whate'er they touched, leaving its roughness rough,Its blankness bare, and, when the ugliness opposed,Either struck work or laughed "He doted or he dozed!"

And, even as I hold and have Eidotheé,

I say, I cannot think that gain,—which would not be

Except a special soul had gained it,—that such gain

Can ever be estranged, do aught but appertain

Immortally, by right firm, indefeasible,

To who performed the feat, through God's grace and man's will!

Gain, never shared by those who practised with earth's stuff,

And spoiled whate'er they touched, leaving its roughness rough,

Its blankness bare, and, when the ugliness opposed,

Either struck work or laughed "He doted or he dozed!"

LIX

While, oh, how all the more will love become intenseHereafter, when "to love" means yearning to dispense,Each soul, its own amount of gain through its own modeOf practising with life, upon some soul which owedIts treasure, all diverse and yet in worth the same,To new work and changed way! Things furnish you rose-flame,Which burn up red, green, blue, nay, yellow more than needs,For me, I nowise doubt; why doubt a time succeedsWhen each one may impart, and each receive, both shareThe chemic secret, learn,—where I lit force, why thereYou drew forth lambent pity,—where I found only foodFor self-indulgence, you still blew a spark at broodI' the grayest ember, stopped not till self-sacrifice imbuedHeaven's face with flame? What joy, when each may supplementThe other, changing each, as changed, till, wholly blent,Our old things shall be new, and, what we both ignite,Fuse, lose the varicolor in achromatic white!Exemplifying law, apparent even nowIn the eternal progress,—love's law, which I avowAnd thus would formulate: each soul lives, longs and worksFor itself, by itself, because a lodestar lurks,An other than itself,—in whatsoe'er the nicheOf mistiest heaven it hide, whoe'er the GlumdalclichMay grasp the Gulliver: or it, or he, or she—Theosutos e broteios eper kekramene,—(For fun's sake, where the phrase has fastened, leave it fixed!So soft it says,—"God, man, or both together mixed!")This, guessed at through the flesh, by parts which prove the whole,This constitutes the soul discernible by soul—Elvire, by me!

While, oh, how all the more will love become intense

Hereafter, when "to love" means yearning to dispense,

Each soul, its own amount of gain through its own mode

Of practising with life, upon some soul which owed

Its treasure, all diverse and yet in worth the same,

To new work and changed way! Things furnish you rose-flame,

Which burn up red, green, blue, nay, yellow more than needs,

For me, I nowise doubt; why doubt a time succeeds

When each one may impart, and each receive, both share

The chemic secret, learn,—where I lit force, why there

You drew forth lambent pity,—where I found only food

For self-indulgence, you still blew a spark at brood

I' the grayest ember, stopped not till self-sacrifice imbued

Heaven's face with flame? What joy, when each may supplement

The other, changing each, as changed, till, wholly blent,

Our old things shall be new, and, what we both ignite,

Fuse, lose the varicolor in achromatic white!

Exemplifying law, apparent even now

In the eternal progress,—love's law, which I avow

And thus would formulate: each soul lives, longs and works

For itself, by itself, because a lodestar lurks,

An other than itself,—in whatsoe'er the niche

Of mistiest heaven it hide, whoe'er the Glumdalclich

May grasp the Gulliver: or it, or he, or she—

Theosutos e broteios eper kekramene,—

(For fun's sake, where the phrase has fastened, leave it fixed!

So soft it says,—"God, man, or both together mixed!")

This, guessed at through the flesh, by parts which prove the whole,

This constitutes the soul discernible by soul

—Elvire, by me!

"And then"—(pray you, permit remainThis hand upon my arm!—your cheek dried, if you deign,Choosing my shoulder)—"then!"—(Stand up for, boldly stateThe objection in its length and breadth!) "You abdicate,With boast yet on your lip, soul's empire, and acceptThe rule of sense; the Man, from monarch's throne has stept—Leapt, rather, at one bound, to base, and there lies, Brute.You talk of soul,—how soul, in search of soul to suit,Must needs review the sex, the army, rank and fileOf womankind, report no face nor form so vileBut that a certain worth, by certain signs, may thenceEvolve itself and stand confessed—to soul—by sense.Sense? Oh, the loyal bee endeavors for the hive!Disinterested hunts the flower-field through, aliveNot one mean moment, no,—suppose on flower he light,—To his peculiar drop, petal-dew perquisite,Matter-of-course snatched snack: unless he taste, how try?This, light on tongue-tip laid, allows him pack his thigh,Transport all he counts prize, provision for the comb,Food for the future day,—a banquet, but at home!Soul? Ere you reach Fifine's, some flesh may be to pass!That bombéd brow, that eye, a kindling chrysopras,Beneath its stiff black lash, inquisitive how speedsEach functionary limb, how play of foot succeeds,And how you let escape or duly sympathizeWith gastro-knemian grace,—true, your soul tastes and tries,And trifles time with these, but, fear not, will arriveAt essence in the core, bring honey home to hive,Brain-stock and heart-stuff both—to strike objectors dumb—Since only soul affords the soul fit pabulum!Be frank for charity! Who is it you deceive—Yourself or me or God, with all this make-believe?"

"And then"—(pray you, permit remain

This hand upon my arm!—your cheek dried, if you deign,

Choosing my shoulder)—"then!"—(Stand up for, boldly state

The objection in its length and breadth!) "You abdicate,

With boast yet on your lip, soul's empire, and accept

The rule of sense; the Man, from monarch's throne has stept—

Leapt, rather, at one bound, to base, and there lies, Brute.

You talk of soul,—how soul, in search of soul to suit,

Must needs review the sex, the army, rank and file

Of womankind, report no face nor form so vile

But that a certain worth, by certain signs, may thence

Evolve itself and stand confessed—to soul—by sense.

Sense? Oh, the loyal bee endeavors for the hive!

Disinterested hunts the flower-field through, alive

Not one mean moment, no,—suppose on flower he light,—

To his peculiar drop, petal-dew perquisite,

Matter-of-course snatched snack: unless he taste, how try?

This, light on tongue-tip laid, allows him pack his thigh,

Transport all he counts prize, provision for the comb,

Food for the future day,—a banquet, but at home!

Soul? Ere you reach Fifine's, some flesh may be to pass!

That bombéd brow, that eye, a kindling chrysopras,

Beneath its stiff black lash, inquisitive how speeds

Each functionary limb, how play of foot succeeds,

And how you let escape or duly sympathize

With gastro-knemian grace,—true, your soul tastes and tries,

And trifles time with these, but, fear not, will arrive

At essence in the core, bring honey home to hive,

Brain-stock and heart-stuff both—to strike objectors dumb—

Since only soul affords the soul fit pabulum!

Be frank for charity! Who is it you deceive—

Yourself or me or God, with all this make-believe?"

LXI

And frank I will respond as you interrogate.Ah, Music, wouldst thou help! Words struggle with the weightSo feebly of the False, thick element betweenOur soul, the True, and Truth! which, but that interveneFalse shows of things, were reached as easily by thoughtReducible to word, as now by yearnings wroughtUp with thy fine free force, O Music, that canst thrid,Electrically win a passage through the lidOf earthly sepulchre, our words may push against,Hardly transpierce as thou! Not dissipate, thou deign'st,So much as tricksily elude what words attemptTo heave away, i' the mass, and let the soul, exemptFrom all that vapory obstruction, view, insteadOf glimmer underneath, a glory overhead.Not feebly, like our phrase, against the barrier goIn suspirative swell the authentic notes I know,By help whereof, I would our souls were found withoutThe pale, above the dense and dim which breeds the doubt!But Music, dumb for you, withdraws her help from me;And, since to weary words recourse again must be,At least permit they rest their burden here and there,Music-like: cover space! My answer,—need you careIf it exceed the bounds, reply to questioningYou never meant should plague? Once fairly on the wing,Let me flap far and wide!

And frank I will respond as you interrogate.

Ah, Music, wouldst thou help! Words struggle with the weight

So feebly of the False, thick element between

Our soul, the True, and Truth! which, but that intervene

False shows of things, were reached as easily by thought

Reducible to word, as now by yearnings wrought

Up with thy fine free force, O Music, that canst thrid,

Electrically win a passage through the lid

Of earthly sepulchre, our words may push against,

Hardly transpierce as thou! Not dissipate, thou deign'st,

So much as tricksily elude what words attempt

To heave away, i' the mass, and let the soul, exempt

From all that vapory obstruction, view, instead

Of glimmer underneath, a glory overhead.

Not feebly, like our phrase, against the barrier go

In suspirative swell the authentic notes I know,

By help whereof, I would our souls were found without

The pale, above the dense and dim which breeds the doubt!

But Music, dumb for you, withdraws her help from me;

And, since to weary words recourse again must be,

At least permit they rest their burden here and there,

Music-like: cover space! My answer,—need you care

If it exceed the bounds, reply to questioning

You never meant should plague? Once fairly on the wing,

Let me flap far and wide!

LXII

For this is just the time,The place, the mood in you and me, when all things chime.Clash forth life's common chord, whence, list how there ascendHarmonics far and faint, till our perception end,—Reverberated notes whence we construct the scaleEmbracing what we know and feel and are! How failTo find or, better, lose your question, in this quickReply which nature yields, ample and catholic?For, arm in arm, we too have reached, nay, passed, you see,The village-precinct; sun sets mild on Sainte-Marie—We only catch the spire, and yet I seem to knowWhat 's hid i' the turn o' the hill: how all the graves must glowSoberly, as each warms its little iron cross,Flourished about with gold, and graced (if private lossBe fresh) with stiff rope-wreath of yellow crisp bead-bloomsWhich tempt down birds to pay their supper, 'mid the tombs,With prattle good as song, amuse the dead awhile,If couched they hear beneath the matted camomile!

For this is just the time,

The place, the mood in you and me, when all things chime.

Clash forth life's common chord, whence, list how there ascend

Harmonics far and faint, till our perception end,—

Reverberated notes whence we construct the scale

Embracing what we know and feel and are! How fail

To find or, better, lose your question, in this quick

Reply which nature yields, ample and catholic?

For, arm in arm, we too have reached, nay, passed, you see,

The village-precinct; sun sets mild on Sainte-Marie—

We only catch the spire, and yet I seem to know

What 's hid i' the turn o' the hill: how all the graves must glow

Soberly, as each warms its little iron cross,

Flourished about with gold, and graced (if private loss

Be fresh) with stiff rope-wreath of yellow crisp bead-blooms

Which tempt down birds to pay their supper, 'mid the tombs,

With prattle good as song, amuse the dead awhile,

If couched they hear beneath the matted camomile!

LXIII

Bid them good-by before last friend has sung and supped!Because we pick our path and need our eyes,—abruptDescent enough,—but here 's the beach, and there 's the bay,And, opposite, the streak of Île Noirmoutier.Thither the waters tend; they freshen as they haste,At feel o' the night-wind, though, by cliff and cliff embraced,This breadth of blue retains its self-possession still;As you and I intend to do, who take our fillOf sights and sounds—soft sound, the countless hum and skipOf insects we disturb, and that good fellowshipOf rabbits our footfall sends huddling, each to hideHe best knows how and where; and what whirred past, wings wide?That was, an owl, their young may justlier apprehend!Though you refuse to speak, your beating heart, my friend,I feel against my arm,—though your bent head forbidsA look into your eyes, yet, on my cheek, their lidsThat ope and shut, soft send a silken thrill the same.Well, out of all and each these nothings, comes—what cameOften enough before, the something that would aimOnce more at the old mark: the impulse to at lastSucceed where hitherto was failure in the past,And yet again essay the adventure. Clearlier singsNo bird to its couched corpse, "Into the truth of things—Out of their falseness rise, and reach thou, and remain!

Bid them good-by before last friend has sung and supped!

Because we pick our path and need our eyes,—abrupt

Descent enough,—but here 's the beach, and there 's the bay,

And, opposite, the streak of Île Noirmoutier.

Thither the waters tend; they freshen as they haste,

At feel o' the night-wind, though, by cliff and cliff embraced,

This breadth of blue retains its self-possession still;

As you and I intend to do, who take our fill

Of sights and sounds—soft sound, the countless hum and skip

Of insects we disturb, and that good fellowship

Of rabbits our footfall sends huddling, each to hide

He best knows how and where; and what whirred past, wings wide?

That was, an owl, their young may justlier apprehend!

Though you refuse to speak, your beating heart, my friend,

I feel against my arm,—though your bent head forbids

A look into your eyes, yet, on my cheek, their lids

That ope and shut, soft send a silken thrill the same.

Well, out of all and each these nothings, comes—what came

Often enough before, the something that would aim

Once more at the old mark: the impulse to at last

Succeed where hitherto was failure in the past,

And yet again essay the adventure. Clearlier sings

No bird to its couched corpse, "Into the truth of things—

Out of their falseness rise, and reach thou, and remain!

LXIV

"That rise into the true out of the false—explain?"May an example serve? In yonder bay I bathed,This sunny morning: swam my best, then hung, half swathedWith chill, and half with warmth, i' the channel's midmost deep:You know how one—not treads, but stands in water? KeepBody and limbs below, hold head back, uplift chin,And, for the rest, leave care! If brow, eyes, mouth, should winTheir freedom,—excellent! If they must brook the surge,No matter though they sink, let but the nose emerge.So, all of me in brine lay soaking: did I careOne jot? I kept alive by man's due breath of airI' the nostrils, high and dry. At times, o'er these would runThe ripple, even wash the wavelet,—morning's sunTempted advance, no doubt: and always flash of froth,Fish-outbreak, bubbling by, would find me nothing lothTo rise and look around; then all was oversweptWith dark and death at once. But trust the old adept!Back went again the head, a merest motion made,Fin-fashion, either hand, and nostril soon conveyedAssurance light and life were still in reach as erst:Always the last and—wait and watch—sometimes the first.Try to ascend breast-high? wave arms wide free of tether?Be in the air and leave the water altogether?Under went all again, till I resigned myselfTo only breathe the air, that 's footed by an elf,And only swim the water, that 's native to a fish.But there is no denying that, ere I curbed my wish,And schooled my restive arms, salt entered mouth and eyesOften enough—sun, sky, and air so tantalize!Still, the adept swims, this accorded, that denied;Can always breathe, sometimes see and be satisfied!

"That rise into the true out of the false—explain?"

May an example serve? In yonder bay I bathed,

This sunny morning: swam my best, then hung, half swathed

With chill, and half with warmth, i' the channel's midmost deep:

You know how one—not treads, but stands in water? Keep

Body and limbs below, hold head back, uplift chin,

And, for the rest, leave care! If brow, eyes, mouth, should win

Their freedom,—excellent! If they must brook the surge,

No matter though they sink, let but the nose emerge.

So, all of me in brine lay soaking: did I care

One jot? I kept alive by man's due breath of air

I' the nostrils, high and dry. At times, o'er these would run

The ripple, even wash the wavelet,—morning's sun

Tempted advance, no doubt: and always flash of froth,

Fish-outbreak, bubbling by, would find me nothing loth

To rise and look around; then all was overswept

With dark and death at once. But trust the old adept!

Back went again the head, a merest motion made,

Fin-fashion, either hand, and nostril soon conveyed

Assurance light and life were still in reach as erst:

Always the last and—wait and watch—sometimes the first.

Try to ascend breast-high? wave arms wide free of tether?

Be in the air and leave the water altogether?

Under went all again, till I resigned myself

To only breathe the air, that 's footed by an elf,

And only swim the water, that 's native to a fish.

But there is no denying that, ere I curbed my wish,

And schooled my restive arms, salt entered mouth and eyes

Often enough—sun, sky, and air so tantalize!

Still, the adept swims, this accorded, that denied;

Can always breathe, sometimes see and be satisfied!

LXV

I liken to this play o' the body—fruitless strifeTo slip the sea and hold the heaven—my spirit's life'Twixt false, whence it would break, and true, where it would bide.I move in, yet resist, am upborne every sideBy what I beat against, an element too grossTo live in, did not soul duly obtain her doseOf life-breath, and inhale from truth's pure plenitudeAbove her, snatch and gain enough to just illudeWith hope that some brave bound may baffle evermoreThe obstructing medium, make who swam henceforward soar:—Gain scarcely snatched when, foiled by the very effort, souse,Underneath ducks the soul, her truthward yearnings dowseDeeper in falsehood! ay, but fitted less and lessTo bear in nose and mouth old briny bitternessProved alien more and more: since each experience provesAir—the essential good, not sea, wherein who movesMust thence, in the act, escape, apart from will or wish.Move a mere hand to take water-weed, jelly-fish,Upward you tend! And yet our business with the seaIs not with air, but just o' the water, watery:We must endure the false, no particle of whichDo we acquaint us with, but up we mount a pitchAbove it, find our head reach truth, while hands exploreThe false below: so much while here we bathe,—no more!

I liken to this play o' the body—fruitless strife

To slip the sea and hold the heaven—my spirit's life

'Twixt false, whence it would break, and true, where it would bide.

I move in, yet resist, am upborne every side

By what I beat against, an element too gross

To live in, did not soul duly obtain her dose

Of life-breath, and inhale from truth's pure plenitude

Above her, snatch and gain enough to just illude

With hope that some brave bound may baffle evermore

The obstructing medium, make who swam henceforward soar:

—Gain scarcely snatched when, foiled by the very effort, souse,

Underneath ducks the soul, her truthward yearnings dowse

Deeper in falsehood! ay, but fitted less and less

To bear in nose and mouth old briny bitterness

Proved alien more and more: since each experience proves

Air—the essential good, not sea, wherein who moves

Must thence, in the act, escape, apart from will or wish.

Move a mere hand to take water-weed, jelly-fish,

Upward you tend! And yet our business with the sea

Is not with air, but just o' the water, watery:

We must endure the false, no particle of which

Do we acquaint us with, but up we mount a pitch

Above it, find our head reach truth, while hands explore

The false below: so much while here we bathe,—no more!

LXVI

Now, there is one prime point (hear and be edified!)One truth more true for me than any truth beside—To-wit, that I am I, who have the power to swim,The skill to understand the law whereby each limbMay bear to keep immersed, since, in return, made sureThat its mere movement lifts head clean through coverture.By practice with the false, I reach the true? Why, thenceIt follows, that the more I gain self-confidence,Get proof I know the trick, can float, sink, rise, at will,The better I submit to what I have the skillTo conquer in my turn, even now, and by and byLeave wholly for the land, and there laugh, shake me dryTo last drop, saturate with noonday—no need moreOf wet and fret, plagued once: on Pornic's placid shore,Abundant air to breathe, sufficient sun to feel!Meantime I buoy myself: no whit my senses reelWhen over me there breaks a billow; nor, elateToo much by some brief taste, I quaff intemperateThe air, o'ertop breast-high the wave-environment.Full well I know the thing I grasp, as if intentTo hold,—my wandering wave,—will not be grasped at all:The solid-seeming grasped, the handful great or smallMust go to nothing, glide through fingers fast enough;But none the less, to treat liquidity as stuff—Though failure—certainly succeeds beyond its aim,Sends head above, past thing that hands miss, or the same.

Now, there is one prime point (hear and be edified!)

One truth more true for me than any truth beside—

To-wit, that I am I, who have the power to swim,

The skill to understand the law whereby each limb

May bear to keep immersed, since, in return, made sure

That its mere movement lifts head clean through coverture.

By practice with the false, I reach the true? Why, thence

It follows, that the more I gain self-confidence,

Get proof I know the trick, can float, sink, rise, at will,

The better I submit to what I have the skill

To conquer in my turn, even now, and by and by

Leave wholly for the land, and there laugh, shake me dry

To last drop, saturate with noonday—no need more

Of wet and fret, plagued once: on Pornic's placid shore,

Abundant air to breathe, sufficient sun to feel!

Meantime I buoy myself: no whit my senses reel

When over me there breaks a billow; nor, elate

Too much by some brief taste, I quaff intemperate

The air, o'ertop breast-high the wave-environment.

Full well I know the thing I grasp, as if intent

To hold,—my wandering wave,—will not be grasped at all:

The solid-seeming grasped, the handful great or small

Must go to nothing, glide through fingers fast enough;

But none the less, to treat liquidity as stuff—

Though failure—certainly succeeds beyond its aim,

Sends head above, past thing that hands miss, or the same.

LXVII

So with this wash o' the world, wherein lifelong we drift;We push and paddle through the foam by making shiftTo breathe above at whiles when, after deepest duckDown underneath the show, we put forth hand and pluckAt what seems somehow like reality—a soul.I catch at this and that, to capture and control,Presume I hold a prize, discover that my painsAre run to naught: my hands are balked, my head regainsThe surface where I breathe and look about, a space.The soul that helped me mount? Swallowed up in the raceO' the tide, come who knows whence, gone gayly who knows where!I thought the prize was mine; I flattered myself there.It did its duty, though: I felt it, it felt me;Or, where I look about and breathe, I should not be.The main point is—the false fluidity was boundAcknowledge that it frothed o'er substance, nowise foundFluid, but firm and true. Man, outcast, "howls,"—at rods?—If "sent in playful spray a-shivering to his gods!"Childishest childe, man makes thereby no bad exchange.Stay with the flat-fish, thou! We like the upper rangeWhere the "gods" live, perchance the dæmons also dwell:Where operates a Power, which every throb and swellOf human heart invites that human soul approach,"Sent" near and nearer still, however "spray" encroachOn "shivering" flesh below, to altitudes, which gained,Evil proves good, wrong right, obscurity explained,And "howling" childishness. Whose howl have we to thank.If all the dogs 'gan bark and puppies whine, till sankEach yelper's tail 'twixt legs? for Huntsman Common-senseCame to the rescue, bade prompt thwack of thong dispenseQuiet i' the kennel; taught that ocean might be blue,And rolling and much more, and yet the soul have, too,Its touch of God's own flame, which he may so expand,"Who measurèd the waters i' the hollow of his hand,"That ocean's self shall dry, turn dewdrop in respectOf all-triumphant fire, matter with intellectOnce fairly matched; bade him who egged on hounds to bay,Go curse, i' the poultry yard, his kind: "there let him lay"The swan's one addled egg: which yet shall put to use,Rub breast-bone warm against, so many a sterile goose!

So with this wash o' the world, wherein lifelong we drift;

We push and paddle through the foam by making shift

To breathe above at whiles when, after deepest duck

Down underneath the show, we put forth hand and pluck

At what seems somehow like reality—a soul.

I catch at this and that, to capture and control,

Presume I hold a prize, discover that my pains

Are run to naught: my hands are balked, my head regains

The surface where I breathe and look about, a space.

The soul that helped me mount? Swallowed up in the race

O' the tide, come who knows whence, gone gayly who knows where!

I thought the prize was mine; I flattered myself there.

It did its duty, though: I felt it, it felt me;

Or, where I look about and breathe, I should not be.

The main point is—the false fluidity was bound

Acknowledge that it frothed o'er substance, nowise found

Fluid, but firm and true. Man, outcast, "howls,"—at rods?—

If "sent in playful spray a-shivering to his gods!"

Childishest childe, man makes thereby no bad exchange.

Stay with the flat-fish, thou! We like the upper range

Where the "gods" live, perchance the dæmons also dwell:

Where operates a Power, which every throb and swell

Of human heart invites that human soul approach,

"Sent" near and nearer still, however "spray" encroach

On "shivering" flesh below, to altitudes, which gained,

Evil proves good, wrong right, obscurity explained,

And "howling" childishness. Whose howl have we to thank.

If all the dogs 'gan bark and puppies whine, till sank

Each yelper's tail 'twixt legs? for Huntsman Common-sense

Came to the rescue, bade prompt thwack of thong dispense

Quiet i' the kennel; taught that ocean might be blue,

And rolling and much more, and yet the soul have, too,

Its touch of God's own flame, which he may so expand,

"Who measurèd the waters i' the hollow of his hand,"

That ocean's self shall dry, turn dewdrop in respect

Of all-triumphant fire, matter with intellect

Once fairly matched; bade him who egged on hounds to bay,

Go curse, i' the poultry yard, his kind: "there let him lay"

The swan's one addled egg: which yet shall put to use,

Rub breast-bone warm against, so many a sterile goose!

LXVIII

No, I want sky not sea, prefer the larks to shrimps,And never dive so deep but that I get a glimpseO' the blue above, a breath of the air around. Elvire,I seize—by catching at the melted beryl here,The tawny hair that just has trickled off,—Fifine!Did not we two trip forth to just enjoy the scene,The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage—Dabble, and there an end, with foam and froth o'er face,Till suddenly Fifine suggested change of place?Now we taste æther, scorn the ware, and interchange apaceNo ordinary thoughts, but such as evidenceThe cultivated mind in both. On what pretenceAre you and I to sneer at who lent help to hand,And gave the lucky lift?

No, I want sky not sea, prefer the larks to shrimps,

And never dive so deep but that I get a glimpse

O' the blue above, a breath of the air around. Elvire,

I seize—by catching at the melted beryl here,

The tawny hair that just has trickled off,—Fifine!

Did not we two trip forth to just enjoy the scene,

The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,

Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage—

Dabble, and there an end, with foam and froth o'er face,

Till suddenly Fifine suggested change of place?

Now we taste æther, scorn the ware, and interchange apace

No ordinary thoughts, but such as evidence

The cultivated mind in both. On what pretence

Are you and I to sneer at who lent help to hand,

And gave the lucky lift?

LXIX

Still sour? I understand!One ugly circumstance discredits my fair plan—That Woman does the work: I waive the help of Man."Why should experiment be tried with only waves,When solid spars float round? Still some Thalassia savesToo pertinaciously, as though no Triton, bluffAs e'er blew brine from conch, were free to help enough!Surely, to recognize a man, his mates serve best!Why is there not the same or greater interestIn the strong spouse as in the pretty partner, pray,Were recognition just your object, as you say,Amid this element o' the false?"

Still sour? I understand!

One ugly circumstance discredits my fair plan—

That Woman does the work: I waive the help of Man.

"Why should experiment be tried with only waves,

When solid spars float round? Still some Thalassia saves

Too pertinaciously, as though no Triton, bluff

As e'er blew brine from conch, were free to help enough!

Surely, to recognize a man, his mates serve best!

Why is there not the same or greater interest

In the strong spouse as in the pretty partner, pray,

Were recognition just your object, as you say,

Amid this element o' the false?"

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