How long have you been waiting? Not so long?I’m glad of that. You found the place at once.Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re thereYou see above this Collis Hortulorum,A good place for two men like us to meet:Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes.That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not careSo much about us as some others do.There is a tolerance comes from being rich,An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa.Our faith is not to these a wicked thing,A deadly superstition as some deem it.But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there—What temples, arches, under the full moon!Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree,And while the soft wind blows out of the seaLet’s finish up our talks. You must know allWherewith to write the story ere I dieBeneath the wrath of Nero. See that light,Faint like a little candle—I passed there.That’s one of our poor men, they make us lampsWherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens.We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time.We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house.And I was telling them about the nightWhen in Gethsemane you followed Him,Having a cloth around your naked body.And how you laid hold on him, left the clothAnd fled. But when you write this you can say“A certain young man,” leaving out your name,You may not wish to have it known ’twas youWho ran away, as I would like to hideHow I fell into sleep and failed to watch,And afterwards declared I knew Him not:But as for me omit no thing. The worldWill gain for seeing me rise out of weaknessTo strength, and out of fear to boldness. TimeHas wrought his wonders in me, I am rock,Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!Then don’t forget the first man that he healed.There’s deep significance in this, my son,That first of all he’d take an unclean spiritAnd cast it out. Then second was my motherCured of her fever, just as you might say:Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague,Then cool you of the fever of vain life.But don’t forget to write how he would say“Tell no man of this,” say that and no more.Though I may think he said it lest the crowdsThat followed him would take his strength for healing,And leave no strength for words, let be and write“Tell no man of this” simply. For you seeThese madmen quieted, these lepers cleanedHad soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps.And with them ends their good. But what he saidRemains for generations yet to come, with powerTo heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes,Of what I’ve told you, even above your life.Make many copies lest one script be lost.I shall not to another tell it allAs I have told it you.But as for meWhat merit have I that I saw and said“Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees.That is a matter of the eye—beholdWhat is the eye? Is there an Eye Power whichProduces eyes, a primal source of seeing,An ocean of beholding, as the oceanMakes rivers, streams and pools, so does this PowerMake eyes? You take an egg and keep it warmAbout a day, then break the shell and look:You’ll find dark spots on either side of whatWill be the head in time, these will be eyesIn season, but just now they cannot see,Although the Eye Power back of them can seeBoth what they are and how to make them eyesBy giving them its quality and strength.And all the time while these dark spots emergeFrom yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less,This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a childIt stares at flowers and tears them, or againIt claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast,Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose.The world around it lies here to be seen,And will be seen from boyhood on to ageIn different guises, aspects, richnessesAccording to the man, for every manSees different from his fellow. What’s an eye?I say not what’s an eye, but what is hereFor eyes to see? What wonders in that skyBeyond my eye! What living things concealedBeneath my feet in grass or moss or slime,As small to crickets as they are to us!For Nero at the Circus holds a rubyBefore his eye to give his eye more sightTo see the games and tortures. So I sayThere was no merit in me when I said“Thou art the Christ.”Let’s think of eyes this way:The lawyers said there’s nothing in this fellow.His family beheld no wonder in him.Have Mary Magdalene and I inventedThese words, this story?—who are we to do so,—A fallen woman and a fisherman!Or did this happen? Did we see these things?Did Mary see him risen and did I?Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk,And were our eyes full grown and did we see?Is this a madman’s world where I can talk,And have you write for centuries to readAnd play the fool with them? Or do all thingsOf spirit, as of stars, of spring and growthProceed in order, under law to ends?No, Mark, my son, this is the truth, so write,Preserve this story taken from my lips.My work is almost done. Rome is the endOf all my labors, I have faith The EyeWill give me other eyes for other worlds!Why should I not believe this? Not all seasonsAre for unfolding. In the winter timeYou cannot see the miracle of birth,Of germinating seeds, of blossoming.Why not then that one time for seeing DeathGo up like mist before the rising sun?And in this single instance of our LordArising from the grave, see all men rise,And all men’s souls discovered in his soul,Their quality and essence, strength made clear?And why not I the seer of these things?Why should there be another and not I?And I declare to you that untold millionsIn centuries untold will live and dieBy these words which you write, as I have told them.And nation after nation will be moulded,As heated wax is moulded, by these words.And spirits in their inmost power will feelChange and regeneration through them—well, what then?Do you say God is living, that this world,These constellations, move by law, that allThis miracle of life and light is heldIn harmony, and that the soul of manMoves not in order, but that it’s allowedTo prove an anarch to itself, sole thingThat turns upon itself, sole thing that’s shownThe path that leads no whither? is allowedTo feed on falsehood? that it’s allowedTo wander lawless to its ruin, fooledBy what it craves, by what it feels, by eyesThat swear the truth of what they see? by wordsWhich you will write from words I have affirmed?And do you say that Life shall prove the foeOf life, and Law of law? Or do you sayThe child’s eyes see reality which seeThe poppy blossoms or the mother’s breast,And this Rome and these stars do not existBecause the child’s eyes cannot compass them,And get their image? Shall we trust our visionMounting to higher things, or only trustThose things which all have seen except the soulsWho have not soared, or risen to the giftOf seeing what seemed walking trees grow clearAs men or angels? No, it cannot be.Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know,Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport.It is not set apart to be betrayed,Or gulled to its undoing, left to dashIts hopeless head against this rock’s exception,No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it,No law to guide it, though this universeIs under Law, no God to mark its steps,Except the God of worlds and suns and stars,Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars,And them alone, and leaves the soul to passUnfathered—lets me have a madman’s dreamAnd gives it such reality that ITake fire and light the world, convincing eyesLeft foolish to believe. It cannot be....Go write what I have told you, come what willI’m going to the catacombs to pray.
How long have you been waiting? Not so long?I’m glad of that. You found the place at once.Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re thereYou see above this Collis Hortulorum,A good place for two men like us to meet:Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes.That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not careSo much about us as some others do.There is a tolerance comes from being rich,An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa.Our faith is not to these a wicked thing,A deadly superstition as some deem it.But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there—What temples, arches, under the full moon!Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree,And while the soft wind blows out of the seaLet’s finish up our talks. You must know allWherewith to write the story ere I dieBeneath the wrath of Nero. See that light,Faint like a little candle—I passed there.That’s one of our poor men, they make us lampsWherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens.We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time.We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house.And I was telling them about the nightWhen in Gethsemane you followed Him,Having a cloth around your naked body.And how you laid hold on him, left the clothAnd fled. But when you write this you can say“A certain young man,” leaving out your name,You may not wish to have it known ’twas youWho ran away, as I would like to hideHow I fell into sleep and failed to watch,And afterwards declared I knew Him not:But as for me omit no thing. The worldWill gain for seeing me rise out of weaknessTo strength, and out of fear to boldness. TimeHas wrought his wonders in me, I am rock,Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!Then don’t forget the first man that he healed.There’s deep significance in this, my son,That first of all he’d take an unclean spiritAnd cast it out. Then second was my motherCured of her fever, just as you might say:Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague,Then cool you of the fever of vain life.But don’t forget to write how he would say“Tell no man of this,” say that and no more.Though I may think he said it lest the crowdsThat followed him would take his strength for healing,And leave no strength for words, let be and write“Tell no man of this” simply. For you seeThese madmen quieted, these lepers cleanedHad soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps.And with them ends their good. But what he saidRemains for generations yet to come, with powerTo heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes,Of what I’ve told you, even above your life.Make many copies lest one script be lost.I shall not to another tell it allAs I have told it you.But as for meWhat merit have I that I saw and said“Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees.That is a matter of the eye—beholdWhat is the eye? Is there an Eye Power whichProduces eyes, a primal source of seeing,An ocean of beholding, as the oceanMakes rivers, streams and pools, so does this PowerMake eyes? You take an egg and keep it warmAbout a day, then break the shell and look:You’ll find dark spots on either side of whatWill be the head in time, these will be eyesIn season, but just now they cannot see,Although the Eye Power back of them can seeBoth what they are and how to make them eyesBy giving them its quality and strength.And all the time while these dark spots emergeFrom yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less,This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a childIt stares at flowers and tears them, or againIt claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast,Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose.The world around it lies here to be seen,And will be seen from boyhood on to ageIn different guises, aspects, richnessesAccording to the man, for every manSees different from his fellow. What’s an eye?I say not what’s an eye, but what is hereFor eyes to see? What wonders in that skyBeyond my eye! What living things concealedBeneath my feet in grass or moss or slime,As small to crickets as they are to us!For Nero at the Circus holds a rubyBefore his eye to give his eye more sightTo see the games and tortures. So I sayThere was no merit in me when I said“Thou art the Christ.”Let’s think of eyes this way:The lawyers said there’s nothing in this fellow.His family beheld no wonder in him.Have Mary Magdalene and I inventedThese words, this story?—who are we to do so,—A fallen woman and a fisherman!Or did this happen? Did we see these things?Did Mary see him risen and did I?Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk,And were our eyes full grown and did we see?Is this a madman’s world where I can talk,And have you write for centuries to readAnd play the fool with them? Or do all thingsOf spirit, as of stars, of spring and growthProceed in order, under law to ends?No, Mark, my son, this is the truth, so write,Preserve this story taken from my lips.My work is almost done. Rome is the endOf all my labors, I have faith The EyeWill give me other eyes for other worlds!Why should I not believe this? Not all seasonsAre for unfolding. In the winter timeYou cannot see the miracle of birth,Of germinating seeds, of blossoming.Why not then that one time for seeing DeathGo up like mist before the rising sun?And in this single instance of our LordArising from the grave, see all men rise,And all men’s souls discovered in his soul,Their quality and essence, strength made clear?And why not I the seer of these things?Why should there be another and not I?And I declare to you that untold millionsIn centuries untold will live and dieBy these words which you write, as I have told them.And nation after nation will be moulded,As heated wax is moulded, by these words.And spirits in their inmost power will feelChange and regeneration through them—well, what then?Do you say God is living, that this world,These constellations, move by law, that allThis miracle of life and light is heldIn harmony, and that the soul of manMoves not in order, but that it’s allowedTo prove an anarch to itself, sole thingThat turns upon itself, sole thing that’s shownThe path that leads no whither? is allowedTo feed on falsehood? that it’s allowedTo wander lawless to its ruin, fooledBy what it craves, by what it feels, by eyesThat swear the truth of what they see? by wordsWhich you will write from words I have affirmed?And do you say that Life shall prove the foeOf life, and Law of law? Or do you sayThe child’s eyes see reality which seeThe poppy blossoms or the mother’s breast,And this Rome and these stars do not existBecause the child’s eyes cannot compass them,And get their image? Shall we trust our visionMounting to higher things, or only trustThose things which all have seen except the soulsWho have not soared, or risen to the giftOf seeing what seemed walking trees grow clearAs men or angels? No, it cannot be.Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know,Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport.It is not set apart to be betrayed,Or gulled to its undoing, left to dashIts hopeless head against this rock’s exception,No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it,No law to guide it, though this universeIs under Law, no God to mark its steps,Except the God of worlds and suns and stars,Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars,And them alone, and leaves the soul to passUnfathered—lets me have a madman’s dreamAnd gives it such reality that ITake fire and light the world, convincing eyesLeft foolish to believe. It cannot be....Go write what I have told you, come what willI’m going to the catacombs to pray.
How long have you been waiting? Not so long?I’m glad of that. You found the place at once.Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re thereYou see above this Collis Hortulorum,A good place for two men like us to meet:Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes.That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not careSo much about us as some others do.There is a tolerance comes from being rich,An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa.Our faith is not to these a wicked thing,A deadly superstition as some deem it.But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there—What temples, arches, under the full moon!Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree,And while the soft wind blows out of the seaLet’s finish up our talks. You must know allWherewith to write the story ere I dieBeneath the wrath of Nero. See that light,Faint like a little candle—I passed there.That’s one of our poor men, they make us lampsWherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens.We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time.We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house.And I was telling them about the nightWhen in Gethsemane you followed Him,Having a cloth around your naked body.And how you laid hold on him, left the clothAnd fled. But when you write this you can say“A certain young man,” leaving out your name,You may not wish to have it known ’twas youWho ran away, as I would like to hideHow I fell into sleep and failed to watch,And afterwards declared I knew Him not:But as for me omit no thing. The worldWill gain for seeing me rise out of weaknessTo strength, and out of fear to boldness. TimeHas wrought his wonders in me, I am rock,Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!
Then don’t forget the first man that he healed.There’s deep significance in this, my son,That first of all he’d take an unclean spiritAnd cast it out. Then second was my motherCured of her fever, just as you might say:Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague,Then cool you of the fever of vain life.But don’t forget to write how he would say“Tell no man of this,” say that and no more.Though I may think he said it lest the crowdsThat followed him would take his strength for healing,And leave no strength for words, let be and write“Tell no man of this” simply. For you seeThese madmen quieted, these lepers cleanedHad soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps.And with them ends their good. But what he saidRemains for generations yet to come, with powerTo heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes,Of what I’ve told you, even above your life.Make many copies lest one script be lost.I shall not to another tell it allAs I have told it you.
But as for meWhat merit have I that I saw and said“Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees.That is a matter of the eye—beholdWhat is the eye? Is there an Eye Power whichProduces eyes, a primal source of seeing,An ocean of beholding, as the oceanMakes rivers, streams and pools, so does this PowerMake eyes? You take an egg and keep it warmAbout a day, then break the shell and look:You’ll find dark spots on either side of whatWill be the head in time, these will be eyesIn season, but just now they cannot see,Although the Eye Power back of them can seeBoth what they are and how to make them eyesBy giving them its quality and strength.And all the time while these dark spots emergeFrom yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less,This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a childIt stares at flowers and tears them, or againIt claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast,Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose.The world around it lies here to be seen,And will be seen from boyhood on to ageIn different guises, aspects, richnessesAccording to the man, for every manSees different from his fellow. What’s an eye?I say not what’s an eye, but what is hereFor eyes to see? What wonders in that skyBeyond my eye! What living things concealedBeneath my feet in grass or moss or slime,As small to crickets as they are to us!For Nero at the Circus holds a rubyBefore his eye to give his eye more sightTo see the games and tortures. So I sayThere was no merit in me when I said“Thou art the Christ.”
Let’s think of eyes this way:The lawyers said there’s nothing in this fellow.His family beheld no wonder in him.Have Mary Magdalene and I inventedThese words, this story?—who are we to do so,—A fallen woman and a fisherman!Or did this happen? Did we see these things?Did Mary see him risen and did I?Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk,And were our eyes full grown and did we see?Is this a madman’s world where I can talk,And have you write for centuries to readAnd play the fool with them? Or do all thingsOf spirit, as of stars, of spring and growthProceed in order, under law to ends?No, Mark, my son, this is the truth, so write,Preserve this story taken from my lips.My work is almost done. Rome is the endOf all my labors, I have faith The EyeWill give me other eyes for other worlds!
Why should I not believe this? Not all seasonsAre for unfolding. In the winter timeYou cannot see the miracle of birth,Of germinating seeds, of blossoming.Why not then that one time for seeing DeathGo up like mist before the rising sun?And in this single instance of our LordArising from the grave, see all men rise,And all men’s souls discovered in his soul,Their quality and essence, strength made clear?And why not I the seer of these things?Why should there be another and not I?And I declare to you that untold millionsIn centuries untold will live and dieBy these words which you write, as I have told them.And nation after nation will be moulded,As heated wax is moulded, by these words.And spirits in their inmost power will feelChange and regeneration through them—well, what then?Do you say God is living, that this world,These constellations, move by law, that allThis miracle of life and light is heldIn harmony, and that the soul of manMoves not in order, but that it’s allowedTo prove an anarch to itself, sole thingThat turns upon itself, sole thing that’s shownThe path that leads no whither? is allowedTo feed on falsehood? that it’s allowedTo wander lawless to its ruin, fooledBy what it craves, by what it feels, by eyesThat swear the truth of what they see? by wordsWhich you will write from words I have affirmed?And do you say that Life shall prove the foeOf life, and Law of law? Or do you sayThe child’s eyes see reality which seeThe poppy blossoms or the mother’s breast,And this Rome and these stars do not existBecause the child’s eyes cannot compass them,And get their image? Shall we trust our visionMounting to higher things, or only trustThose things which all have seen except the soulsWho have not soared, or risen to the giftOf seeing what seemed walking trees grow clearAs men or angels? No, it cannot be.Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know,Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport.It is not set apart to be betrayed,Or gulled to its undoing, left to dashIts hopeless head against this rock’s exception,No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it,No law to guide it, though this universeIs under Law, no God to mark its steps,Except the God of worlds and suns and stars,Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars,And them alone, and leaves the soul to passUnfathered—lets me have a madman’s dreamAnd gives it such reality that ITake fire and light the world, convincing eyesLeft foolish to believe. It cannot be....
Go write what I have told you, come what willI’m going to the catacombs to pray.
Pallas Athena in an hour of easeFrom guarding states and succoring the wise,Pressed wistfully her lips against a fluteMade by a Phrygian youth from resonant woodCut near Sangarius. Upon a bankMade sweet by daisies and anemoneShe sat with godly wisdom exercisedBlowing her breath against the stubborn tubeThat it might answer and vibrate in song.But while she played, down-looking, she beheldA serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edgeLay coiled among the reeds, as if awareOf the divinity that filled the place.Then Athena saw her image in the cove,Where like a silver mirror, motionlessSangarius lay, and seeing her own faceThus suddenly, was stricken with surpriseOf her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lipsPursed and distorted as she strove to curbThe resisting instrument. So with a smile,A little laugh, which brought her beauty back,And gilded like a gradual burst of sunThe water where the charmed serpent layLifting his head up to the living warmth,She threw the flute down, and Olympus wayVanished, from sight.Marsyas all the whileBeneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edgeHad drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes,Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheepUpon a near-by hill which to the swaleSloped in luxuriance, upon a reedHis idle fancies loosened from the stops.But when Athena passed him, since he heardA roar of wings, as when a flock of quailUp-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to findThe forest silent and the music gone.Then straying toward the rushes, he espiedThe flute upon the golden sands, and took itAnd tried his lips upon it, where the lipsOf Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist,And with a soul, which to the artless breathOf the rude Satyr gave melodious speech.So thinking that the music was his ownAnd that the flute was but a worthless woodSave that it made his genius manifest,And swollen with conceit Marsyas sentA word of challenge to the Delphic god,Apollo of the cithara, for trialOf skill in music, saying who should proveThe victor might do with the other whatPleased him to do, and let the Muses judge.But when Athena heard Apollo laugh,Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dareWhich Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadowsOf flowered Olympus whispered of the thingIn jest and quip, and knowing that her soulStill echoed in the flute, but would anonFade from it as the perfume from a girdleTinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand,Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little timeWherein the Satyr may improve his skill.”To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles.But yet Apollo gave assent, though teasedBy reason of their chatter and the thoughtHid in Athena’s word that any respiteGranted the Satyr could prosper his success.Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the dayAppointed of Apollo. Near SangariusAnd through the woodlands tireless with the flute:Sometimes in imitative harmonyMocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and nowThe musical winds that blow in early springAround a peak of dancing asphodelWhere the sea warms them, and at other timesThe little waves that patter on the sandsOf old Sangarius rich in numerous flags.And once he strove with music’s alchemyTo turn to sound the sunlight of the mornWhich fills the senses as illuminate dewQuickens the ovule of the tiger-flower.Again he sang the sorrow of his youthWhen a wild nymph after one day of blissFled him while sleeping. And again he beatThe rhythm lying at the root of lifeWhich marks the whirling planets. And ApolloHearing betimes a note of purest toneFall like a star, betrayed his wonderment—Whereat the muses vexed him with their smilesAnd whisperings to each other. But ApolloCould sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulledWith its employment, as Athena’s soulDied from the flute, although the Satyr knew notEach day of waiting doomed him:Then at lastThe day dawned for the trial of their skill,And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute—For all had left it of Athena’s soul.Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the musesTo judge assembled, fair, majestical.With arms entwined some close together stood,Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass,But all bore in their eyes the light of mirthSuppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that EuterpeWas mistress of the flute, since it was deemedFair to the Satyr that the contest beJudged by the flute, gave signal to begin.Whereat Apollo struck the citharaTo test the strings, and all the wood was hushed,Awed by the magic of its harmony.But when Marsyas blew upon the fluteA fear coursed through him as his wonder roseWhether Apollo had bewitched its soulTo such discordance, or its utterance,Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’sWas so unmusical. Yet he dare not failThe contest, so they waged it to the end,While the sweet muses now grown pitifulNo longer smiled, but turned their heads awayIn sorrow for Marsyas, for his shameAnd for the fate to follow.So at lastWith one accord the muses rose and lookedWith eyes significant upon Apollo,Who angered by the Satyr’s swollen prideAnd monstrous failure, had become a willOf resolute retribution. But the muses,Because they feel for those who trying lose,Even as a mother for her crippled sonWhom the sound-footed distance in the race,Hastened away lest they behold the thingThat came to pass. And flinging far the fluteMarsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth.Whereat Apollo seized his wretched formAnd lifting him up, with strips of laurel barkBound the poor Satyr to a rugged oakAnd flayed him alive, and took the Satyr’s skinAnd hung it in a cave, and turned his bloodTo water, whence the river MarsyasThat from the cave flows onward to this day.
Pallas Athena in an hour of easeFrom guarding states and succoring the wise,Pressed wistfully her lips against a fluteMade by a Phrygian youth from resonant woodCut near Sangarius. Upon a bankMade sweet by daisies and anemoneShe sat with godly wisdom exercisedBlowing her breath against the stubborn tubeThat it might answer and vibrate in song.But while she played, down-looking, she beheldA serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edgeLay coiled among the reeds, as if awareOf the divinity that filled the place.Then Athena saw her image in the cove,Where like a silver mirror, motionlessSangarius lay, and seeing her own faceThus suddenly, was stricken with surpriseOf her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lipsPursed and distorted as she strove to curbThe resisting instrument. So with a smile,A little laugh, which brought her beauty back,And gilded like a gradual burst of sunThe water where the charmed serpent layLifting his head up to the living warmth,She threw the flute down, and Olympus wayVanished, from sight.Marsyas all the whileBeneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edgeHad drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes,Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheepUpon a near-by hill which to the swaleSloped in luxuriance, upon a reedHis idle fancies loosened from the stops.But when Athena passed him, since he heardA roar of wings, as when a flock of quailUp-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to findThe forest silent and the music gone.Then straying toward the rushes, he espiedThe flute upon the golden sands, and took itAnd tried his lips upon it, where the lipsOf Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist,And with a soul, which to the artless breathOf the rude Satyr gave melodious speech.So thinking that the music was his ownAnd that the flute was but a worthless woodSave that it made his genius manifest,And swollen with conceit Marsyas sentA word of challenge to the Delphic god,Apollo of the cithara, for trialOf skill in music, saying who should proveThe victor might do with the other whatPleased him to do, and let the Muses judge.But when Athena heard Apollo laugh,Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dareWhich Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadowsOf flowered Olympus whispered of the thingIn jest and quip, and knowing that her soulStill echoed in the flute, but would anonFade from it as the perfume from a girdleTinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand,Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little timeWherein the Satyr may improve his skill.”To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles.But yet Apollo gave assent, though teasedBy reason of their chatter and the thoughtHid in Athena’s word that any respiteGranted the Satyr could prosper his success.Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the dayAppointed of Apollo. Near SangariusAnd through the woodlands tireless with the flute:Sometimes in imitative harmonyMocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and nowThe musical winds that blow in early springAround a peak of dancing asphodelWhere the sea warms them, and at other timesThe little waves that patter on the sandsOf old Sangarius rich in numerous flags.And once he strove with music’s alchemyTo turn to sound the sunlight of the mornWhich fills the senses as illuminate dewQuickens the ovule of the tiger-flower.Again he sang the sorrow of his youthWhen a wild nymph after one day of blissFled him while sleeping. And again he beatThe rhythm lying at the root of lifeWhich marks the whirling planets. And ApolloHearing betimes a note of purest toneFall like a star, betrayed his wonderment—Whereat the muses vexed him with their smilesAnd whisperings to each other. But ApolloCould sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulledWith its employment, as Athena’s soulDied from the flute, although the Satyr knew notEach day of waiting doomed him:Then at lastThe day dawned for the trial of their skill,And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute—For all had left it of Athena’s soul.Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the musesTo judge assembled, fair, majestical.With arms entwined some close together stood,Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass,But all bore in their eyes the light of mirthSuppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that EuterpeWas mistress of the flute, since it was deemedFair to the Satyr that the contest beJudged by the flute, gave signal to begin.Whereat Apollo struck the citharaTo test the strings, and all the wood was hushed,Awed by the magic of its harmony.But when Marsyas blew upon the fluteA fear coursed through him as his wonder roseWhether Apollo had bewitched its soulTo such discordance, or its utterance,Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’sWas so unmusical. Yet he dare not failThe contest, so they waged it to the end,While the sweet muses now grown pitifulNo longer smiled, but turned their heads awayIn sorrow for Marsyas, for his shameAnd for the fate to follow.So at lastWith one accord the muses rose and lookedWith eyes significant upon Apollo,Who angered by the Satyr’s swollen prideAnd monstrous failure, had become a willOf resolute retribution. But the muses,Because they feel for those who trying lose,Even as a mother for her crippled sonWhom the sound-footed distance in the race,Hastened away lest they behold the thingThat came to pass. And flinging far the fluteMarsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth.Whereat Apollo seized his wretched formAnd lifting him up, with strips of laurel barkBound the poor Satyr to a rugged oakAnd flayed him alive, and took the Satyr’s skinAnd hung it in a cave, and turned his bloodTo water, whence the river MarsyasThat from the cave flows onward to this day.
Pallas Athena in an hour of easeFrom guarding states and succoring the wise,Pressed wistfully her lips against a fluteMade by a Phrygian youth from resonant woodCut near Sangarius. Upon a bankMade sweet by daisies and anemoneShe sat with godly wisdom exercisedBlowing her breath against the stubborn tubeThat it might answer and vibrate in song.But while she played, down-looking, she beheldA serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edgeLay coiled among the reeds, as if awareOf the divinity that filled the place.Then Athena saw her image in the cove,Where like a silver mirror, motionlessSangarius lay, and seeing her own faceThus suddenly, was stricken with surpriseOf her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lipsPursed and distorted as she strove to curbThe resisting instrument. So with a smile,A little laugh, which brought her beauty back,And gilded like a gradual burst of sunThe water where the charmed serpent layLifting his head up to the living warmth,She threw the flute down, and Olympus wayVanished, from sight.
Marsyas all the whileBeneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edgeHad drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes,Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheepUpon a near-by hill which to the swaleSloped in luxuriance, upon a reedHis idle fancies loosened from the stops.But when Athena passed him, since he heardA roar of wings, as when a flock of quailUp-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to findThe forest silent and the music gone.Then straying toward the rushes, he espiedThe flute upon the golden sands, and took itAnd tried his lips upon it, where the lipsOf Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist,And with a soul, which to the artless breathOf the rude Satyr gave melodious speech.So thinking that the music was his ownAnd that the flute was but a worthless woodSave that it made his genius manifest,And swollen with conceit Marsyas sentA word of challenge to the Delphic god,Apollo of the cithara, for trialOf skill in music, saying who should proveThe victor might do with the other whatPleased him to do, and let the Muses judge.
But when Athena heard Apollo laugh,Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dareWhich Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadowsOf flowered Olympus whispered of the thingIn jest and quip, and knowing that her soulStill echoed in the flute, but would anonFade from it as the perfume from a girdleTinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand,Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little timeWherein the Satyr may improve his skill.”To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles.But yet Apollo gave assent, though teasedBy reason of their chatter and the thoughtHid in Athena’s word that any respiteGranted the Satyr could prosper his success.
Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the dayAppointed of Apollo. Near SangariusAnd through the woodlands tireless with the flute:Sometimes in imitative harmonyMocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and nowThe musical winds that blow in early springAround a peak of dancing asphodelWhere the sea warms them, and at other timesThe little waves that patter on the sandsOf old Sangarius rich in numerous flags.And once he strove with music’s alchemyTo turn to sound the sunlight of the mornWhich fills the senses as illuminate dewQuickens the ovule of the tiger-flower.Again he sang the sorrow of his youthWhen a wild nymph after one day of blissFled him while sleeping. And again he beatThe rhythm lying at the root of lifeWhich marks the whirling planets. And ApolloHearing betimes a note of purest toneFall like a star, betrayed his wonderment—Whereat the muses vexed him with their smilesAnd whisperings to each other. But ApolloCould sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulledWith its employment, as Athena’s soulDied from the flute, although the Satyr knew notEach day of waiting doomed him:
Then at lastThe day dawned for the trial of their skill,And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute—For all had left it of Athena’s soul.Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the musesTo judge assembled, fair, majestical.With arms entwined some close together stood,Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass,But all bore in their eyes the light of mirthSuppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that EuterpeWas mistress of the flute, since it was deemedFair to the Satyr that the contest beJudged by the flute, gave signal to begin.Whereat Apollo struck the citharaTo test the strings, and all the wood was hushed,Awed by the magic of its harmony.But when Marsyas blew upon the fluteA fear coursed through him as his wonder roseWhether Apollo had bewitched its soulTo such discordance, or its utterance,Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’sWas so unmusical. Yet he dare not failThe contest, so they waged it to the end,While the sweet muses now grown pitifulNo longer smiled, but turned their heads awayIn sorrow for Marsyas, for his shameAnd for the fate to follow.
So at lastWith one accord the muses rose and lookedWith eyes significant upon Apollo,Who angered by the Satyr’s swollen prideAnd monstrous failure, had become a willOf resolute retribution. But the muses,Because they feel for those who trying lose,Even as a mother for her crippled sonWhom the sound-footed distance in the race,Hastened away lest they behold the thingThat came to pass. And flinging far the fluteMarsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth.
Whereat Apollo seized his wretched formAnd lifting him up, with strips of laurel barkBound the poor Satyr to a rugged oakAnd flayed him alive, and took the Satyr’s skinAnd hung it in a cave, and turned his bloodTo water, whence the river MarsyasThat from the cave flows onward to this day.
This was the world: It was a houseWith a cool hallway end to endWhere buckets, pans and dippers hung,And coats that in the breezes swung;And eaves in which ’twas good to browseOn books stored in a musty box.Along the walks were lilac boughs,And by the windows hollyhocks.And there were fields down to the hillsWhich marked the earth’s far boundary;A church-spire at the roadway’s bend,And barns and cribs and twinkling mills,And neighbor friends like Mrs. Gray,And endless days of dream and play.It was a world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skySeeing the summers come and pass,A world so quiet it appearedLike to the mimic world enspheredBy witchery of the old field glassWhich from an uncle’s drawer I tookUpon the distant hills to look.You know not then that worlds not deadLie back of you and bide their chanceTo seize your world of ignorance:There was an opening in the ceilingAbove the kitchen where the manSat humming to himself at nightAmid the enshadowed candle-light,And played on his accordionHappy, unconscious and alone.There full of mischief would I lieAnd watch him through the ceiling’s hole,And laugh for thought of elfish tricks,Of whispering words or dropping sticksTo fright his well contented soul.Sometimes I think there is an eyeWhich is not God’s that spies upon us;That other worlds may lie about usOur fathers or our mothers lived,Where Forces lurk and laugh and wait.Here then was my world’s fair estate—For so I knew it—could it beDisturbed or wrecked? I never thoughtThat change or loss could come to me,With God above the church’s spire....But what are all these April dreams?Less tangible the landscape seems;The windmills, barns and houses swimIn a sphered ether, wheeling, dim.Red cattle on green meadows passAcross a belt of bluest skyLike objects in the old field glass.The chickens stalk about the yardLike phantom things in my regardAnd songs and cries and voices soundLike muffled echoes from the ground.Stones and dead sticks crawl and move;And bones that through the winter laySomething of living power betray.I sink in all things dizzily,Made one with nature, all I see,Until I have no way to proveMy separate identity.Yet death is what? Why, death is this:Something that comes but is far off.They worry sometimes for my cough.I know they watch me, know they cry,But what can wreck my earth or sky?The doctor comes now every dayAnd with my father sits and talks,Or stands about the garden walks.One day I hear them: “It appearsSometimes in ten or twenty yearsAs madness or paralysis.Sometimes it passes, leaves a scarAnd never troubles one again.You say you had this in the war?It’s hit your boy as phthisis,Also I think he’s going blind.”I saw my father trembling windSome plucked grass round and round his hand.They noticed me, walked further onAnd left me dreaming where I sat.Some years since that day now are gone.I have no world now, none but night.My father’s world lay back of mineAnd wrecked my world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skyWhich looked on summers rise and pass,So like an image caught and heldBy witchery of the old field glass.
This was the world: It was a houseWith a cool hallway end to endWhere buckets, pans and dippers hung,And coats that in the breezes swung;And eaves in which ’twas good to browseOn books stored in a musty box.Along the walks were lilac boughs,And by the windows hollyhocks.And there were fields down to the hillsWhich marked the earth’s far boundary;A church-spire at the roadway’s bend,And barns and cribs and twinkling mills,And neighbor friends like Mrs. Gray,And endless days of dream and play.It was a world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skySeeing the summers come and pass,A world so quiet it appearedLike to the mimic world enspheredBy witchery of the old field glassWhich from an uncle’s drawer I tookUpon the distant hills to look.You know not then that worlds not deadLie back of you and bide their chanceTo seize your world of ignorance:There was an opening in the ceilingAbove the kitchen where the manSat humming to himself at nightAmid the enshadowed candle-light,And played on his accordionHappy, unconscious and alone.There full of mischief would I lieAnd watch him through the ceiling’s hole,And laugh for thought of elfish tricks,Of whispering words or dropping sticksTo fright his well contented soul.Sometimes I think there is an eyeWhich is not God’s that spies upon us;That other worlds may lie about usOur fathers or our mothers lived,Where Forces lurk and laugh and wait.Here then was my world’s fair estate—For so I knew it—could it beDisturbed or wrecked? I never thoughtThat change or loss could come to me,With God above the church’s spire....But what are all these April dreams?Less tangible the landscape seems;The windmills, barns and houses swimIn a sphered ether, wheeling, dim.Red cattle on green meadows passAcross a belt of bluest skyLike objects in the old field glass.The chickens stalk about the yardLike phantom things in my regardAnd songs and cries and voices soundLike muffled echoes from the ground.Stones and dead sticks crawl and move;And bones that through the winter laySomething of living power betray.I sink in all things dizzily,Made one with nature, all I see,Until I have no way to proveMy separate identity.Yet death is what? Why, death is this:Something that comes but is far off.They worry sometimes for my cough.I know they watch me, know they cry,But what can wreck my earth or sky?The doctor comes now every dayAnd with my father sits and talks,Or stands about the garden walks.One day I hear them: “It appearsSometimes in ten or twenty yearsAs madness or paralysis.Sometimes it passes, leaves a scarAnd never troubles one again.You say you had this in the war?It’s hit your boy as phthisis,Also I think he’s going blind.”I saw my father trembling windSome plucked grass round and round his hand.They noticed me, walked further onAnd left me dreaming where I sat.Some years since that day now are gone.I have no world now, none but night.My father’s world lay back of mineAnd wrecked my world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skyWhich looked on summers rise and pass,So like an image caught and heldBy witchery of the old field glass.
This was the world: It was a houseWith a cool hallway end to endWhere buckets, pans and dippers hung,And coats that in the breezes swung;And eaves in which ’twas good to browseOn books stored in a musty box.Along the walks were lilac boughs,And by the windows hollyhocks.And there were fields down to the hillsWhich marked the earth’s far boundary;A church-spire at the roadway’s bend,And barns and cribs and twinkling mills,And neighbor friends like Mrs. Gray,And endless days of dream and play.It was a world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skySeeing the summers come and pass,A world so quiet it appearedLike to the mimic world enspheredBy witchery of the old field glassWhich from an uncle’s drawer I tookUpon the distant hills to look.You know not then that worlds not deadLie back of you and bide their chanceTo seize your world of ignorance:There was an opening in the ceilingAbove the kitchen where the manSat humming to himself at nightAmid the enshadowed candle-light,And played on his accordionHappy, unconscious and alone.There full of mischief would I lieAnd watch him through the ceiling’s hole,And laugh for thought of elfish tricks,Of whispering words or dropping sticksTo fright his well contented soul.Sometimes I think there is an eyeWhich is not God’s that spies upon us;That other worlds may lie about usOur fathers or our mothers lived,Where Forces lurk and laugh and wait.
Here then was my world’s fair estate—For so I knew it—could it beDisturbed or wrecked? I never thoughtThat change or loss could come to me,With God above the church’s spire....
But what are all these April dreams?Less tangible the landscape seems;The windmills, barns and houses swimIn a sphered ether, wheeling, dim.Red cattle on green meadows passAcross a belt of bluest skyLike objects in the old field glass.The chickens stalk about the yardLike phantom things in my regardAnd songs and cries and voices soundLike muffled echoes from the ground.Stones and dead sticks crawl and move;And bones that through the winter laySomething of living power betray.I sink in all things dizzily,Made one with nature, all I see,Until I have no way to proveMy separate identity.Yet death is what? Why, death is this:Something that comes but is far off.They worry sometimes for my cough.I know they watch me, know they cry,But what can wreck my earth or sky?
The doctor comes now every dayAnd with my father sits and talks,Or stands about the garden walks.One day I hear them: “It appearsSometimes in ten or twenty yearsAs madness or paralysis.Sometimes it passes, leaves a scarAnd never troubles one again.You say you had this in the war?It’s hit your boy as phthisis,Also I think he’s going blind.”I saw my father trembling windSome plucked grass round and round his hand.They noticed me, walked further onAnd left me dreaming where I sat.
Some years since that day now are gone.I have no world now, none but night.My father’s world lay back of mineAnd wrecked my world so guarded, safe,So cherished by a God-watched skyWhich looked on summers rise and pass,So like an image caught and heldBy witchery of the old field glass.
“Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s hat away,Its rolling do not stay,Till I have combed my hair,And tied it up behind.”Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s love away,My prince will come to-day.Let him but find me fair,And searching find.The queen my mother grievesFor hopes that went astray.Blow thou my grief away,Among the April flags,Among the dancing leaves.Fill thou their golden wings,And make the great clouds flyLike swans across the sky,Above the mountain cragsWhere the young eaglet clings.Blow—yet the mad wind diesAmong the flags and ferns.And Conrad still returns,Ere I have bound my hair,Or dried my eyes.Blow, blow, thou wind—Blow Conrad’s love away.But since it will not stay,Blow thou afar my careAnd make me kind.As even, lad, thou art.Blow, blow, thou wind, but sinceVainly I wait the princeCome, Conrad, loose my hair,—Thou loyal heart!
“Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s hat away,Its rolling do not stay,Till I have combed my hair,And tied it up behind.”Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s love away,My prince will come to-day.Let him but find me fair,And searching find.The queen my mother grievesFor hopes that went astray.Blow thou my grief away,Among the April flags,Among the dancing leaves.Fill thou their golden wings,And make the great clouds flyLike swans across the sky,Above the mountain cragsWhere the young eaglet clings.Blow—yet the mad wind diesAmong the flags and ferns.And Conrad still returns,Ere I have bound my hair,Or dried my eyes.Blow, blow, thou wind—Blow Conrad’s love away.But since it will not stay,Blow thou afar my careAnd make me kind.As even, lad, thou art.Blow, blow, thou wind, but sinceVainly I wait the princeCome, Conrad, loose my hair,—Thou loyal heart!
“Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s hat away,Its rolling do not stay,Till I have combed my hair,And tied it up behind.”
Blow, blow, thou wind,Blow Conrad’s love away,My prince will come to-day.Let him but find me fair,And searching find.
The queen my mother grievesFor hopes that went astray.Blow thou my grief away,Among the April flags,Among the dancing leaves.
Fill thou their golden wings,And make the great clouds flyLike swans across the sky,Above the mountain cragsWhere the young eaglet clings.
Blow—yet the mad wind diesAmong the flags and ferns.And Conrad still returns,Ere I have bound my hair,Or dried my eyes.
Blow, blow, thou wind—Blow Conrad’s love away.But since it will not stay,Blow thou afar my careAnd make me kind.
As even, lad, thou art.Blow, blow, thou wind, but sinceVainly I wait the princeCome, Conrad, loose my hair,—Thou loyal heart!
But you must act. And therein lies the wayOf freedom from the Furies. You must burnThe substance of your being, if you stayThe impetus of life you will not learnThe simples of salvation. Go pluck offA serpent from Alecto’s head and laughExhilarate with its poison. If you scoffYou will perceive. You cannot love the staffYou have not scorned. You cannot weigh the actYou have not lived, the fear you did not prove.Your soul was made to focus and extractThrough action every hatred, every love.Pour out yourself if you would know releaseFrom what the Furies do to spoil your peace.
But you must act. And therein lies the wayOf freedom from the Furies. You must burnThe substance of your being, if you stayThe impetus of life you will not learnThe simples of salvation. Go pluck offA serpent from Alecto’s head and laughExhilarate with its poison. If you scoffYou will perceive. You cannot love the staffYou have not scorned. You cannot weigh the actYou have not lived, the fear you did not prove.Your soul was made to focus and extractThrough action every hatred, every love.Pour out yourself if you would know releaseFrom what the Furies do to spoil your peace.
But you must act. And therein lies the wayOf freedom from the Furies. You must burnThe substance of your being, if you stayThe impetus of life you will not learnThe simples of salvation. Go pluck offA serpent from Alecto’s head and laughExhilarate with its poison. If you scoffYou will perceive. You cannot love the staffYou have not scorned. You cannot weigh the actYou have not lived, the fear you did not prove.Your soul was made to focus and extractThrough action every hatred, every love.Pour out yourself if you would know releaseFrom what the Furies do to spoil your peace.
Ambition that eludes, love never foundHigh hopes that tempt, or goodness still pursuedHave their own Furies, for this mortal groundBreeds serpents from the blood of fortitudeAnd action as it does from listless fear.You have aspired and fallen, curse the pastTill madness come! Be quiet, hide or searThe memory of the dream, no less at lastThe Sisters shall arrive! How do they come?Your life grows round a moral governanceAnd you have served it. You are stricken dumbTo see it crumble spite of vigilance.Now when you cannot think, rebuild, repairThe Sisters come and wheel your cripple’s chair.
Ambition that eludes, love never foundHigh hopes that tempt, or goodness still pursuedHave their own Furies, for this mortal groundBreeds serpents from the blood of fortitudeAnd action as it does from listless fear.You have aspired and fallen, curse the pastTill madness come! Be quiet, hide or searThe memory of the dream, no less at lastThe Sisters shall arrive! How do they come?Your life grows round a moral governanceAnd you have served it. You are stricken dumbTo see it crumble spite of vigilance.Now when you cannot think, rebuild, repairThe Sisters come and wheel your cripple’s chair.
Ambition that eludes, love never foundHigh hopes that tempt, or goodness still pursuedHave their own Furies, for this mortal groundBreeds serpents from the blood of fortitudeAnd action as it does from listless fear.You have aspired and fallen, curse the pastTill madness come! Be quiet, hide or searThe memory of the dream, no less at lastThe Sisters shall arrive! How do they come?Your life grows round a moral governanceAnd you have served it. You are stricken dumbTo see it crumble spite of vigilance.Now when you cannot think, rebuild, repairThe Sisters come and wheel your cripple’s chair.
You were a fennel stalk that laughed and grewWith laughter till the life in you could useThe cells no further, then the cold winds blew,And you fell whispering of the April dews.Grown fair or foul the rhythmic force was spent,The summer gone, your little past achieved,Repulsions balanced, though you might lamentSo much neglected, or too much believed.You were a dry weed when a Great Hand seizedAnd bore you as a carrier of fire.The garden you had grown in had not pleased!Was this, perhaps, the end of your desire?You lit a heap of leaves where children came,The Furies meditating watched the flame!
You were a fennel stalk that laughed and grewWith laughter till the life in you could useThe cells no further, then the cold winds blew,And you fell whispering of the April dews.Grown fair or foul the rhythmic force was spent,The summer gone, your little past achieved,Repulsions balanced, though you might lamentSo much neglected, or too much believed.You were a dry weed when a Great Hand seizedAnd bore you as a carrier of fire.The garden you had grown in had not pleased!Was this, perhaps, the end of your desire?You lit a heap of leaves where children came,The Furies meditating watched the flame!
You were a fennel stalk that laughed and grewWith laughter till the life in you could useThe cells no further, then the cold winds blew,And you fell whispering of the April dews.Grown fair or foul the rhythmic force was spent,The summer gone, your little past achieved,Repulsions balanced, though you might lamentSo much neglected, or too much believed.You were a dry weed when a Great Hand seizedAnd bore you as a carrier of fire.The garden you had grown in had not pleased!Was this, perhaps, the end of your desire?You lit a heap of leaves where children came,The Furies meditating watched the flame!
Zeus envied Æsculapius that he healedThe sick and brought the dead to life, and fainWould slay him. So the Cyclops brought Zeus lightningWith which Zeus smote the healer. Then ApolloDestroyed the Cyclops, grieving for his son.And Clotho laughed to see the thread of fateSlip by Atropos, woven in the clothOf destiny. For had she cut the threadShot from the spindle, then a little traceOf scarlet, but no figures of despairHad marked the storied tapestry. So ApolloWas doomed for punishment to tend the flocksOf King Admetus, lord of Pheræ. NextApollo met a mortal woman, daughterOf an old soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land.He, sitting on a rockThat overlooked a green Thessalian fieldWhere grazed the flocks, clad in a leopard’s skin,His crook beside him, dreamed of wide Olympus:“This hour the muses dance, the Council sitsAnd there is high debate, or Hera stormsFor Zeus’ absence; there is life, and IUnknown, alone, a shepherd by this fieldOf pastoral pathos labor all the day.”And then a step disturbed his revery;And looking up he saw a slender maidWhite as gardenias, jonquil-haired, with eyesAs blue as Peneus when he meets the sea.And an old weakness crept upon the god.For ever in his soul there shone the faceOf woman, like the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste;And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth.And this Chione, daughter of the soldier,Servitor of the gods and rich in landAt once became his passion. So he roseAnd to Chione spoke, and she, to him.And then anon she saw the unkept curlsSun-bleached, that touched his shoulders, then his breast,Smooth as her own, and then his arms, his handsHis shapely knees, his firm and pointed feet,And her eyes closed as stars beneath the dawnAnd dawn rose in her cheeks. And the god knewHer inmost thought.So all that day they played,Amid the wind-blown light of Thessaly.He wove her traps for crickets from the grass,And from the willow branches made her flutes;He caught her butterflies, and sang her runesOf living things, and how the earth and seaFrom Erebus and Love sprang into being;And how the sun, and the bright pageant of the starsDance joyously to music. And ChioneWas dumb for happiness; and the day went by.But with the dusk there came a swooning languor,All was forgotten save the shepherd’s faceHeld close to hers, and round his moving curlsThe circled splendor of the sickle moon—Nor eyes, nor lips, only a golden blur.And rousing she beheld the enshadowed fieldFlockless and silent, and the shepherd gone.Then through the night Chione weakly walkedAnd found at last her home.The light of dayBrought terror to Chione. Then she soughtAnd found Apollo where he sat beforeAnd told him that her father, the old soldier,Was favored of Admetus, and would bringThe royal power against him, if he failedThe troth of wedlock. And Apollo musedUpon his exile from Olympus’ throne,And Zeus’ wrath against him, that he slewThe Cyclops, and upon his shepherd stateTending Admetus’ flocks, and how unknownAnd weak he stood between these kingly handsOf Zeus and of Admetus. And seeing her fair,More fair in tears, he gave her his consent.Next day Chione brought the god a robeAnd sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayedChione took him to her father’s homeThe ancient soldier, servitor of the gods,And rich in land, and spoke of him as ActeusA merchant from the city. Then the fatherGave thanks to Zeus and at the family boardApollo supped, as one who would becomeChione’s husband. So it came to pass.They walked together in the bridal trainBehind the perfumed torches.All the whileZeus smiled to see Apollo’s punishment.And Hera, who with woman’s subtlety,Knew that there shone within Apollo’s soulA face like to the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste,And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth,Laughed freely with the muses as she said:“Thus is the masculine spirit ever caughtBy its own lure, let Zeus himself take heedLest sometime he be snared.”So when OlympusGrew dull, the gods for fun looked o’er the rampartsAnd spied upon Apollo at the boardWith all Chione’s family; or at nightBeside Chione and the little facesWhich every year increased. Or on ApolloAbout his bitter task of shepherdingTo win the bread for faded ChioneAnd for the children.Thus the nine years passed.Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses downTo bring Apollo back, and to OlympusHumbled and sorrowful he came again,With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair,And a lack-lustre eye, which all the artOf Aphrodite after many daysCould scarce remove.Then Chione told her fatherThat Acteus was not a merchant from the city.“Too late,” she said, “I found he had deceived meAnd masked his shepherd calling.”To which her fatherThe ancient soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land: “Yea, daughter, he deceived you.Now he has run away, abandoned you,May the gods note it and avenge the wrong.”
Zeus envied Æsculapius that he healedThe sick and brought the dead to life, and fainWould slay him. So the Cyclops brought Zeus lightningWith which Zeus smote the healer. Then ApolloDestroyed the Cyclops, grieving for his son.And Clotho laughed to see the thread of fateSlip by Atropos, woven in the clothOf destiny. For had she cut the threadShot from the spindle, then a little traceOf scarlet, but no figures of despairHad marked the storied tapestry. So ApolloWas doomed for punishment to tend the flocksOf King Admetus, lord of Pheræ. NextApollo met a mortal woman, daughterOf an old soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land.He, sitting on a rockThat overlooked a green Thessalian fieldWhere grazed the flocks, clad in a leopard’s skin,His crook beside him, dreamed of wide Olympus:“This hour the muses dance, the Council sitsAnd there is high debate, or Hera stormsFor Zeus’ absence; there is life, and IUnknown, alone, a shepherd by this fieldOf pastoral pathos labor all the day.”And then a step disturbed his revery;And looking up he saw a slender maidWhite as gardenias, jonquil-haired, with eyesAs blue as Peneus when he meets the sea.And an old weakness crept upon the god.For ever in his soul there shone the faceOf woman, like the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste;And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth.And this Chione, daughter of the soldier,Servitor of the gods and rich in landAt once became his passion. So he roseAnd to Chione spoke, and she, to him.And then anon she saw the unkept curlsSun-bleached, that touched his shoulders, then his breast,Smooth as her own, and then his arms, his handsHis shapely knees, his firm and pointed feet,And her eyes closed as stars beneath the dawnAnd dawn rose in her cheeks. And the god knewHer inmost thought.So all that day they played,Amid the wind-blown light of Thessaly.He wove her traps for crickets from the grass,And from the willow branches made her flutes;He caught her butterflies, and sang her runesOf living things, and how the earth and seaFrom Erebus and Love sprang into being;And how the sun, and the bright pageant of the starsDance joyously to music. And ChioneWas dumb for happiness; and the day went by.But with the dusk there came a swooning languor,All was forgotten save the shepherd’s faceHeld close to hers, and round his moving curlsThe circled splendor of the sickle moon—Nor eyes, nor lips, only a golden blur.And rousing she beheld the enshadowed fieldFlockless and silent, and the shepherd gone.Then through the night Chione weakly walkedAnd found at last her home.The light of dayBrought terror to Chione. Then she soughtAnd found Apollo where he sat beforeAnd told him that her father, the old soldier,Was favored of Admetus, and would bringThe royal power against him, if he failedThe troth of wedlock. And Apollo musedUpon his exile from Olympus’ throne,And Zeus’ wrath against him, that he slewThe Cyclops, and upon his shepherd stateTending Admetus’ flocks, and how unknownAnd weak he stood between these kingly handsOf Zeus and of Admetus. And seeing her fair,More fair in tears, he gave her his consent.Next day Chione brought the god a robeAnd sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayedChione took him to her father’s homeThe ancient soldier, servitor of the gods,And rich in land, and spoke of him as ActeusA merchant from the city. Then the fatherGave thanks to Zeus and at the family boardApollo supped, as one who would becomeChione’s husband. So it came to pass.They walked together in the bridal trainBehind the perfumed torches.All the whileZeus smiled to see Apollo’s punishment.And Hera, who with woman’s subtlety,Knew that there shone within Apollo’s soulA face like to the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste,And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth,Laughed freely with the muses as she said:“Thus is the masculine spirit ever caughtBy its own lure, let Zeus himself take heedLest sometime he be snared.”So when OlympusGrew dull, the gods for fun looked o’er the rampartsAnd spied upon Apollo at the boardWith all Chione’s family; or at nightBeside Chione and the little facesWhich every year increased. Or on ApolloAbout his bitter task of shepherdingTo win the bread for faded ChioneAnd for the children.Thus the nine years passed.Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses downTo bring Apollo back, and to OlympusHumbled and sorrowful he came again,With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair,And a lack-lustre eye, which all the artOf Aphrodite after many daysCould scarce remove.Then Chione told her fatherThat Acteus was not a merchant from the city.“Too late,” she said, “I found he had deceived meAnd masked his shepherd calling.”To which her fatherThe ancient soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land: “Yea, daughter, he deceived you.Now he has run away, abandoned you,May the gods note it and avenge the wrong.”
Zeus envied Æsculapius that he healedThe sick and brought the dead to life, and fainWould slay him. So the Cyclops brought Zeus lightningWith which Zeus smote the healer. Then ApolloDestroyed the Cyclops, grieving for his son.And Clotho laughed to see the thread of fateSlip by Atropos, woven in the clothOf destiny. For had she cut the threadShot from the spindle, then a little traceOf scarlet, but no figures of despairHad marked the storied tapestry. So ApolloWas doomed for punishment to tend the flocksOf King Admetus, lord of Pheræ. NextApollo met a mortal woman, daughterOf an old soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land.
He, sitting on a rockThat overlooked a green Thessalian fieldWhere grazed the flocks, clad in a leopard’s skin,His crook beside him, dreamed of wide Olympus:“This hour the muses dance, the Council sitsAnd there is high debate, or Hera stormsFor Zeus’ absence; there is life, and IUnknown, alone, a shepherd by this fieldOf pastoral pathos labor all the day.”And then a step disturbed his revery;And looking up he saw a slender maidWhite as gardenias, jonquil-haired, with eyesAs blue as Peneus when he meets the sea.And an old weakness crept upon the god.For ever in his soul there shone the faceOf woman, like the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste;And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth.And this Chione, daughter of the soldier,Servitor of the gods and rich in landAt once became his passion. So he roseAnd to Chione spoke, and she, to him.And then anon she saw the unkept curlsSun-bleached, that touched his shoulders, then his breast,Smooth as her own, and then his arms, his handsHis shapely knees, his firm and pointed feet,And her eyes closed as stars beneath the dawnAnd dawn rose in her cheeks. And the god knewHer inmost thought.
So all that day they played,Amid the wind-blown light of Thessaly.He wove her traps for crickets from the grass,And from the willow branches made her flutes;He caught her butterflies, and sang her runesOf living things, and how the earth and seaFrom Erebus and Love sprang into being;And how the sun, and the bright pageant of the starsDance joyously to music. And ChioneWas dumb for happiness; and the day went by.But with the dusk there came a swooning languor,All was forgotten save the shepherd’s faceHeld close to hers, and round his moving curlsThe circled splendor of the sickle moon—Nor eyes, nor lips, only a golden blur.And rousing she beheld the enshadowed fieldFlockless and silent, and the shepherd gone.Then through the night Chione weakly walkedAnd found at last her home.
The light of dayBrought terror to Chione. Then she soughtAnd found Apollo where he sat beforeAnd told him that her father, the old soldier,Was favored of Admetus, and would bringThe royal power against him, if he failedThe troth of wedlock. And Apollo musedUpon his exile from Olympus’ throne,And Zeus’ wrath against him, that he slewThe Cyclops, and upon his shepherd stateTending Admetus’ flocks, and how unknownAnd weak he stood between these kingly handsOf Zeus and of Admetus. And seeing her fair,More fair in tears, he gave her his consent.
Next day Chione brought the god a robeAnd sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayedChione took him to her father’s homeThe ancient soldier, servitor of the gods,And rich in land, and spoke of him as ActeusA merchant from the city. Then the fatherGave thanks to Zeus and at the family boardApollo supped, as one who would becomeChione’s husband. So it came to pass.They walked together in the bridal trainBehind the perfumed torches.
All the whileZeus smiled to see Apollo’s punishment.And Hera, who with woman’s subtlety,Knew that there shone within Apollo’s soulA face like to the face of Artemis,His virgin sister, delicate and chaste,And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserveHad been Apollo’s madness from his birth,Laughed freely with the muses as she said:“Thus is the masculine spirit ever caughtBy its own lure, let Zeus himself take heedLest sometime he be snared.”
So when OlympusGrew dull, the gods for fun looked o’er the rampartsAnd spied upon Apollo at the boardWith all Chione’s family; or at nightBeside Chione and the little facesWhich every year increased. Or on ApolloAbout his bitter task of shepherdingTo win the bread for faded ChioneAnd for the children.
Thus the nine years passed.Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses downTo bring Apollo back, and to OlympusHumbled and sorrowful he came again,With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair,And a lack-lustre eye, which all the artOf Aphrodite after many daysCould scarce remove.
Then Chione told her fatherThat Acteus was not a merchant from the city.“Too late,” she said, “I found he had deceived meAnd masked his shepherd calling.”
To which her fatherThe ancient soldier, servitor of the godsAnd rich in land: “Yea, daughter, he deceived you.Now he has run away, abandoned you,May the gods note it and avenge the wrong.”
Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood,And the trestle’s at the end.And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills,And south the river’s bend.It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hillIs flapped by a flying crow.And the steel of the railroad track is cold,And the Cut is piled with snow.What is that there by the trestle’s endWhere the Cut slopes down to the slough?That’s Cora Williams lying thereIn her cloak of faded blue.Her skirt is red as a northern spy,And her mittens blackberry black.And under her cotton underskirtThere’s a green place on her back.Her little gray hat is over her brow,And covers a purple bruise.She had white stockings for her feetAnd the holes were in her shoes.Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl?And where did you start to booze?They saw you once at Rigdon’s place,And last at Sandy Hughes’.On the night that Jesus Christ was bornYou were drinking gin and beer.They saw you sitting on Carless’ kneesAs the midnight hour drew near.They saw you two start into the night,And the night was cold and black.And then they found you there by the bridgeWith the green bruise on your back.Down through the dark to the Shovel CutThe two of you walked and sang.You were holding hands on the trestle bridgeWhen the bell began to clang.’Twas back of the curve that the head-light shoneSo what was the use of eyes?The mad iron thing leaped on you thereAs you ran on the trestle ties.It rushed on you like a furious bullThat charges a scarlet flag.The engineer looked long at the gaugeAs the fireman scraped the slag.Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stoneAnd the world to him was a blank.But the iron thing struck at your backAnd doubled you down on the bank.Croak Carless woke from a sleep like deathAnd found you covered with blood.He slinks to the river to wash his hands,He runs to hide in the wood.He steals through thickets, hides in a barn,He cowers where the corn’s in shock.But the posse catches Croak by noon,And the jailer turns the lock.Croak Carless’ wife weeps at the bars,Croak weeps in a grated cell.They’ve mortgaged the farm for a lawyer’s feeTo save Croak’s soul from hell.For the Coroner has a bat-like thingIn a bottle safe in his room.It looks like a baby devil fish—It’s Cora Williams’ womb.A woman’s womb is a thing of doomAnd winged with a fan-like mesh.And who was the father, they’re asking Croak,Of this bit of jelly flesh?And the doctors took an oath in the courtThat a sharp club did the deed.And the judge was a foe of the lawyer manCroak Carless paid to plead.And Croak had talked too much in jail,And he trembled and testifiedTo a woeful tangle of time and place,And the jury thought he lied.Croak Carless’ wife sobbed out in courtAs they twisted him out and in.For they made him swear he drank with the girl,And swear to his carnal sin.They stood him up on the gallow’s trapAnd his voice was clear and low:If I killed Cora Williams, men,My soul to hell should go.They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shotLike a wheat bag toward the floor.And the doctors let his body hangTill his old heart beat no more.They let him alone to work and sweatFor a wife’s and children’s ease.But they hung him up for a little beerWith a woman on his knees.And he might have died in bed in a year,For when they opened him upThey found his heart was a played out pump,And leaked like a rusty cup.And a man can live as the church decrees,Or dance in the way of vice,A woman’s womb is a thing of doom,And life is the current price.’Tis a vampire bat, or the leather boxFrom which you rattle the dice.’Tis an altar of doom, is a woman’s womb,And man is the sacrifice.
Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood,And the trestle’s at the end.And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills,And south the river’s bend.It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hillIs flapped by a flying crow.And the steel of the railroad track is cold,And the Cut is piled with snow.What is that there by the trestle’s endWhere the Cut slopes down to the slough?That’s Cora Williams lying thereIn her cloak of faded blue.Her skirt is red as a northern spy,And her mittens blackberry black.And under her cotton underskirtThere’s a green place on her back.Her little gray hat is over her brow,And covers a purple bruise.She had white stockings for her feetAnd the holes were in her shoes.Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl?And where did you start to booze?They saw you once at Rigdon’s place,And last at Sandy Hughes’.On the night that Jesus Christ was bornYou were drinking gin and beer.They saw you sitting on Carless’ kneesAs the midnight hour drew near.They saw you two start into the night,And the night was cold and black.And then they found you there by the bridgeWith the green bruise on your back.Down through the dark to the Shovel CutThe two of you walked and sang.You were holding hands on the trestle bridgeWhen the bell began to clang.’Twas back of the curve that the head-light shoneSo what was the use of eyes?The mad iron thing leaped on you thereAs you ran on the trestle ties.It rushed on you like a furious bullThat charges a scarlet flag.The engineer looked long at the gaugeAs the fireman scraped the slag.Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stoneAnd the world to him was a blank.But the iron thing struck at your backAnd doubled you down on the bank.Croak Carless woke from a sleep like deathAnd found you covered with blood.He slinks to the river to wash his hands,He runs to hide in the wood.He steals through thickets, hides in a barn,He cowers where the corn’s in shock.But the posse catches Croak by noon,And the jailer turns the lock.Croak Carless’ wife weeps at the bars,Croak weeps in a grated cell.They’ve mortgaged the farm for a lawyer’s feeTo save Croak’s soul from hell.For the Coroner has a bat-like thingIn a bottle safe in his room.It looks like a baby devil fish—It’s Cora Williams’ womb.A woman’s womb is a thing of doomAnd winged with a fan-like mesh.And who was the father, they’re asking Croak,Of this bit of jelly flesh?And the doctors took an oath in the courtThat a sharp club did the deed.And the judge was a foe of the lawyer manCroak Carless paid to plead.And Croak had talked too much in jail,And he trembled and testifiedTo a woeful tangle of time and place,And the jury thought he lied.Croak Carless’ wife sobbed out in courtAs they twisted him out and in.For they made him swear he drank with the girl,And swear to his carnal sin.They stood him up on the gallow’s trapAnd his voice was clear and low:If I killed Cora Williams, men,My soul to hell should go.They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shotLike a wheat bag toward the floor.And the doctors let his body hangTill his old heart beat no more.They let him alone to work and sweatFor a wife’s and children’s ease.But they hung him up for a little beerWith a woman on his knees.And he might have died in bed in a year,For when they opened him upThey found his heart was a played out pump,And leaked like a rusty cup.And a man can live as the church decrees,Or dance in the way of vice,A woman’s womb is a thing of doom,And life is the current price.’Tis a vampire bat, or the leather boxFrom which you rattle the dice.’Tis an altar of doom, is a woman’s womb,And man is the sacrifice.
Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood,And the trestle’s at the end.And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills,And south the river’s bend.
It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hillIs flapped by a flying crow.And the steel of the railroad track is cold,And the Cut is piled with snow.
What is that there by the trestle’s endWhere the Cut slopes down to the slough?That’s Cora Williams lying thereIn her cloak of faded blue.
Her skirt is red as a northern spy,And her mittens blackberry black.And under her cotton underskirtThere’s a green place on her back.
Her little gray hat is over her brow,And covers a purple bruise.She had white stockings for her feetAnd the holes were in her shoes.
Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl?And where did you start to booze?They saw you once at Rigdon’s place,And last at Sandy Hughes’.
On the night that Jesus Christ was bornYou were drinking gin and beer.They saw you sitting on Carless’ kneesAs the midnight hour drew near.
They saw you two start into the night,And the night was cold and black.And then they found you there by the bridgeWith the green bruise on your back.
Down through the dark to the Shovel CutThe two of you walked and sang.You were holding hands on the trestle bridgeWhen the bell began to clang.
’Twas back of the curve that the head-light shoneSo what was the use of eyes?The mad iron thing leaped on you thereAs you ran on the trestle ties.
It rushed on you like a furious bullThat charges a scarlet flag.The engineer looked long at the gaugeAs the fireman scraped the slag.
Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stoneAnd the world to him was a blank.But the iron thing struck at your backAnd doubled you down on the bank.
Croak Carless woke from a sleep like deathAnd found you covered with blood.He slinks to the river to wash his hands,He runs to hide in the wood.
He steals through thickets, hides in a barn,He cowers where the corn’s in shock.But the posse catches Croak by noon,And the jailer turns the lock.
Croak Carless’ wife weeps at the bars,Croak weeps in a grated cell.They’ve mortgaged the farm for a lawyer’s feeTo save Croak’s soul from hell.
For the Coroner has a bat-like thingIn a bottle safe in his room.It looks like a baby devil fish—It’s Cora Williams’ womb.
A woman’s womb is a thing of doomAnd winged with a fan-like mesh.And who was the father, they’re asking Croak,Of this bit of jelly flesh?
And the doctors took an oath in the courtThat a sharp club did the deed.And the judge was a foe of the lawyer manCroak Carless paid to plead.
And Croak had talked too much in jail,And he trembled and testifiedTo a woeful tangle of time and place,And the jury thought he lied.
Croak Carless’ wife sobbed out in courtAs they twisted him out and in.For they made him swear he drank with the girl,And swear to his carnal sin.
They stood him up on the gallow’s trapAnd his voice was clear and low:If I killed Cora Williams, men,My soul to hell should go.
They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shotLike a wheat bag toward the floor.And the doctors let his body hangTill his old heart beat no more.
They let him alone to work and sweatFor a wife’s and children’s ease.But they hung him up for a little beerWith a woman on his knees.
And he might have died in bed in a year,For when they opened him upThey found his heart was a played out pump,And leaked like a rusty cup.
And a man can live as the church decrees,Or dance in the way of vice,A woman’s womb is a thing of doom,And life is the current price.
’Tis a vampire bat, or the leather boxFrom which you rattle the dice.’Tis an altar of doom, is a woman’s womb,And man is the sacrifice.