THE CHURCH AND THE HOTEL

You wonder why I bought so many houses,Bought and repaired, built over home on house.The first one was to make a home for Mary,And Frank and Bessie, for I had myselfA settled home when I was boy and man,And knew the feeling of respect, contentWhich comes of one familiar and continuedHabitation for a boy who’s growing.The first house, then, was poor enough, God knows!A place that smelt in all the rooms of breathA sick man breathes into the very paper.The rat holes in the base boards had to beStopped up with plaster, all the floors were loose.Bricks lay awry upon the chimney tops.An old well with a windlass on the porchMade one remember typhoid all the time.Some apple trees half-rotted, covered overWith water sprouts stood in a yard of weeds.A barn was at the yard’s end out of shapeFrom leaning at an angle. All in allThe place was haunted, but it was the bestI could afford just then, and naturallyShe hated it and grumbled all the time.A few years past, it seemed scarce two or three,And all the children married, went away.Just then I grew more prosperous and built overThe haunted house, and built a handsome barn,Cut out the apple trees, destroyed the weeds,And put an iron fence around the yard.Put bathrooms, running water in the house.She jawed at me for doing this, and askedWhy did you wait until the children left?Of course she knew, but blamed me just the same.And so we had no pleasure with this house.She wanted larger rooms, and trees in front,A sunny dining room—there was that porchOn which ours looked, and though I closed the wellShe often wondered why we had not diedBefore I closed it.And about this timeOur banker moved away and left his houseFor sale at public auction. I went downAlone, not telling her, to look at it.Here was a house upon a stone foundationBuilt of red brick, peaked roof of slate, three stories,Brick walks about the yard with plots of flowers,A barn of brick—it was the very place!There now were grandchildren; and so I dreamedHow they would romp about this lovely yard,Or play on rainy days in that wide garret.And so I bid and got the house at auction.But when I told her she was up in arms:The house would hold a family of ten!Besides the upper rooms were far too small:What is a dining room, or huge drawing roomIf you step out of bed against the wall?Then there’s that gully just below the barnBreeding malaria, the banker’s familyWere sick year in and out—that’s why they sold itFor anything at public sale. O fool!Well, Mary came that summer with her children,And my poor dream in part was realized.But Frank and Bessie moved to CaliforniaAnd never saw the happiness I plannedFor them and for their children. Mary’s husbandDisliked the house—his hatred was beginning.Next summer Mary left him and divorced him,And started out to earn her children’s bread.She didn’t come again.And so it was true,We didn’t need so large a house—we sold itAnd bought a cottage of six rooms; this timeShe joined with me in picking out the house,But that was nothing, for no other houseBesides this one was up for sale just then.No sooner had we moved than she was fullOf wounded memory and a mad regret:She saw what she had lost. These little rooms!This front fence almost jammed against the door!And stoves again instead of radiators!No running water, only an old pumpAbove the kitchen sink! And near the station—The bawling bussmen bothered her at night!The midnight train woke her unfailingly.And now she said our first house was all rightWith this, or that corrected. We had blunderedIn ever selling it and taking onSuch luxury in the brick house. It had spoiledHer taste for living in a house like this,With just a little yard, that hideous fence,Which one could touch while standing in the door!She said she could not breathe because of it,And railed against her fate so that it broughtThe next step in my life of buying houses....Dreams entered in my brain of fields and woods,A little lake perhaps, river or stream.There was a fad of buying farms just then.I went to Michigan on other business,And there I saw one, bought it on the spot.You see I had the passion as of drink,And knew it as I ventured once again.But then there was the house upon the bluff!And there below it was the river! thereBeeches and oaks down to the river’s edge!A great white house all new, and apple trees,A vineyard and a field of eighty acres.Here will I sit, I said, upon my bluffAnd watch the river. I will keep a manTo farm the place, and prune the vines and trees,This is the place at last. But then I thoughtWhat will she say? She wants a farm I know,But will this suit her? So I sent for her.And when she came she kissed me, she was glad,Commended my good judgment, loved the house,Went through the barn in rapture, stood beneathThe windmill, which was near, to watch it pump.Strolled down the wooded bluff, threw pebbles inThe river where the swallows dipped and flew,And gathered daisies by the river’s shore.I sat down in the grass flushed through with joy,Like one who finds his haven, who has solvedLaborious troubles, thinking of the restI should take here—a man to run the place,And months of summer recreation here!I told her what my plan was.No, she said,To own a farm is business. You should knowBy this time that you have no head for business.I think you’ve shown some wisdom in this farm,Or better you’ve had luck in buying it.Your other ventures buying houses wereEnough to make you have distrust of self.Now that you’ve bought the farm to make it payIs what we have in hand, and you must work.We’ll keep a man, but he cannot do allThere is to do here, I will work and youMust work as well, the farm must pay, you know.I want the man to live with us in the houseSo I can watch him, rout him out to workAt sun-up and keep watch upon his time.We’ll keep two rooms for our use. For the manMust have a family, these single fellowsAre off too much at night and think too muchIn working hours of what they’ll do at night.Perhaps I am a weakling with my dreamOf buying houses, for I dream of joysAnd build my palaces, invite my joysTo enter and be glad. They never come!She took the farm and ran it. It was business,But business in disorder with a lossFor seed which did not sprout, and stock that died,And glutted markets when the fruit was good.I worked awhile, I fished once in the river,I sat a few times on my wooded bluff—And then I fled and left her to the farmTo rule a single farmer who cut weeds,Abandoned weeds for plowing, left the plowTo make a flower bed, following her whimsObedient, indifferent to results....If you destroy a bird’s nest that’s the end.The nesting birds return to find the branchWhere they had builded with such patient care,All naked of their work. They look and flyAnd think of what? But build no more that year.But if you take a twig and scratch the grainsAbout the ant hill, overturn their work,Stop up the door, the little folk beginTo build again, clear out the ruined hall—They cannot be discouraged like the birds.I think I am an ant—for even yetI’m looking for a house, or better a home.There is that house walled in with earth—that’s sure—But if there is no house to fill my joyWhy have I looked for houses all my life?

And about this timeOur banker moved away and left his houseFor sale at public auction. I went downAlone, not telling her, to look at it.Here was a house upon a stone foundationBuilt of red brick, peaked roof of slate, three stories,Brick walks about the yard with plots of flowers,A barn of brick—it was the very place!There now were grandchildren; and so I dreamedHow they would romp about this lovely yard,Or play on rainy days in that wide garret.And so I bid and got the house at auction.But when I told her she was up in arms:The house would hold a family of ten!Besides the upper rooms were far too small:What is a dining room, or huge drawing roomIf you step out of bed against the wall?Then there’s that gully just below the barnBreeding malaria, the banker’s familyWere sick year in and out—that’s why they sold itFor anything at public sale. O fool!Well, Mary came that summer with her children,And my poor dream in part was realized.But Frank and Bessie moved to CaliforniaAnd never saw the happiness I plannedFor them and for their children. Mary’s husbandDisliked the house—his hatred was beginning.Next summer Mary left him and divorced him,And started out to earn her children’s bread.She didn’t come again.

And so it was true,We didn’t need so large a house—we sold itAnd bought a cottage of six rooms; this timeShe joined with me in picking out the house,But that was nothing, for no other houseBesides this one was up for sale just then.No sooner had we moved than she was fullOf wounded memory and a mad regret:She saw what she had lost. These little rooms!This front fence almost jammed against the door!And stoves again instead of radiators!No running water, only an old pumpAbove the kitchen sink! And near the station—The bawling bussmen bothered her at night!The midnight train woke her unfailingly.And now she said our first house was all rightWith this, or that corrected. We had blunderedIn ever selling it and taking onSuch luxury in the brick house. It had spoiledHer taste for living in a house like this,With just a little yard, that hideous fence,Which one could touch while standing in the door!She said she could not breathe because of it,And railed against her fate so that it broughtThe next step in my life of buying houses....

Dreams entered in my brain of fields and woods,A little lake perhaps, river or stream.There was a fad of buying farms just then.I went to Michigan on other business,And there I saw one, bought it on the spot.You see I had the passion as of drink,And knew it as I ventured once again.But then there was the house upon the bluff!And there below it was the river! thereBeeches and oaks down to the river’s edge!A great white house all new, and apple trees,A vineyard and a field of eighty acres.Here will I sit, I said, upon my bluffAnd watch the river. I will keep a manTo farm the place, and prune the vines and trees,This is the place at last. But then I thoughtWhat will she say? She wants a farm I know,But will this suit her? So I sent for her.And when she came she kissed me, she was glad,Commended my good judgment, loved the house,Went through the barn in rapture, stood beneathThe windmill, which was near, to watch it pump.Strolled down the wooded bluff, threw pebbles inThe river where the swallows dipped and flew,And gathered daisies by the river’s shore.I sat down in the grass flushed through with joy,Like one who finds his haven, who has solvedLaborious troubles, thinking of the restI should take here—a man to run the place,And months of summer recreation here!I told her what my plan was.

No, she said,To own a farm is business. You should knowBy this time that you have no head for business.I think you’ve shown some wisdom in this farm,Or better you’ve had luck in buying it.Your other ventures buying houses wereEnough to make you have distrust of self.Now that you’ve bought the farm to make it payIs what we have in hand, and you must work.We’ll keep a man, but he cannot do allThere is to do here, I will work and youMust work as well, the farm must pay, you know.I want the man to live with us in the houseSo I can watch him, rout him out to workAt sun-up and keep watch upon his time.

We’ll keep two rooms for our use. For the manMust have a family, these single fellowsAre off too much at night and think too muchIn working hours of what they’ll do at night.

Perhaps I am a weakling with my dreamOf buying houses, for I dream of joysAnd build my palaces, invite my joysTo enter and be glad. They never come!She took the farm and ran it. It was business,But business in disorder with a lossFor seed which did not sprout, and stock that died,And glutted markets when the fruit was good.I worked awhile, I fished once in the river,I sat a few times on my wooded bluff—And then I fled and left her to the farmTo rule a single farmer who cut weeds,Abandoned weeds for plowing, left the plowTo make a flower bed, following her whimsObedient, indifferent to results....

If you destroy a bird’s nest that’s the end.The nesting birds return to find the branchWhere they had builded with such patient care,All naked of their work. They look and flyAnd think of what? But build no more that year.But if you take a twig and scratch the grainsAbout the ant hill, overturn their work,Stop up the door, the little folk beginTo build again, clear out the ruined hall—They cannot be discouraged like the birds.I think I am an ant—for even yetI’m looking for a house, or better a home.There is that house walled in with earth—that’s sure—But if there is no house to fill my joyWhy have I looked for houses all my life?

Over the dead lakeAnd in a dusty skyThe full moon is speared by the spire of the Baptist church;Or now it hangs over the Groveland Hotel:I do not know whether it is over the spireOr over the hotel.In a dusty sky the moonIs the bottom of a copper kettleWhich cannot be scoured into brightness.The sky is a faded mosquito netOver a brass cylinder capDulled with verdigris.Some years ago,Not many years ago,The Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.At the pulpit under this spireWith habitual regularityUsed to say:Let us pray.And the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.With habitual regularityUsed to preachOn the wages of sin.And on Sunday eveningsAs he was saying let us pray,Ed Breen in Henry Hughes’ buffet,There in the Groveland HotelSitting with cronies at a table would say:“Another round, Henry,Bourbon for me.”And at 7:30,At the very momentWhen the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.Was saying let us pray,Ed Breen would be beginning the night,And would be saying to Henry Hughes:“Another round, Henry,Bourbon for me.”You, Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.Lived to a ripe age.You lived to marry a second wife.And you, Ed Breen, died in the thirties.But whether it be better to have ptomaine poisoningFrom eating cold chicken,Or to drug yourself to death with bourbonI will ask the moon.For there is the moonLike a German silver watchUnder a grimy show case.I think it hangs as much over the hotelAs over the church.

Over the dead lakeAnd in a dusty skyThe full moon is speared by the spire of the Baptist church;Or now it hangs over the Groveland Hotel:I do not know whether it is over the spireOr over the hotel.

In a dusty sky the moonIs the bottom of a copper kettleWhich cannot be scoured into brightness.The sky is a faded mosquito netOver a brass cylinder capDulled with verdigris.

Some years ago,Not many years ago,The Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.At the pulpit under this spireWith habitual regularityUsed to say:Let us pray.And the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.With habitual regularityUsed to preachOn the wages of sin.And on Sunday eveningsAs he was saying let us pray,Ed Breen in Henry Hughes’ buffet,There in the Groveland HotelSitting with cronies at a table would say:“Another round, Henry,Bourbon for me.”

And at 7:30,At the very momentWhen the Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.Was saying let us pray,Ed Breen would be beginning the night,And would be saying to Henry Hughes:“Another round, Henry,Bourbon for me.”

You, Rev. Albert McDugall, D.D.Lived to a ripe age.You lived to marry a second wife.And you, Ed Breen, died in the thirties.But whether it be better to have ptomaine poisoningFrom eating cold chicken,Or to drug yourself to death with bourbonI will ask the moon.For there is the moonLike a German silver watchUnder a grimy show case.I think it hangs as much over the hotelAs over the church.

Where did you go, pale Susie, after the dayYou left the service of the boarding house?The night before we made carouseAnd danced the time away.We boys were in the kitchen and were drinkingSmall beer—you slapped the hands of usWho stroked your arms half amorous—Where did you go, I’m thinking?Medical students up at HahnemannHunt women on a Saturday night.And sing, tell tales, and verse recite,And rush the forbidden can.The paltry mistress made you pay for allThe fault of us, and packed you out of doorsWhen you had scrubbed the floors,And swept the entrance hall.I watched you in your faded cloak and hatWith canvas bag walk towards the Grove.Then something in my fancy hove,Laughing I caught you atThe doorway of the hotel on the streetWhere I had tracked you round from thirty-first.You laughed and cried and called me worstOf devils on two feet.There I had followed you and seized you whenYou did not care what happened, soYou fell into my hands, you know—’Tis twenty years since then.I never saw you after that, nor heardIn all this city aught of you.You vanished like a blot of dew,Or ashen hued seed bird.I wonder if you wed a red bull-throatWho ran a rivet hammer, drove a truck,Bore many children or worse luckWent where the drift weeds float....

Where did you go, pale Susie, after the dayYou left the service of the boarding house?The night before we made carouseAnd danced the time away.

We boys were in the kitchen and were drinkingSmall beer—you slapped the hands of usWho stroked your arms half amorous—Where did you go, I’m thinking?

Medical students up at HahnemannHunt women on a Saturday night.And sing, tell tales, and verse recite,And rush the forbidden can.

The paltry mistress made you pay for allThe fault of us, and packed you out of doorsWhen you had scrubbed the floors,And swept the entrance hall.

I watched you in your faded cloak and hatWith canvas bag walk towards the Grove.Then something in my fancy hove,Laughing I caught you atThe doorway of the hotel on the streetWhere I had tracked you round from thirty-first.You laughed and cried and called me worstOf devils on two feet.

There I had followed you and seized you whenYou did not care what happened, soYou fell into my hands, you know—’Tis twenty years since then.

I never saw you after that, nor heardIn all this city aught of you.You vanished like a blot of dew,Or ashen hued seed bird.

I wonder if you wed a red bull-throatWho ran a rivet hammer, drove a truck,Bore many children or worse luckWent where the drift weeds float....

We parted at the Union Station,Tom Hall and I,Two boys in the early twentiesFresh from the quiet of fields,And the sleepy silence of village life.And we stepped into Adams Street,Noisy from trucks and rattling cars,And babbling multitudes.He with his great invention,And I with my translation of Homer,And the books of Rousseau and Marx.And he went his wayTo sell his great invention.And I in the village gloryOf clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitiveAnd proud, a little learned, so zealousFor the weal of the worldCame to your chateau palace near the Drive,To you my friend, my queenly cousin,For a little visit before I enteredUpon the city’s life.You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes,And put me at ease with your lovely smile.And there was about you the calm of desert air in NevadaThat made me forget myself.Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words,And to mould me with delicate hands,As one might smooth a rumpled collar,Or fasten a loosened scarf,Or lift to place a strand of hairOf one beloved who thrills to the touch.Even with closed eyes you saw everythingOf harmony, or form, or hue.There were silver strings in your little earsWhich caught the tone pictures of sounds,And the intonations and sonorities of voices;Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words.And there as you saw and heard me,(I knew it at once,)You took me for your piece of bronze in the roughTo be made under your handsYour triumph, your work, your creationIn the world where you ruled as queen.You would see me as finished artMove before admiring eyesWhere music is and richness,And where poverty and struggleAnd sacrifice and failure are forgotten.That was the cousin you meant me to be.And in a few nightsThere was an evening dress and fine linenAnd an opera hat and cloakLaid out for me in my snow white room,And a valet came to help me.For we were to see Carmen together—You and I in a box.You the queen,And I a genius from the countryOf whom the word had gone the rounds:A translator of Homer,And a dreamer of revolutions,Her cousin, you know!I was pale from fear and prideAs I entered the box with you.I felt I was wronging my dreamsAnd apostatizing all I had dreamedTo be in this box with you.And a sullen hatred of everything:The mass of color, the faint perfumes,The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breastsOf the queens in the boxes angered me.And everyone was smiling, and everyone was levelingOpera glasses, sometimes at me,A translator of HomerAnd a dreamer of socialism.And there like a fool I sat and thoughtOf the cold without and the beggar manWho stood at your carriage as we alighted.And when the music arose at lastA sort of madness whirled in my brain.For what was this Carmen thingBut subtle wickedness and cruel lustAnd hardest heathenism,And delight that seeks its own,In a setting of bloody voluptuousness,Fiendish caprice and faithlessness,In music through which a pagan soulHad sensed and voiced it all?Till at least (I almost shrieked at this)Don Jose in his amorous madnessPlunged a knife in the back of the whore he lovedTo the growl of horns and moan of viols....And you sat through it allLike a firefly on a vine leafSuspiring in all your body,And gazing with calm Egyptian eyes,Or turning to me as if you would knowIf the poison was in my blood....But I was immune:Democracy seemed too glorious,And the cause of the poor too just,And fair sweet love of men and womenSo worth the cost to gain and keep,And honest bread too sweet—I was immune....And I scarcely saw the fair slim girlTo whom you introduced me.And I scarcely heard what you said in the carriageAbout her countless riches.And I scarcely heard your words of praiseThat I looked like a prince,And that you meant to help me,And do by me what your husband would doIf he were living,And lift me along to a place in lifeWhere power and riches are,And beauty is and music,And where struggle and sacrifice are forgotten.And when I did not answer you thoughtI sat abashed by your side.Instead in my mind were runningThe notes to Queen Mab,And bits of Greek.I did this to stifle my wrath,And to forget the cage you were luring me into,And the poison you were offering me,And the cause of Truth!And hiding my wrath in a day or twoI left you saying I would return,But I never returned.Instead I went where the youths were thinking,Painting and writing,And talking of the revolution,And the glorious day to come.And I was happy even thoughThey sent my great translation backAs poor and amateurish.For the years of youth were long aheadThere was time to try again....Then Margaret’s stepmotherDrove her from home, and she came to the cityCrying in her loneliness and destitution,Suffering from her lame hip.And even these were happy days,For I loved her for her sorrows,I loved her for her lameness.It was all transfigured through my loveFor democracy and sacrifice,And the sweetness of honest bread.And it was like taking the sacrament, our marriage.And there in our little flat far outOn Robey Street I toiled at writingWhile she went about so lame,Trying to keep the house for me,And to clear away the disordersWhich piled about her constantlyAnd were never cleared away....And is it not strange that to-day,After the lapse of ten yearsThese two things happen within an hour?Your letter from Rome arrived—For though I scorned your life and love,And went my way,You write me still it seems,Not to wound my fallen state,Nor to show me what my life had beenIf I had heeded you.But just in the continuous sunshineOf noble friendship to show meI am sometimes in your thought.And scarcely had your letter comeWhen Tom Hall crept up the creaking stairsDragging his feet with the help of a cane—He is rich and came to help me.And Tom Hall had his way as well:He hated marriage and went the rounds,Wherever a pretty face allured.And now he is sick and dragging his feet.And here am I at a writing desk:I’m cap and bells for the Daily GlobeAnd my grind is a column a day.You see it comes to this, dear queen:Can a man or woman alive escapeThe granite’s edges or ditch’s mire,The thorny thickets or marsh’s gas,Or the traps one thinks would never be setExcept for the fox or wolf?....And here is Margaret down with a coughNever to rise from her bed again.And I sit by at my task of jokes,And I stop to read your letter again,And wonder why life has never caught you,And why you are laughing there in RomeWhere you dine with happy friends;Or tramp the thickets around the ruinsOf the Baths of Caracalla—I see the platforms and dizzy archesUnder a sky of Italy.It’s cloudy here and the elevatedRattles and roars beneath my window.You’re picking flowers while it’s winter here.I read these things in your letter and wonderIs the asp at your breast in spite of laughter?Or when is the asp to sting you?

And he went his wayTo sell his great invention.And I in the village gloryOf clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitiveAnd proud, a little learned, so zealousFor the weal of the worldCame to your chateau palace near the Drive,To you my friend, my queenly cousin,For a little visit before I enteredUpon the city’s life.You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes,And put me at ease with your lovely smile.And there was about you the calm of desert air in NevadaThat made me forget myself.Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words,And to mould me with delicate hands,As one might smooth a rumpled collar,Or fasten a loosened scarf,Or lift to place a strand of hairOf one beloved who thrills to the touch.Even with closed eyes you saw everythingOf harmony, or form, or hue.There were silver strings in your little earsWhich caught the tone pictures of sounds,And the intonations and sonorities of voices;Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words.And there as you saw and heard me,(I knew it at once,)You took me for your piece of bronze in the roughTo be made under your handsYour triumph, your work, your creationIn the world where you ruled as queen.You would see me as finished artMove before admiring eyesWhere music is and richness,And where poverty and struggleAnd sacrifice and failure are forgotten.

That was the cousin you meant me to be.And in a few nightsThere was an evening dress and fine linenAnd an opera hat and cloakLaid out for me in my snow white room,And a valet came to help me.For we were to see Carmen together—You and I in a box.You the queen,And I a genius from the countryOf whom the word had gone the rounds:A translator of Homer,And a dreamer of revolutions,Her cousin, you know!

I was pale from fear and prideAs I entered the box with you.I felt I was wronging my dreamsAnd apostatizing all I had dreamedTo be in this box with you.And a sullen hatred of everything:The mass of color, the faint perfumes,The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breastsOf the queens in the boxes angered me.And everyone was smiling, and everyone was levelingOpera glasses, sometimes at me,A translator of HomerAnd a dreamer of socialism.And there like a fool I sat and thoughtOf the cold without and the beggar manWho stood at your carriage as we alighted.

And when the music arose at lastA sort of madness whirled in my brain.For what was this Carmen thingBut subtle wickedness and cruel lustAnd hardest heathenism,And delight that seeks its own,In a setting of bloody voluptuousness,Fiendish caprice and faithlessness,In music through which a pagan soulHad sensed and voiced it all?Till at least (I almost shrieked at this)Don Jose in his amorous madnessPlunged a knife in the back of the whore he lovedTo the growl of horns and moan of viols....

And you sat through it allLike a firefly on a vine leafSuspiring in all your body,And gazing with calm Egyptian eyes,Or turning to me as if you would knowIf the poison was in my blood....But I was immune:Democracy seemed too glorious,And the cause of the poor too just,And fair sweet love of men and womenSo worth the cost to gain and keep,And honest bread too sweet—I was immune....And I scarcely saw the fair slim girlTo whom you introduced me.And I scarcely heard what you said in the carriageAbout her countless riches.And I scarcely heard your words of praiseThat I looked like a prince,And that you meant to help me,And do by me what your husband would doIf he were living,And lift me along to a place in lifeWhere power and riches are,And beauty is and music,And where struggle and sacrifice are forgotten.

And when I did not answer you thoughtI sat abashed by your side.Instead in my mind were runningThe notes to Queen Mab,And bits of Greek.I did this to stifle my wrath,And to forget the cage you were luring me into,And the poison you were offering me,And the cause of Truth!And hiding my wrath in a day or twoI left you saying I would return,But I never returned.

Instead I went where the youths were thinking,Painting and writing,And talking of the revolution,And the glorious day to come.And I was happy even thoughThey sent my great translation backAs poor and amateurish.For the years of youth were long aheadThere was time to try again....

Then Margaret’s stepmotherDrove her from home, and she came to the cityCrying in her loneliness and destitution,Suffering from her lame hip.And even these were happy days,For I loved her for her sorrows,I loved her for her lameness.It was all transfigured through my loveFor democracy and sacrifice,And the sweetness of honest bread.And it was like taking the sacrament, our marriage.And there in our little flat far outOn Robey Street I toiled at writingWhile she went about so lame,Trying to keep the house for me,And to clear away the disordersWhich piled about her constantlyAnd were never cleared away....

And is it not strange that to-day,After the lapse of ten yearsThese two things happen within an hour?Your letter from Rome arrived—For though I scorned your life and love,And went my way,You write me still it seems,Not to wound my fallen state,Nor to show me what my life had beenIf I had heeded you.But just in the continuous sunshineOf noble friendship to show meI am sometimes in your thought.And scarcely had your letter comeWhen Tom Hall crept up the creaking stairsDragging his feet with the help of a cane—He is rich and came to help me.And Tom Hall had his way as well:He hated marriage and went the rounds,Wherever a pretty face allured.And now he is sick and dragging his feet.And here am I at a writing desk:I’m cap and bells for the Daily GlobeAnd my grind is a column a day.You see it comes to this, dear queen:Can a man or woman alive escapeThe granite’s edges or ditch’s mire,The thorny thickets or marsh’s gas,Or the traps one thinks would never be setExcept for the fox or wolf?....And here is Margaret down with a coughNever to rise from her bed again.And I sit by at my task of jokes,And I stop to read your letter again,And wonder why life has never caught you,And why you are laughing there in RomeWhere you dine with happy friends;Or tramp the thickets around the ruinsOf the Baths of Caracalla—I see the platforms and dizzy archesUnder a sky of Italy.It’s cloudy here and the elevatedRattles and roars beneath my window.You’re picking flowers while it’s winter here.I read these things in your letter and wonderIs the asp at your breast in spite of laughter?Or when is the asp to sting you?

As the train rushed onThe days of our youth swept through me,As if they were brought to life by a sort of friction.I thought of how madly you laughedWhen we played at blindman’s buff with the Miller girls;And of the May baskets we made together,And hung as we rang the bell and ran.And of our games in the first spring daysWhen we stole from house to house.And the children were shoutingAnd the April moon was new.And the smell of burning leavesAnd the first tulips filled us with such ecstasy.We laughed, we shouted, we leaped for joy.We ran like mad through the rooms,And we went to bed at lastLaughing and gasping,And lay looking at the moon through the leafless boughs,And fell to sleep with joyous hearts,Thinking of to-morrow,And the days and days to come for play,And the summer to come,And all the mad raptures of school at an end,And no death, and no endOf the love of father and mother,And the home we loved.And here it was spring again—But such a spring!At the end of such years and yearsAnd births and births and spheres and spheres of life,Each like a life or a world of its ownWith its friends, its own completeness, its rounded end.And back of them allOur old home forgotten,Our father and mother gone,And back of this spring that ended world of oursWherein we partedGrown misty too!And as the train rushed onAnd the hour of meeting you nearedI was thrilled with gladness, thrilled with fear.And now the station was Herkimer,And now it was Amsterdam,And now it was Albany,And then Poughkeepsie on the Hudson.And I looked from the car to the passing scene,And back to the car again.Or I turned in my seatOr took up my book and laid it down,Or fastened my bag for the hundredth time,Or straightened my cloak on the seat,And waited and waited.For I had a story to tell youThat I could not wait to tell.I was traveling a thousand miles to tell you,And to get your advice, to have your solace,To look in your eyes again,And to feel in spite of springs that were gone,And our old home, and father and mother goneThere was an arm in the world for me to lean on.And the train rushed onBringing me nearer to you.And the tears welled up to my eyesAs I wondered why life had mangled me so:Why the man I loved at first and hated afterwardHad died that tragic death,Leaving me with memories of that love,And such agony for that hate.And why as a sort of Empress EugeniaThe world turned on me when I fell,And the little power I had departed.And why in spite of my aspirationI had run into such disgust,Such overthrow of my work,Such undoing of myself,Such spiritual wreck and shame!And to think of what had done it:My search for love, my struggle for excellence—These things alone!I had married this second man for love,And because I believed in himAs a man of power, a man of thought,A man who loved me.And hoping through him to retrieve my lifeFrom the smut of the man I married first.But I found my very soul deceived:He was just a violent visionary,A frothing fool,A spendthrift, coward, hedonist.And there I was tied to him.And carrying his child while finding him out.So I used to stand with my face to the wallAnd choke my mouth with a handkerchiefTo keep from crying out.For I knew if a whimper passed my lipsI should fall and roll on the floor with madness,And beat my head on the floor.So when the train rolled into the stationA sickness, a weakness came over me.I had spent myself in expectation.And now that I was about to see you,The thought of the vainness of seeing you,And the thought that you could not help me,Though I had traveled these thousand miles,Made me wish to fly, to hide.So I stepped from the train in a kind of daze,And scarcely felt your kiss.It seemed relaxed, so faint.And your voice was weak.And your eyes were dim and dry.And there in the cab as we drove to the ParkI was still in a dazeTalking of May basketsAnd blindman’s buff,And laughing, for one always laughsWhen the moment is worst.And so it was I did not really see you.But when we began to walkThings about you began to limn themselves:Your shoulders seemed a little bent.There were streaks of snow on your temples.And you were quiet with the terrible quietnessOf understanding of life.And the old wit I knew,And the glad defiance of fate,And the light in your eyes,And the musical laughAll were gone.Perhaps the daily grind of Cap and BellsHad sapped you, dear.But when I looked at your hand on your caneAnd saw how white and slim it was,And how it trembled, I knewYou were not the giant man of old,Though you said you were gaining strength again,And I could lean on your arm.Well, then I told you all:How my search for love had fooled me again;And how this beast had wronged and robbed me;And how he stood in his paranoiac rages,And compared himself to Christ.But when I began to speak of the child,What a darling girl she was,You sank in a seat and said: “No more—I didn’t think I was weak as this—You mustn’t tell me another thing,Not now, not just now.”Then I saw, what Time had done,And I saw that you could not help me.And the next day and the next day,When I did not see you,And weeks passed by and I scarcely saw you,And I scarcely saw you again,Though I had come a thousand milesTo lean on your arm,It grew in my mind that you despised me,Or that you were indifferent to my lot,Or at least that I was a wounded thingYou could not bear to see.Till at last, though I knewThat my way was clear: there was nothing to doBut to fly with my child,And leave him forever,And endure great loneliness forever, if need be,And whatever shame there was,For the sake of my soul’s honor,Which only myself could save,And you could save not at all.Though I knew, I say, that my way was clear,And I needed your help not at all,Still in a kind of madnessI began to reproach you for not helping me,And for abandoning me to my fate.As a sick child will cry and blame its motherWhen it is not healed at once.And that was the mood he found me inWhen he came with a smile and honey words.Well, I fell in his arms, and here I amPlunged up to the mouth in spiritual muck,And what life is left for me now?How can I go on with life?For he hates me now as a humbled thing,He has broken my pride and he hates me now.And he roars and curses about the house,And yells at our little girl when she cries,And stands with his hands outstretched and saysThat his fate is worse than Christ’s.And I tremble and rustle around like a fallen leaf,And neither laugh nor cry nor return him a word....For you know there’s a spring,And you know there’s a fire,To burn dead leaves.And after the ashesThere’s a spirit given a chance!

And here it was spring again—But such a spring!At the end of such years and yearsAnd births and births and spheres and spheres of life,Each like a life or a world of its ownWith its friends, its own completeness, its rounded end.And back of them allOur old home forgotten,Our father and mother gone,And back of this spring that ended world of oursWherein we partedGrown misty too!And as the train rushed onAnd the hour of meeting you nearedI was thrilled with gladness, thrilled with fear.And now the station was Herkimer,And now it was Amsterdam,And now it was Albany,And then Poughkeepsie on the Hudson.And I looked from the car to the passing scene,And back to the car again.Or I turned in my seatOr took up my book and laid it down,Or fastened my bag for the hundredth time,Or straightened my cloak on the seat,And waited and waited.For I had a story to tell youThat I could not wait to tell.I was traveling a thousand miles to tell you,And to get your advice, to have your solace,To look in your eyes again,And to feel in spite of springs that were gone,And our old home, and father and mother goneThere was an arm in the world for me to lean on.

And the train rushed onBringing me nearer to you.And the tears welled up to my eyesAs I wondered why life had mangled me so:Why the man I loved at first and hated afterwardHad died that tragic death,Leaving me with memories of that love,And such agony for that hate.And why as a sort of Empress EugeniaThe world turned on me when I fell,And the little power I had departed.And why in spite of my aspirationI had run into such disgust,Such overthrow of my work,Such undoing of myself,Such spiritual wreck and shame!And to think of what had done it:My search for love, my struggle for excellence—These things alone!I had married this second man for love,And because I believed in himAs a man of power, a man of thought,A man who loved me.And hoping through him to retrieve my lifeFrom the smut of the man I married first.But I found my very soul deceived:He was just a violent visionary,A frothing fool,A spendthrift, coward, hedonist.And there I was tied to him.And carrying his child while finding him out.So I used to stand with my face to the wallAnd choke my mouth with a handkerchiefTo keep from crying out.For I knew if a whimper passed my lipsI should fall and roll on the floor with madness,And beat my head on the floor.

So when the train rolled into the stationA sickness, a weakness came over me.I had spent myself in expectation.And now that I was about to see you,The thought of the vainness of seeing you,And the thought that you could not help me,Though I had traveled these thousand miles,Made me wish to fly, to hide.So I stepped from the train in a kind of daze,And scarcely felt your kiss.It seemed relaxed, so faint.And your voice was weak.And your eyes were dim and dry.

And there in the cab as we drove to the ParkI was still in a dazeTalking of May basketsAnd blindman’s buff,And laughing, for one always laughsWhen the moment is worst.And so it was I did not really see you.But when we began to walkThings about you began to limn themselves:Your shoulders seemed a little bent.There were streaks of snow on your temples.And you were quiet with the terrible quietnessOf understanding of life.And the old wit I knew,And the glad defiance of fate,And the light in your eyes,And the musical laughAll were gone.Perhaps the daily grind of Cap and BellsHad sapped you, dear.But when I looked at your hand on your caneAnd saw how white and slim it was,And how it trembled, I knewYou were not the giant man of old,Though you said you were gaining strength again,And I could lean on your arm.

Well, then I told you all:How my search for love had fooled me again;And how this beast had wronged and robbed me;And how he stood in his paranoiac rages,And compared himself to Christ.But when I began to speak of the child,What a darling girl she was,You sank in a seat and said: “No more—I didn’t think I was weak as this—You mustn’t tell me another thing,Not now, not just now.”Then I saw, what Time had done,And I saw that you could not help me.And the next day and the next day,When I did not see you,And weeks passed by and I scarcely saw you,And I scarcely saw you again,Though I had come a thousand milesTo lean on your arm,It grew in my mind that you despised me,Or that you were indifferent to my lot,Or at least that I was a wounded thingYou could not bear to see.Till at last, though I knewThat my way was clear: there was nothing to doBut to fly with my child,And leave him forever,And endure great loneliness forever, if need be,And whatever shame there was,For the sake of my soul’s honor,Which only myself could save,And you could save not at all.Though I knew, I say, that my way was clear,And I needed your help not at all,Still in a kind of madnessI began to reproach you for not helping me,And for abandoning me to my fate.As a sick child will cry and blame its motherWhen it is not healed at once.

And that was the mood he found me inWhen he came with a smile and honey words.Well, I fell in his arms, and here I amPlunged up to the mouth in spiritual muck,And what life is left for me now?How can I go on with life?For he hates me now as a humbled thing,He has broken my pride and he hates me now.And he roars and curses about the house,And yells at our little girl when she cries,And stands with his hands outstretched and saysThat his fate is worse than Christ’s.And I tremble and rustle around like a fallen leaf,And neither laugh nor cry nor return him a word....

For you know there’s a spring,And you know there’s a fire,To burn dead leaves.And after the ashesThere’s a spirit given a chance!

We were three larks in the same nest.All spring the wind blew from the west.We chirped beneath the enshadowing wheat,It grew to green, it grew to gold.Our mother’s voice was piercing sweetTo see how strong we were and bold—How palpitant of wing.We knew our father not, alas!A hunter slew him while the grassWas fresh beneath the April rain.And ere I had the strength to flyOur brother sang a farewell strainAnd soared into the empty sky.And then our sister knew the fearAnd hunger of a serpent’s eye.And our sweet mother, lone and drear,Fled far afield and left me hereTo nurse my heart and sing.

We knew our father not, alas!A hunter slew him while the grassWas fresh beneath the April rain.And ere I had the strength to flyOur brother sang a farewell strainAnd soared into the empty sky.And then our sister knew the fearAnd hunger of a serpent’s eye.And our sweet mother, lone and drear,Fled far afield and left me hereTo nurse my heart and sing.

There was the white face of Fear,And the solemn face of Duty,And the face of self looking in the mirror.But there were voices calling from vernal hilltops,And silver spirits by moonlit gardens calling,And voices of no sound from far horizons calling,But even if there be penitence for livingAnd thought and tears for the pastAnd even shame and even hunger;And if there be nothing gained at the last in living,And much to pay for the madness of briefest bliss;And if there be nothing in life, and life be nothingSo that to nail one’s self to the cross is nothing lost—Is Death not even less?These were the voices whereto we tore our flowerPetal by petal apart and scattered it,And paused and paltered.But lest the whispers grow louder,And the eyebrows arch to a fiercer scorn,You fled away to France and left meWith only a poor half uttered farewell,A scrawl put off to the last, then writtenAs with shut eyes, swift nervous hands:As one might wait for the heroic thoughtTo take his poison—wait in vain, and thenCowardly gulp it down and reel to death.I could not hate you for the pain of hate,And could not love you who had hid yourself,Belied yourself behind this scrawl.I could only sit half-numb,And drift in thought.And afterwards it wasn’t so much to be alone,Nor to dream of the days that were done,Save as it deepened the surge in my heart,Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thoughtOf your soul drawn away from me,So needlessly drawn it seemed.And it’s the music that deepens and changes,—For as your soul adds strings to its stringsThere are fingers to play—it almost seemsThere are fingers about us that watch and waitFor a soul that’s adding strings to its harpTo play them when they’re strung.And so it’s the music that deepens and changesThat kills you at last I think.Well, I had a dream one nightThat a dead man well could dream:They had buried me in Rosehill.And after twenty years from France they brought youAnd put you just across the walk from meWhere we slept while the crowding city grewTo a vast six millions, and they were buildingA subway to Lake Forest.And we were forgotten of everyone,And almost our family names were lost.And our love you fled from all forgotten,And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgottenWith the whispers of boys and girlsIn a temple’s shadow in Babylon.Well, to pursue, it’s a day in MarchWhen the colors are brilliantly white and blue;And it’s cold except for Poles and ItaliansWho dig with spades and cut with picks.And some of these fellows are digging us up,We lie in the way of the subway, you know.And they dump our bones in a careless heap,The ribs of me by the ribs of you,My skull lies ignorant by your skull.And behold our poor arms are entwined.For death you know is a mocker of Life.And there we lie like stocks and stones,And where is our love and where is your fear?And a young Pole pushes our bones togetherWith a lusty shove of his heavy shoe,And he says to another: “You saw that girlI was dancing with last night?Well, I don’t think I’m the only one.And besides she bothers me most to death.And as soon as this subway job is over,Which will be in a year, or year and a half,I’m going to beat it back to Poland.”Then the other beginning to shovel muttered:“1976.”

These were the voices whereto we tore our flowerPetal by petal apart and scattered it,And paused and paltered.

But lest the whispers grow louder,And the eyebrows arch to a fiercer scorn,You fled away to France and left meWith only a poor half uttered farewell,A scrawl put off to the last, then writtenAs with shut eyes, swift nervous hands:As one might wait for the heroic thoughtTo take his poison—wait in vain, and thenCowardly gulp it down and reel to death.I could not hate you for the pain of hate,And could not love you who had hid yourself,Belied yourself behind this scrawl.I could only sit half-numb,And drift in thought.

And afterwards it wasn’t so much to be alone,Nor to dream of the days that were done,Save as it deepened the surge in my heart,Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thoughtOf your soul drawn away from me,So needlessly drawn it seemed.And it’s the music that deepens and changes,—For as your soul adds strings to its stringsThere are fingers to play—it almost seemsThere are fingers about us that watch and waitFor a soul that’s adding strings to its harpTo play them when they’re strung.And so it’s the music that deepens and changesThat kills you at last I think.

Well, I had a dream one nightThat a dead man well could dream:They had buried me in Rosehill.And after twenty years from France they brought youAnd put you just across the walk from meWhere we slept while the crowding city grewTo a vast six millions, and they were buildingA subway to Lake Forest.And we were forgotten of everyone,And almost our family names were lost.And our love you fled from all forgotten,And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgottenWith the whispers of boys and girlsIn a temple’s shadow in Babylon.

Well, to pursue, it’s a day in MarchWhen the colors are brilliantly white and blue;And it’s cold except for Poles and ItaliansWho dig with spades and cut with picks.And some of these fellows are digging us up,We lie in the way of the subway, you know.And they dump our bones in a careless heap,The ribs of me by the ribs of you,My skull lies ignorant by your skull.And behold our poor arms are entwined.For death you know is a mocker of Life.And there we lie like stocks and stones,And where is our love and where is your fear?And a young Pole pushes our bones togetherWith a lusty shove of his heavy shoe,And he says to another: “You saw that girlI was dancing with last night?Well, I don’t think I’m the only one.And besides she bothers me most to death.And as soon as this subway job is over,Which will be in a year, or year and a half,I’m going to beat it back to Poland.”Then the other beginning to shovel muttered:“1976.”

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