“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie?If you had come to me I could have told youAbout the circuit judge, the state’s attorney,The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer,The assessors and collectors who belongTo what we call a court-house ring. You knowThey run the county, re-elect themselves,Play with the local bosses, stand in leagueWith sellers of cement, and brick and lumber,And with the papers given the public printing,And with the sharks who buy in propertyFor taxes sold, and with the intriguing thievesWho make improvements, levy the assessmentsFor side-walk, sewers.”So my friend to me.“Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them,I did not buy these lots. But aproposOf what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter.I write and write for statements of my taxes,And cannot get them. Then I take the train,And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie.And I stand before a window asking for them.Your property was sold, I am informed.So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yardTo look at Cato Braden’s grave, and thenCatch the next train for home. A week or soElapses and I get a letter—hum!Winston Prairie—office of the controller;Your property was sold for special numberedTwo thousand and eighty-six, when you replyPlease mention sale 1019.—Damn these thieves!So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,—The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are thoseWho break it, and who use it to despoil you—Well, let me tell you.In this very JuneI went to Winston Prairie on this errand,And after I had written several timesTo get a statement. I arrived at noon—And yet the court-house offices were closed,The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all.I met a janitor who said: All closedTill half past one. That meant I’d miss my trainBack to Chicago, and would have to stayIn Winston Prairie until six o’clock.I sat down in the hall-way with a curse.But in a minute there were hideous yells,Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten,Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see,And found a door behind which I could hearIntolerable tears, the scratching of weak handsAgainst the door and wall. What is the matter?I hallooed through the door. O, go to hellA woman said, you know what is the matter.I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can.Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherentBlubbering of words. At last I saw a fingerStuck through the broken plaster by the door,And leaning down I said: look through at me.And then I stooped and looking through the crackSaw a gray eye, which looked as it might beOf Slavic birth. But who can read an eyeShown singly through a crack? So while I talkedTo get the story of these girls in prison,(For where they were was called the calaboose,Built in the court-house) some one back of meSaid: They’ll be quiet in due time, the coolerCools people off. I turned and saw a manWho seemed to be a judge, and was a judge,As I discovered later. Well, I said,I cannot bear to see a human beingIn such distress and terror—what’s their ages?One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge,But they are bad ones, so I made the fineEnough to hold them thirty days. I askedWhat did they do? They were soliciting,The judge replied, and here in Winston PrairieThe law is law and we enforce the law.We do not do as you do in Chicago.I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop,And was about to say: You are a fool.You are what some would have America,You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul.You are a figure in the court-house ring,Whereof the tax shark is a figure too.But then I thought these girls might prove to beWorth while some time. But even if they liveStreet walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets,Devour no widows’ houses, do less harmThan court-house rings and judges in the rings.So this is what I said: May I enquireWhat are your Honor’s hours for holding court?And he replied: Court has adjourned till two.I hold till six o’clock, we do not loafAs judges in Chicago do, good-day!Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes,With interest, penalties and all the costs.At two o’clock I stood before the barAnd to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor,I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt,Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jailUnder your Honor’s sentence. I have seenThe state’s attorney, who is satisfiedTo let them go, if all the costs are paid.I went to see him on a matter of taxes,And this came up. The state’s attorney roseAnd said: Your Honor, they are very young,And though they have been caught before at this,And warned that Winston Prairie is no placeFor them to ply their trade, I am inclinedTo think they will not break our laws again.I thought I saw his honor’s eye light upAs if it caught a wireless, so he said:“The court is satisfied.” I paid the costsAnd took Christine and Garda to Chicago.But at the station, as I said good bye,Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that IWill let you pay those costs, I am not cheap.I may be bad, but I am square, she said.And I have money in my room, come onTo Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you backFor me and Garda.No, I said, go on.Try to be good, but if you can’t be good,Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie.I turned and disappeared among the crowds.
“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie?If you had come to me I could have told youAbout the circuit judge, the state’s attorney,The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer,The assessors and collectors who belongTo what we call a court-house ring. You knowThey run the county, re-elect themselves,Play with the local bosses, stand in leagueWith sellers of cement, and brick and lumber,And with the papers given the public printing,And with the sharks who buy in propertyFor taxes sold, and with the intriguing thievesWho make improvements, levy the assessmentsFor side-walk, sewers.”So my friend to me.“Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them,I did not buy these lots. But aproposOf what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter.I write and write for statements of my taxes,And cannot get them. Then I take the train,And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie.And I stand before a window asking for them.Your property was sold, I am informed.So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yardTo look at Cato Braden’s grave, and thenCatch the next train for home. A week or soElapses and I get a letter—hum!Winston Prairie—office of the controller;Your property was sold for special numberedTwo thousand and eighty-six, when you replyPlease mention sale 1019.—Damn these thieves!So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,—The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are thoseWho break it, and who use it to despoil you—Well, let me tell you.In this very JuneI went to Winston Prairie on this errand,And after I had written several timesTo get a statement. I arrived at noon—And yet the court-house offices were closed,The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all.I met a janitor who said: All closedTill half past one. That meant I’d miss my trainBack to Chicago, and would have to stayIn Winston Prairie until six o’clock.I sat down in the hall-way with a curse.But in a minute there were hideous yells,Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten,Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see,And found a door behind which I could hearIntolerable tears, the scratching of weak handsAgainst the door and wall. What is the matter?I hallooed through the door. O, go to hellA woman said, you know what is the matter.I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can.Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherentBlubbering of words. At last I saw a fingerStuck through the broken plaster by the door,And leaning down I said: look through at me.And then I stooped and looking through the crackSaw a gray eye, which looked as it might beOf Slavic birth. But who can read an eyeShown singly through a crack? So while I talkedTo get the story of these girls in prison,(For where they were was called the calaboose,Built in the court-house) some one back of meSaid: They’ll be quiet in due time, the coolerCools people off. I turned and saw a manWho seemed to be a judge, and was a judge,As I discovered later. Well, I said,I cannot bear to see a human beingIn such distress and terror—what’s their ages?One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge,But they are bad ones, so I made the fineEnough to hold them thirty days. I askedWhat did they do? They were soliciting,The judge replied, and here in Winston PrairieThe law is law and we enforce the law.We do not do as you do in Chicago.I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop,And was about to say: You are a fool.You are what some would have America,You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul.You are a figure in the court-house ring,Whereof the tax shark is a figure too.But then I thought these girls might prove to beWorth while some time. But even if they liveStreet walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets,Devour no widows’ houses, do less harmThan court-house rings and judges in the rings.So this is what I said: May I enquireWhat are your Honor’s hours for holding court?And he replied: Court has adjourned till two.I hold till six o’clock, we do not loafAs judges in Chicago do, good-day!Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes,With interest, penalties and all the costs.At two o’clock I stood before the barAnd to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor,I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt,Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jailUnder your Honor’s sentence. I have seenThe state’s attorney, who is satisfiedTo let them go, if all the costs are paid.I went to see him on a matter of taxes,And this came up. The state’s attorney roseAnd said: Your Honor, they are very young,And though they have been caught before at this,And warned that Winston Prairie is no placeFor them to ply their trade, I am inclinedTo think they will not break our laws again.I thought I saw his honor’s eye light upAs if it caught a wireless, so he said:“The court is satisfied.” I paid the costsAnd took Christine and Garda to Chicago.But at the station, as I said good bye,Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that IWill let you pay those costs, I am not cheap.I may be bad, but I am square, she said.And I have money in my room, come onTo Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you backFor me and Garda.No, I said, go on.Try to be good, but if you can’t be good,Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie.I turned and disappeared among the crowds.
“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie?If you had come to me I could have told youAbout the circuit judge, the state’s attorney,The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer,The assessors and collectors who belongTo what we call a court-house ring. You knowThey run the county, re-elect themselves,Play with the local bosses, stand in leagueWith sellers of cement, and brick and lumber,And with the papers given the public printing,And with the sharks who buy in propertyFor taxes sold, and with the intriguing thievesWho make improvements, levy the assessmentsFor side-walk, sewers.”
So my friend to me.“Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them,I did not buy these lots. But aproposOf what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter.I write and write for statements of my taxes,And cannot get them. Then I take the train,And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie.And I stand before a window asking for them.Your property was sold, I am informed.So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yardTo look at Cato Braden’s grave, and thenCatch the next train for home. A week or soElapses and I get a letter—hum!Winston Prairie—office of the controller;Your property was sold for special numberedTwo thousand and eighty-six, when you replyPlease mention sale 1019.—Damn these thieves!So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,—The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are thoseWho break it, and who use it to despoil you—Well, let me tell you.
In this very JuneI went to Winston Prairie on this errand,And after I had written several timesTo get a statement. I arrived at noon—And yet the court-house offices were closed,The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all.I met a janitor who said: All closedTill half past one. That meant I’d miss my trainBack to Chicago, and would have to stayIn Winston Prairie until six o’clock.I sat down in the hall-way with a curse.But in a minute there were hideous yells,Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten,Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see,And found a door behind which I could hearIntolerable tears, the scratching of weak handsAgainst the door and wall. What is the matter?I hallooed through the door. O, go to hellA woman said, you know what is the matter.I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can.Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherentBlubbering of words. At last I saw a fingerStuck through the broken plaster by the door,And leaning down I said: look through at me.And then I stooped and looking through the crackSaw a gray eye, which looked as it might beOf Slavic birth. But who can read an eyeShown singly through a crack? So while I talkedTo get the story of these girls in prison,(For where they were was called the calaboose,Built in the court-house) some one back of meSaid: They’ll be quiet in due time, the coolerCools people off. I turned and saw a manWho seemed to be a judge, and was a judge,As I discovered later. Well, I said,I cannot bear to see a human beingIn such distress and terror—what’s their ages?One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge,But they are bad ones, so I made the fineEnough to hold them thirty days. I askedWhat did they do? They were soliciting,The judge replied, and here in Winston PrairieThe law is law and we enforce the law.We do not do as you do in Chicago.I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop,And was about to say: You are a fool.You are what some would have America,You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul.You are a figure in the court-house ring,Whereof the tax shark is a figure too.But then I thought these girls might prove to beWorth while some time. But even if they liveStreet walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets,Devour no widows’ houses, do less harmThan court-house rings and judges in the rings.So this is what I said: May I enquireWhat are your Honor’s hours for holding court?And he replied: Court has adjourned till two.I hold till six o’clock, we do not loafAs judges in Chicago do, good-day!
Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes,With interest, penalties and all the costs.At two o’clock I stood before the barAnd to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor,I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt,Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jailUnder your Honor’s sentence. I have seenThe state’s attorney, who is satisfiedTo let them go, if all the costs are paid.I went to see him on a matter of taxes,And this came up. The state’s attorney roseAnd said: Your Honor, they are very young,And though they have been caught before at this,And warned that Winston Prairie is no placeFor them to ply their trade, I am inclinedTo think they will not break our laws again.
I thought I saw his honor’s eye light upAs if it caught a wireless, so he said:“The court is satisfied.” I paid the costsAnd took Christine and Garda to Chicago.But at the station, as I said good bye,Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that IWill let you pay those costs, I am not cheap.I may be bad, but I am square, she said.And I have money in my room, come onTo Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you backFor me and Garda.
No, I said, go on.Try to be good, but if you can’t be good,Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie.I turned and disappeared among the crowds.
The Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcisingThe Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcisingThe Winston Prairie devils which destroyedPoor Cato Braden.“My next thought is foundIn Matthew chapter nine; and it is this;When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting,And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd,His soul was stirred—that is a way with genius,Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles,Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine.But think of this: If you would lead and saveThe multitude, assuming that can be,Shall you accomplish it by rules and lawsApplied externally, which is the wayEcclesiastic powers pursue and findDivine authority in Jesus for it?Or shall you teach the way of opening upThe soul of man to sun-light, letting inThe Power which is around us, in the whichWe live and move, and so give chance for growthTo what is in us? For your shepherd drives.No, Jesus hit it better when he spokeOf leaven than of shepherds.“So if oneFind leaven and would give it, let there beA few to watch the final hour with him,When he would be delivered from the cup,But knows it cannot be, that to refuseThe cup is to deny the inexorable law.“So now I come to what is chiefest here:Destroy this temple and I will re-build itIn three days. Now you know what preachers say:This means the resurrection—not at all!These were the greatest words that Jesus said.And here his genius seized its fullest power,Here was it that he hid JerusalemUnder his hands as if it were a toy,And tossed the world up as it were a ball.Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, agesOf beauty, glory, but the work of genius?What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuffResponsive to the touch of prophet hands?What Winston Prairie, what AmericaAnd all this turbulence of bobbing headsIn fields and markets, temples, halls acrossThis continent of sovereign states but puppetsWhich may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit,Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wiseBy genius’ hands, not revolutionists’,Nor shepherds’. So destroy America,But not by picks and axes, let it beAs in the movies where a lovelier faceSteals in and blots with brighter light a face,Which must fade out to let the lovelier faceComplete the story.Now in a moment’s silenceLet’s pray for Cato Braden.”
The Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcisingThe Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcisingThe Winston Prairie devils which destroyedPoor Cato Braden.“My next thought is foundIn Matthew chapter nine; and it is this;When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting,And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd,His soul was stirred—that is a way with genius,Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles,Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine.But think of this: If you would lead and saveThe multitude, assuming that can be,Shall you accomplish it by rules and lawsApplied externally, which is the wayEcclesiastic powers pursue and findDivine authority in Jesus for it?Or shall you teach the way of opening upThe soul of man to sun-light, letting inThe Power which is around us, in the whichWe live and move, and so give chance for growthTo what is in us? For your shepherd drives.No, Jesus hit it better when he spokeOf leaven than of shepherds.“So if oneFind leaven and would give it, let there beA few to watch the final hour with him,When he would be delivered from the cup,But knows it cannot be, that to refuseThe cup is to deny the inexorable law.“So now I come to what is chiefest here:Destroy this temple and I will re-build itIn three days. Now you know what preachers say:This means the resurrection—not at all!These were the greatest words that Jesus said.And here his genius seized its fullest power,Here was it that he hid JerusalemUnder his hands as if it were a toy,And tossed the world up as it were a ball.Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, agesOf beauty, glory, but the work of genius?What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuffResponsive to the touch of prophet hands?What Winston Prairie, what AmericaAnd all this turbulence of bobbing headsIn fields and markets, temples, halls acrossThis continent of sovereign states but puppetsWhich may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit,Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wiseBy genius’ hands, not revolutionists’,Nor shepherds’. So destroy America,But not by picks and axes, let it beAs in the movies where a lovelier faceSteals in and blots with brighter light a face,Which must fade out to let the lovelier faceComplete the story.Now in a moment’s silenceLet’s pray for Cato Braden.”
The Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.
He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”
Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcising
The Sunday after Cato Braden diedWill Boyden lectured in the Masons’ HallUpon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”At first he pointed out that Jesus knewNo history except that of the Jews.And if he’d heard of Athens never spokeA word about it, never read a lineOf Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a wordConcerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.And then he dropped this point with the remarkThat one could know one’s people’s historyAnd that alone, and still be great, perhaps.But still he thought it was unfortunateThat Jesus gave the Hebrews such a liftSo that to-day they rule the OccidentWhere Athens should have ruled, if only TimeHad given her the right dramatic touchTo catch the populace.
He then declaredThat Jesus was a poet, but he said:“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,And never a word of oceans, nor of mountainsSave Olivet or Zion, so you seeHis limitations as to imagery.Then have you noted how his sombre soulPicked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,Wherewith to make interpretations, yesHe spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.And yet you people call me pessimistBecause I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,And have not shrunk from charging Winston PrairieWith Cato Braden’s death. The differenceBetween the Man of Galilee and meIs this: He wanted to fulfill the lawOf Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.And I, if I could have my way, would makeOf Winston Prairie Athens.”
Then he said“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.The first one is concerning hogs—you start:Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and findHow certain hogs had cast in them the devilsOf fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ranDown in the sea to kill themselves for beingMade perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogsAnd let me try my hand at exorcising
The Winston Prairie devils which destroyedPoor Cato Braden.“My next thought is foundIn Matthew chapter nine; and it is this;When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting,And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd,His soul was stirred—that is a way with genius,Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles,Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine.But think of this: If you would lead and saveThe multitude, assuming that can be,Shall you accomplish it by rules and lawsApplied externally, which is the wayEcclesiastic powers pursue and findDivine authority in Jesus for it?Or shall you teach the way of opening upThe soul of man to sun-light, letting inThe Power which is around us, in the whichWe live and move, and so give chance for growthTo what is in us? For your shepherd drives.No, Jesus hit it better when he spokeOf leaven than of shepherds.“So if oneFind leaven and would give it, let there beA few to watch the final hour with him,When he would be delivered from the cup,But knows it cannot be, that to refuseThe cup is to deny the inexorable law.
“So now I come to what is chiefest here:Destroy this temple and I will re-build itIn three days. Now you know what preachers say:This means the resurrection—not at all!These were the greatest words that Jesus said.And here his genius seized its fullest power,Here was it that he hid JerusalemUnder his hands as if it were a toy,And tossed the world up as it were a ball.Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, agesOf beauty, glory, but the work of genius?What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuffResponsive to the touch of prophet hands?What Winston Prairie, what AmericaAnd all this turbulence of bobbing headsIn fields and markets, temples, halls acrossThis continent of sovereign states but puppetsWhich may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit,Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wiseBy genius’ hands, not revolutionists’,Nor shepherds’. So destroy America,But not by picks and axes, let it beAs in the movies where a lovelier faceSteals in and blots with brighter light a face,Which must fade out to let the lovelier faceComplete the story.Now in a moment’s silenceLet’s pray for Cato Braden.”
The sun has sunk below the level plain,And yet above the forest’s leafy gloomThe glory of the evening lightens still.Smooth as a mirror is the river’s faceWith Heaven’s light, and all its radiant cloudsAnd shadows which against the river’s shoreAlready are as night. From some retreatObscure and lonely, evening’s saddest birdWhistles, and beyond the water comesThe musical reply, and silence reigns—Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs,And undistinguished sounds of faint portentThat night has come. There is a rustic bridgeWhich spans the stream, from which we look belowAt Heaven above, till revery reclaimsThe mind from hurried thought and merges itInto the universal mind which broodsO’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreadsThe restless flame of being, and the soulBeholds its source and destiny and feelsNot sorrowful to sink into the breastOf that large life whereof it is a part.What are we? But the question is not solvedHere in the presence of intensest thought,Where nature stills the clamor of the world,And leaves us in communion with ourselves.Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed dayWhat take we that shall mitigate the pangsThat each soul is alone, and that all friendsGentle and wise and good can never sootheThe ache of that sub-consciousness which isSomething unfathomed and unmedicined?Yet this it is which keeps us in the pathOf some ambition cherished or pursued;The still, small voice that is not quietedBy disregard, but ever speaks to usIts mandates while we wake or sleep, and asksA closer harmony with that great schemeWhich is the music of the universe.So as the cherubim of Heaven defendThe realms of the unknown with flaming swords,Thence are we driven to the world which isOurs to be known through Art, who beckons usTo excellence, and in her rarer moodsCasts shadowy glances of serener lands,Where all the serious gods, removed from stressAnd interruption, build, as we conceive,In fellowship that knows not that reserveWhich clouds the hearts of those who wish to liveAs they, in that large realm of perfect mind.
The sun has sunk below the level plain,And yet above the forest’s leafy gloomThe glory of the evening lightens still.Smooth as a mirror is the river’s faceWith Heaven’s light, and all its radiant cloudsAnd shadows which against the river’s shoreAlready are as night. From some retreatObscure and lonely, evening’s saddest birdWhistles, and beyond the water comesThe musical reply, and silence reigns—Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs,And undistinguished sounds of faint portentThat night has come. There is a rustic bridgeWhich spans the stream, from which we look belowAt Heaven above, till revery reclaimsThe mind from hurried thought and merges itInto the universal mind which broodsO’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreadsThe restless flame of being, and the soulBeholds its source and destiny and feelsNot sorrowful to sink into the breastOf that large life whereof it is a part.What are we? But the question is not solvedHere in the presence of intensest thought,Where nature stills the clamor of the world,And leaves us in communion with ourselves.Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed dayWhat take we that shall mitigate the pangsThat each soul is alone, and that all friendsGentle and wise and good can never sootheThe ache of that sub-consciousness which isSomething unfathomed and unmedicined?Yet this it is which keeps us in the pathOf some ambition cherished or pursued;The still, small voice that is not quietedBy disregard, but ever speaks to usIts mandates while we wake or sleep, and asksA closer harmony with that great schemeWhich is the music of the universe.So as the cherubim of Heaven defendThe realms of the unknown with flaming swords,Thence are we driven to the world which isOurs to be known through Art, who beckons usTo excellence, and in her rarer moodsCasts shadowy glances of serener lands,Where all the serious gods, removed from stressAnd interruption, build, as we conceive,In fellowship that knows not that reserveWhich clouds the hearts of those who wish to liveAs they, in that large realm of perfect mind.
The sun has sunk below the level plain,And yet above the forest’s leafy gloomThe glory of the evening lightens still.Smooth as a mirror is the river’s faceWith Heaven’s light, and all its radiant cloudsAnd shadows which against the river’s shoreAlready are as night. From some retreatObscure and lonely, evening’s saddest birdWhistles, and beyond the water comesThe musical reply, and silence reigns—Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs,And undistinguished sounds of faint portentThat night has come. There is a rustic bridgeWhich spans the stream, from which we look belowAt Heaven above, till revery reclaimsThe mind from hurried thought and merges itInto the universal mind which broodsO’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreadsThe restless flame of being, and the soulBeholds its source and destiny and feelsNot sorrowful to sink into the breastOf that large life whereof it is a part.What are we? But the question is not solvedHere in the presence of intensest thought,Where nature stills the clamor of the world,And leaves us in communion with ourselves.Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed dayWhat take we that shall mitigate the pangsThat each soul is alone, and that all friendsGentle and wise and good can never sootheThe ache of that sub-consciousness which isSomething unfathomed and unmedicined?Yet this it is which keeps us in the pathOf some ambition cherished or pursued;The still, small voice that is not quietedBy disregard, but ever speaks to usIts mandates while we wake or sleep, and asksA closer harmony with that great schemeWhich is the music of the universe.
So as the cherubim of Heaven defendThe realms of the unknown with flaming swords,Thence are we driven to the world which isOurs to be known through Art, who beckons usTo excellence, and in her rarer moodsCasts shadowy glances of serener lands,Where all the serious gods, removed from stressAnd interruption, build, as we conceive,In fellowship that knows not that reserveWhich clouds the hearts of those who wish to liveAs they, in that large realm of perfect mind.
I do not like my garden, but I loveThe trees I planted and the flowers thereof.How does one choose his garden? O with eyesO’er which a passion or illusion lies.Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawnYou knew before somewhere. Or you are drawnBy an old urn, a little gate, a roofWhich soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.One buys a garden gladly. Even the worstSeems tolerable or beautiful at first.Their very faults give loving labor scope:One can correct, adorn; ’tis sweet to hopeFor beauty to emerge out of your toil,To build the walks and fertilize the soil.Before I knew my garden or awokeTo its banality I set an oakAt one end for a life-long husbandry,A white syringa and a lilac tree,Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall,Which was my neighbor’s, held in severalTitle and beyond my right to mend—One cannot with an ancient time contend.Some houses shadowed me. I did not dreamThe sun would never look o’er them and gleam,Save at the earliest hour. So all the dayOne half my garden under twilight lay.Another soul had overlooked the shade:I found the boundaries of a bed he madeFor tulips. Well, I had a fresher trustAnd spent my heart upon this sterile dust.What thing will grow where never the sun shines?Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.What years to learn the soil! Why even weedsLook green and fresh. But if one concedesSalvia will flourish not, nor palest phloxOne might have hope left for a row of box.Why is it that some silent places thrillWith elfin comradeship, and others fillThe heart with sickening loneliness? My breastSeems hollow for great emptiness, unrestCasting my eyes about my garden whereI still must live, breathing its lifeless air.Why should I have a garden anyway?I have so many friends who pass the dayIn streets or squares, or little barren courts,I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,Far worse than mine. And who has this delight:There’s my syringa with its blooms of white!It flourishes in my garden! In this briefSeason of blossoms and unfolding leafWhat if I like my garden not but loveThe oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,Amid the white syringa’s loveliness?
I do not like my garden, but I loveThe trees I planted and the flowers thereof.How does one choose his garden? O with eyesO’er which a passion or illusion lies.Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawnYou knew before somewhere. Or you are drawnBy an old urn, a little gate, a roofWhich soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.One buys a garden gladly. Even the worstSeems tolerable or beautiful at first.Their very faults give loving labor scope:One can correct, adorn; ’tis sweet to hopeFor beauty to emerge out of your toil,To build the walks and fertilize the soil.Before I knew my garden or awokeTo its banality I set an oakAt one end for a life-long husbandry,A white syringa and a lilac tree,Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall,Which was my neighbor’s, held in severalTitle and beyond my right to mend—One cannot with an ancient time contend.Some houses shadowed me. I did not dreamThe sun would never look o’er them and gleam,Save at the earliest hour. So all the dayOne half my garden under twilight lay.Another soul had overlooked the shade:I found the boundaries of a bed he madeFor tulips. Well, I had a fresher trustAnd spent my heart upon this sterile dust.What thing will grow where never the sun shines?Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.What years to learn the soil! Why even weedsLook green and fresh. But if one concedesSalvia will flourish not, nor palest phloxOne might have hope left for a row of box.Why is it that some silent places thrillWith elfin comradeship, and others fillThe heart with sickening loneliness? My breastSeems hollow for great emptiness, unrestCasting my eyes about my garden whereI still must live, breathing its lifeless air.Why should I have a garden anyway?I have so many friends who pass the dayIn streets or squares, or little barren courts,I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,Far worse than mine. And who has this delight:There’s my syringa with its blooms of white!It flourishes in my garden! In this briefSeason of blossoms and unfolding leafWhat if I like my garden not but loveThe oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,Amid the white syringa’s loveliness?
I do not like my garden, but I loveThe trees I planted and the flowers thereof.How does one choose his garden? O with eyesO’er which a passion or illusion lies.Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawnYou knew before somewhere. Or you are drawnBy an old urn, a little gate, a roofWhich soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.One buys a garden gladly. Even the worstSeems tolerable or beautiful at first.Their very faults give loving labor scope:One can correct, adorn; ’tis sweet to hopeFor beauty to emerge out of your toil,To build the walks and fertilize the soil.Before I knew my garden or awokeTo its banality I set an oakAt one end for a life-long husbandry,A white syringa and a lilac tree,Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall,Which was my neighbor’s, held in severalTitle and beyond my right to mend—One cannot with an ancient time contend.Some houses shadowed me. I did not dreamThe sun would never look o’er them and gleam,Save at the earliest hour. So all the dayOne half my garden under twilight lay.Another soul had overlooked the shade:I found the boundaries of a bed he madeFor tulips. Well, I had a fresher trustAnd spent my heart upon this sterile dust.What thing will grow where never the sun shines?Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.What years to learn the soil! Why even weedsLook green and fresh. But if one concedesSalvia will flourish not, nor palest phloxOne might have hope left for a row of box.
Why is it that some silent places thrillWith elfin comradeship, and others fillThe heart with sickening loneliness? My breastSeems hollow for great emptiness, unrestCasting my eyes about my garden whereI still must live, breathing its lifeless air.Why should I have a garden anyway?I have so many friends who pass the dayIn streets or squares, or little barren courts,I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,Far worse than mine. And who has this delight:There’s my syringa with its blooms of white!It flourishes in my garden! In this briefSeason of blossoms and unfolding leafWhat if I like my garden not but loveThe oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,Amid the white syringa’s loveliness?
Nothing disturbed my night of sleep,I wonder that I ever wokeIt was so heavy, was so deepI scarce had heard the thunder-stroke.So what was drinking, feasting, talkingBy guests who came and guests who went,Or those who spent the time in walkingThe halls and rooms in argumentAbout the Tavern? Some declaredNo better Tavern could be built.And others called it a deception,Its purest gold but thinnest gilt,A cruel cheat consideringNo other Tavern gave receptionTo folks who might be wayfaringAnywhere in the whole wide land.I woke a stranger to it all,But quickly grew to understandThe ways and customs which prevailed:Those who won favor, those who failed;What feasting rooms had echoed laughter;What kisses stolen in what hall;What corners where the old had cried;What stairways where the breathless bridePaused for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet;What rooms where men in work or playApproved or cursed for gain or lossThe Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.Then when I woke, as I have said,Save a few children there was noneWho was not older far than I.Many were trembling gray of head;The strong walked forth in rain or sunAnd seemed all danger to defy.All welcomed me and called me fair,And told me strange events which passedAround the Tavern while I slept.Soon there were changes. Scarce awareOf their departure many steptOut of the door and seemed to castTheir fortunes elsewhere, but as fastNew guests came in to take the placesOf those who left. And through the dayI lost the old, remembering facesFreshly arrived. When it was noonI knew what things were opportune,I had become one of the crowdIn all their ways initiate:Knew what their love was, what their hate,Myself stole kisses in the hall,And saw the old who sat and criedIn corners, saw the rosy bridePause for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet,Where I stood best man to the groom.Was myself of the noisy room,Where men in work or men in playApprove or curse the gain or loss.Toward afternoon I seemed to feelMore people knew me than I knew.Then it was good to meet with you.I saw you as you left the stair.And who were you? I do not dareTo praise your brow, or paint your hair,Your eyes how gray, or were they blue?A pain strikes through me if I letThe full strength of my love have sway.I only know I can forgetAll others who had gone awayRemembering our happy dayTogether in the house and yard.It was to you all fair and new.You listened with such rapt regardTo all the stories of the guests,And what had been their interests.And was the Tavern just the sameAs it had been before you came,You asked me, and I answered, yes,No change, my dear, not even the name.No change, except the people change,And change they do, I must confess.In truth a few alone remainOf those who lived here when I firstEntered the door there, most are strange.And as I rose much earlierThan you arose, you may supposeI shall grow drowsy, yet who knowsBefore you do, and leave the stirThe dancing, feasting, just to creepBack for another night of sleep.I’d like so well to stay awakeAnd watch the dancing for your sake.It may be, though it scarce may be—No one remained awake for me.You cannot fail to find the bedWhen you are sleepy, but no doubtIt will be black with the light out.Come dear, that sleep is loveliestWhere side by side two lovers rest,That sweetens sleep—it may be best!
Nothing disturbed my night of sleep,I wonder that I ever wokeIt was so heavy, was so deepI scarce had heard the thunder-stroke.So what was drinking, feasting, talkingBy guests who came and guests who went,Or those who spent the time in walkingThe halls and rooms in argumentAbout the Tavern? Some declaredNo better Tavern could be built.And others called it a deception,Its purest gold but thinnest gilt,A cruel cheat consideringNo other Tavern gave receptionTo folks who might be wayfaringAnywhere in the whole wide land.I woke a stranger to it all,But quickly grew to understandThe ways and customs which prevailed:Those who won favor, those who failed;What feasting rooms had echoed laughter;What kisses stolen in what hall;What corners where the old had cried;What stairways where the breathless bridePaused for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet;What rooms where men in work or playApproved or cursed for gain or lossThe Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.Then when I woke, as I have said,Save a few children there was noneWho was not older far than I.Many were trembling gray of head;The strong walked forth in rain or sunAnd seemed all danger to defy.All welcomed me and called me fair,And told me strange events which passedAround the Tavern while I slept.Soon there were changes. Scarce awareOf their departure many steptOut of the door and seemed to castTheir fortunes elsewhere, but as fastNew guests came in to take the placesOf those who left. And through the dayI lost the old, remembering facesFreshly arrived. When it was noonI knew what things were opportune,I had become one of the crowdIn all their ways initiate:Knew what their love was, what their hate,Myself stole kisses in the hall,And saw the old who sat and criedIn corners, saw the rosy bridePause for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet,Where I stood best man to the groom.Was myself of the noisy room,Where men in work or men in playApprove or curse the gain or loss.Toward afternoon I seemed to feelMore people knew me than I knew.Then it was good to meet with you.I saw you as you left the stair.And who were you? I do not dareTo praise your brow, or paint your hair,Your eyes how gray, or were they blue?A pain strikes through me if I letThe full strength of my love have sway.I only know I can forgetAll others who had gone awayRemembering our happy dayTogether in the house and yard.It was to you all fair and new.You listened with such rapt regardTo all the stories of the guests,And what had been their interests.And was the Tavern just the sameAs it had been before you came,You asked me, and I answered, yes,No change, my dear, not even the name.No change, except the people change,And change they do, I must confess.In truth a few alone remainOf those who lived here when I firstEntered the door there, most are strange.And as I rose much earlierThan you arose, you may supposeI shall grow drowsy, yet who knowsBefore you do, and leave the stirThe dancing, feasting, just to creepBack for another night of sleep.I’d like so well to stay awakeAnd watch the dancing for your sake.It may be, though it scarce may be—No one remained awake for me.You cannot fail to find the bedWhen you are sleepy, but no doubtIt will be black with the light out.Come dear, that sleep is loveliestWhere side by side two lovers rest,That sweetens sleep—it may be best!
Nothing disturbed my night of sleep,I wonder that I ever wokeIt was so heavy, was so deepI scarce had heard the thunder-stroke.So what was drinking, feasting, talkingBy guests who came and guests who went,Or those who spent the time in walkingThe halls and rooms in argumentAbout the Tavern? Some declaredNo better Tavern could be built.And others called it a deception,Its purest gold but thinnest gilt,A cruel cheat consideringNo other Tavern gave receptionTo folks who might be wayfaringAnywhere in the whole wide land.
I woke a stranger to it all,But quickly grew to understandThe ways and customs which prevailed:Those who won favor, those who failed;What feasting rooms had echoed laughter;What kisses stolen in what hall;What corners where the old had cried;What stairways where the breathless bridePaused for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet;What rooms where men in work or playApproved or cursed for gain or lossThe Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.
Then when I woke, as I have said,Save a few children there was noneWho was not older far than I.Many were trembling gray of head;The strong walked forth in rain or sunAnd seemed all danger to defy.All welcomed me and called me fair,And told me strange events which passedAround the Tavern while I slept.Soon there were changes. Scarce awareOf their departure many steptOut of the door and seemed to castTheir fortunes elsewhere, but as fastNew guests came in to take the placesOf those who left. And through the dayI lost the old, remembering facesFreshly arrived. When it was noonI knew what things were opportune,I had become one of the crowdIn all their ways initiate:Knew what their love was, what their hate,Myself stole kisses in the hall,And saw the old who sat and criedIn corners, saw the rosy bridePause for a moment just to tossAmong the bridesmaids her bouquet,Where I stood best man to the groom.Was myself of the noisy room,Where men in work or men in playApprove or curse the gain or loss.
Toward afternoon I seemed to feelMore people knew me than I knew.Then it was good to meet with you.I saw you as you left the stair.And who were you? I do not dareTo praise your brow, or paint your hair,Your eyes how gray, or were they blue?A pain strikes through me if I letThe full strength of my love have sway.I only know I can forgetAll others who had gone awayRemembering our happy dayTogether in the house and yard.It was to you all fair and new.You listened with such rapt regardTo all the stories of the guests,And what had been their interests.And was the Tavern just the sameAs it had been before you came,You asked me, and I answered, yes,No change, my dear, not even the name.
No change, except the people change,And change they do, I must confess.In truth a few alone remainOf those who lived here when I firstEntered the door there, most are strange.And as I rose much earlierThan you arose, you may supposeI shall grow drowsy, yet who knowsBefore you do, and leave the stirThe dancing, feasting, just to creepBack for another night of sleep.I’d like so well to stay awakeAnd watch the dancing for your sake.It may be, though it scarce may be—No one remained awake for me.
You cannot fail to find the bedWhen you are sleepy, but no doubtIt will be black with the light out.Come dear, that sleep is loveliestWhere side by side two lovers rest,That sweetens sleep—it may be best!
Edward! you knew the city and you knewWhere dancing and where music were,And every hall and theatre,And every green purlieuOf gardens where beneath the vines and treesOne might sip beer and be consoledBy music mixed with talk, beholdThe summer’s devoteesAbout the tables, idling June away.And you knew chicory and cress,With French or Mayonnaise could dressA salad, growing gayAs you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine,Or had a sirloin brought to seeIf it were ripe, the recipeFor broiling it, to dineThereon in fitting state, the waiter tookAnd bowed in admiration, thenYou snapped your silver case againAnd from the holders shookSuch cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke,And blew the perfumed incense forth,Descanting on our life, the worthOf lawyers, noted folk:Of judges, politicians, governors,Until the dinner came at last.And there amid the rich repastWe poor solicitorsGloried in life, and ruddy faced would laughAt any mishap, any fateThat we could fancy might await,And glorying would quaffIncredible goblets of the quickening juice,With blackest coffee topping all,And afterwards a cordial—Nothing we could abuseAnd nothing hurt us, Edward! It was wellWe lived, I think, and memories stored:For now I am a little boredWith the invariableAnd settled round of nights and days whereinI must have sleep to work, and keepAbstemious to work and sleep—While you long since have beenThe tangled lion of a woman’s hairWho reads you novels and the news,And mends you, tends you, even brewsYour broth and gives you careIn these dyspeptic mornings. As for meThe cafés, gardens haunt me yet.I go about as one who can’t forgetA dead felicity—The Bismarck, Rector’s where I enter not—The music all is changed—and whereNo faces that we knew are there,And where we are forgot.
Edward! you knew the city and you knewWhere dancing and where music were,And every hall and theatre,And every green purlieuOf gardens where beneath the vines and treesOne might sip beer and be consoledBy music mixed with talk, beholdThe summer’s devoteesAbout the tables, idling June away.And you knew chicory and cress,With French or Mayonnaise could dressA salad, growing gayAs you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine,Or had a sirloin brought to seeIf it were ripe, the recipeFor broiling it, to dineThereon in fitting state, the waiter tookAnd bowed in admiration, thenYou snapped your silver case againAnd from the holders shookSuch cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke,And blew the perfumed incense forth,Descanting on our life, the worthOf lawyers, noted folk:Of judges, politicians, governors,Until the dinner came at last.And there amid the rich repastWe poor solicitorsGloried in life, and ruddy faced would laughAt any mishap, any fateThat we could fancy might await,And glorying would quaffIncredible goblets of the quickening juice,With blackest coffee topping all,And afterwards a cordial—Nothing we could abuseAnd nothing hurt us, Edward! It was wellWe lived, I think, and memories stored:For now I am a little boredWith the invariableAnd settled round of nights and days whereinI must have sleep to work, and keepAbstemious to work and sleep—While you long since have beenThe tangled lion of a woman’s hairWho reads you novels and the news,And mends you, tends you, even brewsYour broth and gives you careIn these dyspeptic mornings. As for meThe cafés, gardens haunt me yet.I go about as one who can’t forgetA dead felicity—The Bismarck, Rector’s where I enter not—The music all is changed—and whereNo faces that we knew are there,And where we are forgot.
Edward! you knew the city and you knewWhere dancing and where music were,And every hall and theatre,And every green purlieu
Of gardens where beneath the vines and treesOne might sip beer and be consoledBy music mixed with talk, beholdThe summer’s devotees
About the tables, idling June away.And you knew chicory and cress,With French or Mayonnaise could dressA salad, growing gay
As you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine,Or had a sirloin brought to seeIf it were ripe, the recipeFor broiling it, to dine
Thereon in fitting state, the waiter tookAnd bowed in admiration, thenYou snapped your silver case againAnd from the holders shookSuch cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke,And blew the perfumed incense forth,Descanting on our life, the worthOf lawyers, noted folk:
Of judges, politicians, governors,Until the dinner came at last.And there amid the rich repastWe poor solicitors
Gloried in life, and ruddy faced would laughAt any mishap, any fateThat we could fancy might await,And glorying would quaff
Incredible goblets of the quickening juice,With blackest coffee topping all,And afterwards a cordial—Nothing we could abuse
And nothing hurt us, Edward! It was wellWe lived, I think, and memories stored:For now I am a little boredWith the invariable
And settled round of nights and days whereinI must have sleep to work, and keepAbstemious to work and sleep—While you long since have beenThe tangled lion of a woman’s hairWho reads you novels and the news,And mends you, tends you, even brewsYour broth and gives you care
In these dyspeptic mornings. As for meThe cafés, gardens haunt me yet.I go about as one who can’t forgetA dead felicity—
The Bismarck, Rector’s where I enter not—The music all is changed—and whereNo faces that we knew are there,And where we are forgot.
Malachy, you stand a referee to judgeUnder a torrent of blue lightThe naked pugilists who fight,Grim faces with a smudgeOf blood, or on the sliding arms or backs,There on a platform roped, in pallsOf smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s,And where the iterant cracksOf matches struck for lights prick through the humOf voices over toned by criesOf “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,”“That sounded like a drum.”When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang!And a hush came over us, as thenBath robes slipped off, the fighting menOut of their corners sprang,And in between the tangled arms and legs,And clinches which you break, you glideRed-haired, athletic, watchful eyed,And like a lager keg’sRound fulness is your chest, your arms all bare,Coatless, a figure memorable.You should not be forgotten—wellAnd if it be to dareThe censure of a taste AmericanTo celebrate your courage, wit,I write you down what here is writ:A referee, a man!A judge who loved the game and whose decreeHad no taint on it, was more pureThan much of our judicature,Of every knavery free.And what is here to shock or shake such nervesAs children’s are, delicate women’s?There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons,And Thorne a moment swerves,Then topples over, and lies quiet whileYou count from one slowly to nine.And Thorne lies there without a signOf life, but with a smileAfter a time gets up, and reels acrossThe ring to his own corner, thereFlops wobbly in his corner’s chair,And wonders at his loss.While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shakeThe master hand, the general’s.Such was our sport at Tattersall’sBefore the Puritan rakeCombed through the city. Now the sport is dead,And you are dust these several years.And we who drift to stale careers,And live along and treadThe old deserted ways we loved and knew,Ask sometimes how it was a coughCould seize upon you, take you off—A lad as strong as you?
Malachy, you stand a referee to judgeUnder a torrent of blue lightThe naked pugilists who fight,Grim faces with a smudgeOf blood, or on the sliding arms or backs,There on a platform roped, in pallsOf smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s,And where the iterant cracksOf matches struck for lights prick through the humOf voices over toned by criesOf “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,”“That sounded like a drum.”When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang!And a hush came over us, as thenBath robes slipped off, the fighting menOut of their corners sprang,And in between the tangled arms and legs,And clinches which you break, you glideRed-haired, athletic, watchful eyed,And like a lager keg’sRound fulness is your chest, your arms all bare,Coatless, a figure memorable.You should not be forgotten—wellAnd if it be to dareThe censure of a taste AmericanTo celebrate your courage, wit,I write you down what here is writ:A referee, a man!A judge who loved the game and whose decreeHad no taint on it, was more pureThan much of our judicature,Of every knavery free.And what is here to shock or shake such nervesAs children’s are, delicate women’s?There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons,And Thorne a moment swerves,Then topples over, and lies quiet whileYou count from one slowly to nine.And Thorne lies there without a signOf life, but with a smileAfter a time gets up, and reels acrossThe ring to his own corner, thereFlops wobbly in his corner’s chair,And wonders at his loss.While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shakeThe master hand, the general’s.Such was our sport at Tattersall’sBefore the Puritan rakeCombed through the city. Now the sport is dead,And you are dust these several years.And we who drift to stale careers,And live along and treadThe old deserted ways we loved and knew,Ask sometimes how it was a coughCould seize upon you, take you off—A lad as strong as you?
Malachy, you stand a referee to judgeUnder a torrent of blue lightThe naked pugilists who fight,Grim faces with a smudge
Of blood, or on the sliding arms or backs,There on a platform roped, in pallsOf smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s,And where the iterant cracks
Of matches struck for lights prick through the humOf voices over toned by criesOf “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,”“That sounded like a drum.”
When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang!And a hush came over us, as thenBath robes slipped off, the fighting menOut of their corners sprang,
And in between the tangled arms and legs,And clinches which you break, you glideRed-haired, athletic, watchful eyed,And like a lager keg’sRound fulness is your chest, your arms all bare,Coatless, a figure memorable.You should not be forgotten—wellAnd if it be to dare
The censure of a taste AmericanTo celebrate your courage, wit,I write you down what here is writ:A referee, a man!
A judge who loved the game and whose decreeHad no taint on it, was more pureThan much of our judicature,Of every knavery free.
And what is here to shock or shake such nervesAs children’s are, delicate women’s?There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons,And Thorne a moment swerves,
Then topples over, and lies quiet whileYou count from one slowly to nine.And Thorne lies there without a signOf life, but with a smile
After a time gets up, and reels acrossThe ring to his own corner, thereFlops wobbly in his corner’s chair,And wonders at his loss.
While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shakeThe master hand, the general’s.Such was our sport at Tattersall’sBefore the Puritan rake
Combed through the city. Now the sport is dead,And you are dust these several years.And we who drift to stale careers,And live along and tread
The old deserted ways we loved and knew,Ask sometimes how it was a coughCould seize upon you, take you off—A lad as strong as you?
If I say to you “Come, Ponto, want some meat?”You laugh in your dog-way and bark your “Yes.”And if I say “Shall we go walking” or“Stand up, nice Ponto,” then you stand up, orIf I say to you “Lie down” you lie down.You know what meat is, what it is to walk.You see the meat perhaps or get an imageOf scampering on the street or chasing dogsWhile sniffing in fresh air, exploring bushes.Upon these levels our minds meet at once,As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts.But if I look into your eye and say:I’ll read to you a chapter on harmonics,Here’s mad Spinoza’s close wrought demonstrationOf God as substance, here is Isaac Newton’sGreat book on gravitation, here’s a thesisUpon the logos, of the word made man.Or if I say let’s talk about my soul—Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat—Which sails out like a spider on its threadThrough mathematics, music,—look at youYou merely lie there with half open eye,And thump your tail quite feebly just because,And for no other reason save I’m talking,And I’m your master and you’re fond of me,And through affection would no doubt be gladTo know what I am saying, as ’twere meatI might be saying. But I know a wayTo make you howl for things not understood:It makes you howl to hear my new VictrolaWith a Beethoven record, why is this?Perhaps this is to you a maddening tokenOf realms that lie above the realms of meat,And torture you because they have suggestionsOf things beyond you.But in any case,Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel“You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.”“And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.”“And mathematics, music, can you eat them,”“For what you cannot eat has no existence.”Deny them as you will these spheres of thoughtLie as the steps of mountains over you.They wait for you to gain them, you can find themBy rising to them, then how real they are!As real as scampering when I take a walk.But are they all? How do I know what spheresOf life lie all around me and above me,Just waiting not for me, but till I climbAnd rest awhile and take their meaning in.How do I know what hand plays a VictrolaWith records greater than Beethoven’s song,Which make me howl as piteously as you?But here again our minds meet on a level:I know no more than you do why I howl;Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why,Though not content with meat, I want to know,And keep as all my own this higher music.
If I say to you “Come, Ponto, want some meat?”You laugh in your dog-way and bark your “Yes.”And if I say “Shall we go walking” or“Stand up, nice Ponto,” then you stand up, orIf I say to you “Lie down” you lie down.You know what meat is, what it is to walk.You see the meat perhaps or get an imageOf scampering on the street or chasing dogsWhile sniffing in fresh air, exploring bushes.Upon these levels our minds meet at once,As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts.But if I look into your eye and say:I’ll read to you a chapter on harmonics,Here’s mad Spinoza’s close wrought demonstrationOf God as substance, here is Isaac Newton’sGreat book on gravitation, here’s a thesisUpon the logos, of the word made man.Or if I say let’s talk about my soul—Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat—Which sails out like a spider on its threadThrough mathematics, music,—look at youYou merely lie there with half open eye,And thump your tail quite feebly just because,And for no other reason save I’m talking,And I’m your master and you’re fond of me,And through affection would no doubt be gladTo know what I am saying, as ’twere meatI might be saying. But I know a wayTo make you howl for things not understood:It makes you howl to hear my new VictrolaWith a Beethoven record, why is this?Perhaps this is to you a maddening tokenOf realms that lie above the realms of meat,And torture you because they have suggestionsOf things beyond you.But in any case,Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel“You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.”“And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.”“And mathematics, music, can you eat them,”“For what you cannot eat has no existence.”Deny them as you will these spheres of thoughtLie as the steps of mountains over you.They wait for you to gain them, you can find themBy rising to them, then how real they are!As real as scampering when I take a walk.But are they all? How do I know what spheresOf life lie all around me and above me,Just waiting not for me, but till I climbAnd rest awhile and take their meaning in.How do I know what hand plays a VictrolaWith records greater than Beethoven’s song,Which make me howl as piteously as you?But here again our minds meet on a level:I know no more than you do why I howl;Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why,Though not content with meat, I want to know,And keep as all my own this higher music.
If I say to you “Come, Ponto, want some meat?”You laugh in your dog-way and bark your “Yes.”And if I say “Shall we go walking” or“Stand up, nice Ponto,” then you stand up, orIf I say to you “Lie down” you lie down.You know what meat is, what it is to walk.You see the meat perhaps or get an imageOf scampering on the street or chasing dogsWhile sniffing in fresh air, exploring bushes.Upon these levels our minds meet at once,As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts.But if I look into your eye and say:I’ll read to you a chapter on harmonics,Here’s mad Spinoza’s close wrought demonstrationOf God as substance, here is Isaac Newton’sGreat book on gravitation, here’s a thesisUpon the logos, of the word made man.Or if I say let’s talk about my soul—Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat—Which sails out like a spider on its threadThrough mathematics, music,—look at youYou merely lie there with half open eye,And thump your tail quite feebly just because,And for no other reason save I’m talking,And I’m your master and you’re fond of me,And through affection would no doubt be gladTo know what I am saying, as ’twere meatI might be saying. But I know a wayTo make you howl for things not understood:It makes you howl to hear my new VictrolaWith a Beethoven record, why is this?Perhaps this is to you a maddening tokenOf realms that lie above the realms of meat,And torture you because they have suggestionsOf things beyond you.
But in any case,Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel“You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.”“And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.”“And mathematics, music, can you eat them,”“For what you cannot eat has no existence.”Deny them as you will these spheres of thoughtLie as the steps of mountains over you.They wait for you to gain them, you can find themBy rising to them, then how real they are!As real as scampering when I take a walk.But are they all? How do I know what spheresOf life lie all around me and above me,Just waiting not for me, but till I climbAnd rest awhile and take their meaning in.How do I know what hand plays a VictrolaWith records greater than Beethoven’s song,Which make me howl as piteously as you?But here again our minds meet on a level:I know no more than you do why I howl;Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why,Though not content with meat, I want to know,And keep as all my own this higher music.