VIII—IN GERMANYGoethe

The wreathing mist was quietly breathed away.I stood upon a little hill at night;The tang of pinewoods and the warbling joyOf hidden brooks was round me.The dark hillSloped to a darker garden. On the crestA wooden cabin rose against the stars.Its open door, a gap of golden lightIn deep blue gloom, told me that he was there.I saw his darkened house asleep below,And Weimar clustering round it, a still cloudOf shadowy slumbering houses.Like a shadow,Tracking the Sun-god to his midnight lair,I climbed to the lighted cabin on the crest,And I saw Goethe.At his side a lampOn a rude table, out of tumbled wavesOf manuscript, like an elfin lighthouse rose.His bed, a forester’s couch for summer nights,Was thrust into a corner. Rows of booksLined the rough walls.A letter was in his handFrom Craigenputtock; and while he looked at it,The unuttered thoughts came flowing into the mindOf his invisible listener—Shadow-of-a-Leaf.All true, my friend; but there’s no halfway house.Rid you of Houndsditch, and you’ll not maintainThis quite ungodlike severance of mankindFrom Nature and its laws; though I should loseMy Scots apostle, if I called it so.What’s an apostle? Is it one who seesJust so much of his hero, as reflectsHimself and his own thoughts? I like him well,And yet he makes me lonelier than before.Houndsditch may go; but Cuvier will go first;With all the rest who isolate mankindFrom its true place in Nature.EverywhereI saw the one remodulated form.The leaf ascended to mysterious blissAnd was assumed, with happy sister-leaves,Into the heavenly glory of a flower.Pistil and stamen, calyx and bright crownOf coloured petals, all were leaves transformed,Transfigured, from one type.I saw in manAnd his wild kinsfolk of the woods and seas,In fish and serpent, eagle and orang,One knotted spine that curled into a skull.It ran through all their patterns everywhere,Playing a thousand variants on one theme,Branching through all the frame of fins and wingsAnd spreading through their jointed hands and feet.Throughout this infinite universe I heardThe music of one law.Is man aloneBelied by all the signs of his ascent?Are men even now so far above the beasts?What can the tiger teach them when they kill?Are they so vain that they’d deny the bonesAn inch beneath their skin—bones that when strippedOf flesh and mixed with those of their dumb kinThemselves could not distinguish? How they clungTo that distinction in the skull of man.It lacked the inter-maxillary. They grew angryWhen I foretold it would be found one day.What’s truth to a poet? Back to your dainty lies!And then—one day—I found it.Did they sayStrange work for a poet? Is mankind asleepThat it can never feel what then I felt,To find my faith so quietly confirmed?I held it in my hand and stared at it,An eyeless hollow skull that once could thinkIts own strange thoughts and stare as well as we;A skull that once was rocked upon a breast,And looked its deathless love through dying eyes;And, in that skull, above the incisor teeth,The signs that men denied,—of its ascentThrough endless ages, in the savage nightOf jungle-worlds, before mankind was born.No thought for poets, and no wonder there?No gateway to the kingdoms of the mind?No miracle in the miracle that I saw,Touched, held.My body tingled. All my veinsFroze with the inconceivable mystery,The weirdness and the wonder of it all.No vision? And no dream? Let poets playAt bowls with Yorick’s relic then, for ever;Or blow dream-bubbles. I’ve a world to shape;A law to guide me, and a God to find.That night in sleep I saw—it was no dream!—It was too wild, too strange, too darkly true,And all too human in its monstrous pangsTo be a dream. I saw it, and I live.I saw, I saw, and closed these eyes to seeThat terrible birth in darkness, the black nightOf naked agony that first woke the soul.Night and the jungle, burning with great stars,Rolled all around me. There were steaming poolsOf darkness, and the smell of the wild beastMusky and acrid on the blood-warm air.The night was like a tiger’s hot sweet mouth;I heard a muffled roar, and a wild cry,A shriek, a fall.I saw an uncouth form,Matted with hair, stretched on the blood-stained earth;And, in the darkness, darker than the night,Another form uncouth, with matted hair,Long-armed, like a gorilla, stooping lowAbove his mate.She did not move or breathe.He felt her body with his long-clawed hands,And called to her—a harsh, quick, startled cry.She did not hear. One arm was tightly woundAbout her little one. Both were strangely still,Stiller than sleep.He squatted down to wait.They did not move all night. At dawn he stoodBy that stiff mockery. He stretched up his armsAnd clutched at the red sun that mocked him, too.Then, out of his blind heart, with one fierce pang,The man-child, Grief, was born.His round dark eyesPricked with strange brine, and his broad twitching mouthQuivered. He fell on the dark unanswering earthBeside his dead, with inarticulate cries,Great gasping sobs that seemed to rend his fleshAnd shook him through and through.The night returned and, with the night, a hope,Because he could not see their staring eyes.He rushed into the jungle and returnedWith fruits and berries, ripe and soft and red.He rubbed the dark wet plums against their lips.He smeared the juices on their locked white teeth;Pleading with little murmurs, while the starsWheeled overhead, and velvet-footed beastsApproached and stared with eyes of gold and green;And even the little leaves were all alive;And tree-toads chirruped; but those dark forms lay still.Day followed night. He did not know them now.All that had been so swift to answer himWas gone. But whither? Every day he sawA ball of light arising in the EastAnd moving overhead the self-same wayInto the West....The strange new hunger eating at his heartUrged him to follow it, stumbling blindly onThrough endless forests; but it moved so swiftlyHe could not overtake it, could not reachThe place where it went down, ere darkness came.Then—in the dark—a shadow sometimes movedBefore him, like the shadow he had lost,And with a cry,Yoo! Yoo!he would awakeAnd, crashing through the forests to the West,Would try to steal a march upon the sun,And see it rise inexorably behind him,And sail above, inexorably, at noon,And sink beyond, inexorably, at night.Then, after many suns had risen and set,He saw at dusk a blaze of crimson lightBetween the thinning tree-trunks and emergedOut of the forest into a place of rocks,Washed by a water greater than the world.He stood, an uncouth image carved in stone,Staring into the West. He saw the sunStaining the clouds and sinking into the flood.His lips were parched with thirst, a deeper thirstThan any spring on earth could quench again;And when he laid him down upon the shoreTo drink of that deep water, he knew wellThat he was nearer now to what he sought,Because it tasted salt as his lost tears.He drank. He waded out, and drank again.Then a big wave of darkness rushed upon him,And rolled him under. He rose, and with great armsSwam out into that boundless flood of brineTowards the last glimmer of light; a dark, blind brute,Sobbing and panting, till the merciful waves,Salt in his eyes and salt upon his lips,Had drawn the agony out of his labouring limbsAnd gently as the cradling boughs that onceRocked him to sleep, embraced and drew him downInto oblivion, the first life that caughtWith eyes bewildered by the light they knew,A glimpse of the unknown light beyond the world.

The wreathing mist was quietly breathed away.

I stood upon a little hill at night;

The tang of pinewoods and the warbling joy

Of hidden brooks was round me.

The dark hill

Sloped to a darker garden. On the crest

A wooden cabin rose against the stars.

Its open door, a gap of golden light

In deep blue gloom, told me that he was there.

I saw his darkened house asleep below,

And Weimar clustering round it, a still cloud

Of shadowy slumbering houses.

Like a shadow,

Tracking the Sun-god to his midnight lair,

I climbed to the lighted cabin on the crest,

And I saw Goethe.

At his side a lamp

On a rude table, out of tumbled waves

Of manuscript, like an elfin lighthouse rose.

His bed, a forester’s couch for summer nights,

Was thrust into a corner. Rows of books

Lined the rough walls.

A letter was in his hand

From Craigenputtock; and while he looked at it,

The unuttered thoughts came flowing into the mind

Of his invisible listener—Shadow-of-a-Leaf.

All true, my friend; but there’s no halfway house.

Rid you of Houndsditch, and you’ll not maintain

This quite ungodlike severance of mankind

From Nature and its laws; though I should lose

My Scots apostle, if I called it so.

What’s an apostle? Is it one who sees

Just so much of his hero, as reflects

Himself and his own thoughts? I like him well,

And yet he makes me lonelier than before.

Houndsditch may go; but Cuvier will go first;

With all the rest who isolate mankind

From its true place in Nature.

Everywhere

I saw the one remodulated form.

The leaf ascended to mysterious bliss

And was assumed, with happy sister-leaves,

Into the heavenly glory of a flower.

Pistil and stamen, calyx and bright crown

Of coloured petals, all were leaves transformed,

Transfigured, from one type.

I saw in man

And his wild kinsfolk of the woods and seas,

In fish and serpent, eagle and orang,

One knotted spine that curled into a skull.

It ran through all their patterns everywhere,

Playing a thousand variants on one theme,

Branching through all the frame of fins and wings

And spreading through their jointed hands and feet.

Throughout this infinite universe I heardThe music of one law.Is man aloneBelied by all the signs of his ascent?Are men even now so far above the beasts?What can the tiger teach them when they kill?Are they so vain that they’d deny the bonesAn inch beneath their skin—bones that when strippedOf flesh and mixed with those of their dumb kinThemselves could not distinguish? How they clungTo that distinction in the skull of man.It lacked the inter-maxillary. They grew angryWhen I foretold it would be found one day.What’s truth to a poet? Back to your dainty lies!And then—one day—I found it.Did they sayStrange work for a poet? Is mankind asleepThat it can never feel what then I felt,To find my faith so quietly confirmed?I held it in my hand and stared at it,An eyeless hollow skull that once could thinkIts own strange thoughts and stare as well as we;A skull that once was rocked upon a breast,And looked its deathless love through dying eyes;And, in that skull, above the incisor teeth,The signs that men denied,—of its ascentThrough endless ages, in the savage nightOf jungle-worlds, before mankind was born.

Throughout this infinite universe I heard

The music of one law.

Is man alone

Belied by all the signs of his ascent?

Are men even now so far above the beasts?

What can the tiger teach them when they kill?

Are they so vain that they’d deny the bones

An inch beneath their skin—bones that when stripped

Of flesh and mixed with those of their dumb kin

Themselves could not distinguish? How they clung

To that distinction in the skull of man.

It lacked the inter-maxillary. They grew angry

When I foretold it would be found one day.

What’s truth to a poet? Back to your dainty lies!

And then—one day—I found it.

Did they say

Strange work for a poet? Is mankind asleep

That it can never feel what then I felt,

To find my faith so quietly confirmed?

I held it in my hand and stared at it,

An eyeless hollow skull that once could think

Its own strange thoughts and stare as well as we;

A skull that once was rocked upon a breast,

And looked its deathless love through dying eyes;

And, in that skull, above the incisor teeth,

The signs that men denied,—of its ascent

Through endless ages, in the savage night

Of jungle-worlds, before mankind was born.

No thought for poets, and no wonder there?No gateway to the kingdoms of the mind?No miracle in the miracle that I saw,Touched, held.My body tingled. All my veinsFroze with the inconceivable mystery,The weirdness and the wonder of it all.No vision? And no dream? Let poets playAt bowls with Yorick’s relic then, for ever;Or blow dream-bubbles. I’ve a world to shape;A law to guide me, and a God to find.

No thought for poets, and no wonder there?

No gateway to the kingdoms of the mind?

No miracle in the miracle that I saw,

Touched, held.

My body tingled. All my veins

Froze with the inconceivable mystery,

The weirdness and the wonder of it all.

No vision? And no dream? Let poets play

At bowls with Yorick’s relic then, for ever;

Or blow dream-bubbles. I’ve a world to shape;

A law to guide me, and a God to find.

That night in sleep I saw—it was no dream!—It was too wild, too strange, too darkly true,And all too human in its monstrous pangsTo be a dream. I saw it, and I live.I saw, I saw, and closed these eyes to seeThat terrible birth in darkness, the black nightOf naked agony that first woke the soul.

That night in sleep I saw—it was no dream!—

It was too wild, too strange, too darkly true,

And all too human in its monstrous pangs

To be a dream. I saw it, and I live.

I saw, I saw, and closed these eyes to see

That terrible birth in darkness, the black night

Of naked agony that first woke the soul.

Night and the jungle, burning with great stars,Rolled all around me. There were steaming poolsOf darkness, and the smell of the wild beastMusky and acrid on the blood-warm air.The night was like a tiger’s hot sweet mouth;I heard a muffled roar, and a wild cry,A shriek, a fall.I saw an uncouth form,Matted with hair, stretched on the blood-stained earth;And, in the darkness, darker than the night,Another form uncouth, with matted hair,Long-armed, like a gorilla, stooping lowAbove his mate.She did not move or breathe.He felt her body with his long-clawed hands,And called to her—a harsh, quick, startled cry.She did not hear. One arm was tightly woundAbout her little one. Both were strangely still,Stiller than sleep.He squatted down to wait.They did not move all night. At dawn he stoodBy that stiff mockery. He stretched up his armsAnd clutched at the red sun that mocked him, too.Then, out of his blind heart, with one fierce pang,The man-child, Grief, was born.His round dark eyesPricked with strange brine, and his broad twitching mouthQuivered. He fell on the dark unanswering earthBeside his dead, with inarticulate cries,Great gasping sobs that seemed to rend his fleshAnd shook him through and through.The night returned and, with the night, a hope,Because he could not see their staring eyes.He rushed into the jungle and returnedWith fruits and berries, ripe and soft and red.He rubbed the dark wet plums against their lips.He smeared the juices on their locked white teeth;Pleading with little murmurs, while the starsWheeled overhead, and velvet-footed beastsApproached and stared with eyes of gold and green;And even the little leaves were all alive;And tree-toads chirruped; but those dark forms lay still.

Night and the jungle, burning with great stars,

Rolled all around me. There were steaming pools

Of darkness, and the smell of the wild beast

Musky and acrid on the blood-warm air.

The night was like a tiger’s hot sweet mouth;

I heard a muffled roar, and a wild cry,

A shriek, a fall.

I saw an uncouth form,

Matted with hair, stretched on the blood-stained earth;

And, in the darkness, darker than the night,

Another form uncouth, with matted hair,

Long-armed, like a gorilla, stooping low

Above his mate.

She did not move or breathe.

He felt her body with his long-clawed hands,

And called to her—a harsh, quick, startled cry.

She did not hear. One arm was tightly wound

About her little one. Both were strangely still,

Stiller than sleep.

He squatted down to wait.

They did not move all night. At dawn he stood

By that stiff mockery. He stretched up his arms

And clutched at the red sun that mocked him, too.

Then, out of his blind heart, with one fierce pang,

The man-child, Grief, was born.

His round dark eyes

Pricked with strange brine, and his broad twitching mouth

Quivered. He fell on the dark unanswering earth

Beside his dead, with inarticulate cries,

Great gasping sobs that seemed to rend his flesh

And shook him through and through.

The night returned and, with the night, a hope,

Because he could not see their staring eyes.

He rushed into the jungle and returned

With fruits and berries, ripe and soft and red.

He rubbed the dark wet plums against their lips.

He smeared the juices on their locked white teeth;

Pleading with little murmurs, while the stars

Wheeled overhead, and velvet-footed beasts

Approached and stared with eyes of gold and green;

And even the little leaves were all alive;

And tree-toads chirruped; but those dark forms lay still.

Day followed night. He did not know them now.All that had been so swift to answer himWas gone. But whither? Every day he sawA ball of light arising in the EastAnd moving overhead the self-same wayInto the West....The strange new hunger eating at his heartUrged him to follow it, stumbling blindly onThrough endless forests; but it moved so swiftlyHe could not overtake it, could not reachThe place where it went down, ere darkness came.Then—in the dark—a shadow sometimes movedBefore him, like the shadow he had lost,And with a cry,Yoo! Yoo!he would awakeAnd, crashing through the forests to the West,Would try to steal a march upon the sun,And see it rise inexorably behind him,And sail above, inexorably, at noon,And sink beyond, inexorably, at night.

Day followed night. He did not know them now.

All that had been so swift to answer him

Was gone. But whither? Every day he saw

A ball of light arising in the East

And moving overhead the self-same way

Into the West....

The strange new hunger eating at his heart

Urged him to follow it, stumbling blindly on

Through endless forests; but it moved so swiftly

He could not overtake it, could not reach

The place where it went down, ere darkness came.

Then—in the dark—a shadow sometimes moved

Before him, like the shadow he had lost,

And with a cry,Yoo! Yoo!he would awake

And, crashing through the forests to the West,

Would try to steal a march upon the sun,

And see it rise inexorably behind him,

And sail above, inexorably, at noon,

And sink beyond, inexorably, at night.

Then, after many suns had risen and set,He saw at dusk a blaze of crimson lightBetween the thinning tree-trunks and emergedOut of the forest into a place of rocks,Washed by a water greater than the world.He stood, an uncouth image carved in stone,Staring into the West. He saw the sunStaining the clouds and sinking into the flood.His lips were parched with thirst, a deeper thirstThan any spring on earth could quench again;And when he laid him down upon the shoreTo drink of that deep water, he knew wellThat he was nearer now to what he sought,Because it tasted salt as his lost tears.

Then, after many suns had risen and set,

He saw at dusk a blaze of crimson light

Between the thinning tree-trunks and emerged

Out of the forest into a place of rocks,

Washed by a water greater than the world.

He stood, an uncouth image carved in stone,

Staring into the West. He saw the sun

Staining the clouds and sinking into the flood.

His lips were parched with thirst, a deeper thirst

Than any spring on earth could quench again;

And when he laid him down upon the shore

To drink of that deep water, he knew well

That he was nearer now to what he sought,

Because it tasted salt as his lost tears.

He drank. He waded out, and drank again.Then a big wave of darkness rushed upon him,And rolled him under. He rose, and with great armsSwam out into that boundless flood of brineTowards the last glimmer of light; a dark, blind brute,Sobbing and panting, till the merciful waves,Salt in his eyes and salt upon his lips,Had drawn the agony out of his labouring limbsAnd gently as the cradling boughs that onceRocked him to sleep, embraced and drew him downInto oblivion, the first life that caughtWith eyes bewildered by the light they knew,A glimpse of the unknown light beyond the world.

He drank. He waded out, and drank again.

Then a big wave of darkness rushed upon him,

And rolled him under. He rose, and with great arms

Swam out into that boundless flood of brine

Towards the last glimmer of light; a dark, blind brute,

Sobbing and panting, till the merciful waves,

Salt in his eyes and salt upon his lips,

Had drawn the agony out of his labouring limbs

And gently as the cradling boughs that once

Rocked him to sleep, embraced and drew him down

Into oblivion, the first life that caught

With eyes bewildered by the light they knew,

A glimpse of the unknown light beyond the world.

Before the first wild matins of the thrushHad ended, or the sun sucked up the dew,I saw him wrestling with his thoughts. He rose,Laid down that eagle’s feather in his hand,And looked at his own dawn.He did not speak.Only the secret music of his mindIn an enchanted silence flowed to meetThe listener, as his own great morning flowedThrough those Æolian pinewoods at his feet.Colours and forms of earth and heaven you flowLike clouds around a star—the streaming robeOf an Eternal Glory. Let the lawOf Beauty, in your rhythmic folds, by nightAnd day, through all the universe, revealThe way of the unseen Mover to these eyes.Last night I groped into the dark abyssUnder the feet of man, and saw Thee thereAscending, from that depth below all depth.O, now, at dawn, as I look up to heavenDescend to meet me, on my upward way.How shall they grasp Thy glory who despiseThe law that is Thy kingdom here on earth,Our way of freedom and our path to Thee?How shall they grasp that law, or rightly knowOne truth in Nature, who deny Thy Power,Unresting and unhasting, everywhere?How shall the seekers, bound to their own tasks,Each following his own quest, each spying outHis fragment of a truth, reintegrateTheir universe and behold all things in one?Be this the task of Song, then, to renewThat universal vision in the soul.Rise, poet, to thy universal height,Then stoop, as eagles do from their wide heavenOn their particular prey. Between the cloudsThey see more widely and truly than the moleAt work in his dark tunnel, though he castHis earth upon the fields they watch afar.Work on, inductive mole; but there’s a useIn that too lightly abandoned way of thought,The way of Plato, and the way of Christ,That man must find again, ere he can buildThe temple of true knowledge. Those who trustTo Verulam’sNovum Organumalone,Never can build it. Quarriers of the truth,They cut the stones, but cannot truly lay them;For only he whose deep remembering mindHolds the white archetype, can to music buildHis towers, from the pure pattern imprinted there.He, and he only, in one timeless flashThrough all this moving universe discernsThe inexorable sequences of law,And, in the self-same flash, transfiguring all,Uniting and transcending all, beholdsWith my Spinoza’s own ecstatic eyesGod in the hidden law that fools call “chance,”God in the star, the flower, the moondrawn wave,God in the snake, the bird, and the wild beast,God in that long ascension from the dark,God in the body and in the soul of man,God uttering life, and God receiving death.

Before the first wild matins of the thrush

Had ended, or the sun sucked up the dew,

I saw him wrestling with his thoughts. He rose,

Laid down that eagle’s feather in his hand,

And looked at his own dawn.

He did not speak.

Only the secret music of his mind

In an enchanted silence flowed to meet

The listener, as his own great morning flowed

Through those Æolian pinewoods at his feet.

Colours and forms of earth and heaven you flow

Like clouds around a star—the streaming robe

Of an Eternal Glory. Let the law

Of Beauty, in your rhythmic folds, by night

And day, through all the universe, reveal

The way of the unseen Mover to these eyes.

Last night I groped into the dark abyss

Under the feet of man, and saw Thee there

Ascending, from that depth below all depth.

O, now, at dawn, as I look up to heaven

Descend to meet me, on my upward way.

How shall they grasp Thy glory who despise

The law that is Thy kingdom here on earth,

Our way of freedom and our path to Thee?

How shall they grasp that law, or rightly know

One truth in Nature, who deny Thy Power,

Unresting and unhasting, everywhere?

How shall the seekers, bound to their own tasks,

Each following his own quest, each spying out

His fragment of a truth, reintegrate

Their universe and behold all things in one?

Be this the task of Song, then, to renew

That universal vision in the soul.

Rise, poet, to thy universal height,

Then stoop, as eagles do from their wide heaven

On their particular prey. Between the clouds

They see more widely and truly than the mole

At work in his dark tunnel, though he cast

His earth upon the fields they watch afar.

Work on, inductive mole; but there’s a use

In that too lightly abandoned way of thought,

The way of Plato, and the way of Christ,

That man must find again, ere he can build

The temple of true knowledge. Those who trust

To Verulam’sNovum Organumalone,

Never can build it. Quarriers of the truth,

They cut the stones, but cannot truly lay them;

For only he whose deep remembering mind

Holds the white archetype, can to music build

His towers, from the pure pattern imprinted there.

He, and he only, in one timeless flash

Through all this moving universe discerns

The inexorable sequences of law,

And, in the self-same flash, transfiguring all,

Uniting and transcending all, beholds

With my Spinoza’s own ecstatic eyes

God in the hidden law that fools call “chance,”

God in the star, the flower, the moondrawn wave,

God in the snake, the bird, and the wild beast,

God in that long ascension from the dark,

God in the body and in the soul of man,

God uttering life, and God receiving death.

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