AgrippaHow is it with this people?FestusMuch the same.They kick the Roman rule. Like flame in stubble,Which being slapped with sticks, leaps up and spreads,Oppression makes them hotter.BereniceAnd why not?Seeing their customs, altars, arks and templesThe beauty of their faith, as they have dreamed it,And fashioned it with hands from gold and woodIs desecrated.FestusHow to firmly keepThe rule of Cæsar, leave their god untouched,That is the problem. Where the state and godAre one, inseparable, can Cæsar ruleAnd not subject their god? There was this JudasTogether with a Pharisee named SaddukWho fought the Roman census of the Jews,Raised revolution in religion’s name,A cunning strategy. You could not crushThe revolution, leave their faith unharmed.And now this new sect called the Nazarenes—The country’s in a tumult.AgrippaYes, these Nazarenes,The worst of all.BereniceI have heard the desertFosters a little burr of poisonous spinesWhich sometimes as the lion roams the sands,Sticks in the hairy clefts between his claws.It itches, stings, and maddens; with a growlThe lion lays him down and with his tongueLicks out the pest. It sticks upon his tongue.He has no second tongue to lick it thence.It sticks and stings. The poison spreads apaceAnd puffs the rebelling member till his throatNarrows for breath. And then he runs and roars,And with his nose plows through the sand, lies down,Digs in the desert, leaps, rolls over, froths,Grows green of eye; chokes to his death at last.Rome is your lion, and the burr these Jews.AgrippaSweet sister, be as apt with counsel asYour parable is apt.BereniceYou have my word.Let them alone, their internecine strife’Twixt sect and sect fight out. Madmen they areAnd zealots—let them choke and strive and wail.Jesus they killed and Stephen. But should RomeRepress religions, doctrines, script or speech?If what they teach be false ’twill die, if trueYou cannot kill it.AgrippaYou could say as wellIf thickets bear no apples they will die;If they bear apples you can kill them not.But thickets bear no apples. Apple treesFall easily to the ax. And so with truth,And false truth. Where you have one man who’s wiseYou have a million fools, who take the stonesOf ignorance and error in their handsAnd overwhelm the wise. Rome shall not fall,Recede, relent before a mob like this.FestusThey seem to thrive by being mowed, and yetIf left uncut they choke us. There is Paul,My heritage from Felix, jailed two years,And brought before me by the Jews, who chargedOffenses numerous against him, suchAs breaches of the Jewish law, attacksUpon their temple, on the emperor,Contemned perhaps, the which they could not prove.Now to report to you, O King, my judgmentDivided in the case of Paul. I soughtTo do the Jews a pleasure. So I asked:Will you go to Jerusalem and be judged?But Paul replied: I stand at Cæsar’s seat,There should my judgment be.AgrippaO, wicked Rome,Whose laws become a haven to her foesWhen they are troubled.FestusYes, I told these JewsRome does not give a man to die beforeHe meets his accusers face to face, has timeTo answer for himself. And so it wasI came to Cæsarea, had him broughtAnd heard the case. As I supposed, they chargedThis Paul with nothing, only matters raisedOf their own superstitions, and of JesusWhom Paul affirmed, affirms to be alive,Though dead long since. But as he had appealedTo Cæsar I commanded he be keptTill I might send him. But what shall I say?How shall I send him, after all, to CæsarWithout a writing that shall signifyWhy and for what I send him? Cæsar’s timeIs not for crimeless causes.AgrippaNeverthelessAs he’s appealed to Cæsar he must go.But I would hear him.FestusI have sent for himThat you may hear him. There, he enters now!
AgrippaHow is it with this people?FestusMuch the same.They kick the Roman rule. Like flame in stubble,Which being slapped with sticks, leaps up and spreads,Oppression makes them hotter.BereniceAnd why not?Seeing their customs, altars, arks and templesThe beauty of their faith, as they have dreamed it,And fashioned it with hands from gold and woodIs desecrated.FestusHow to firmly keepThe rule of Cæsar, leave their god untouched,That is the problem. Where the state and godAre one, inseparable, can Cæsar ruleAnd not subject their god? There was this JudasTogether with a Pharisee named SaddukWho fought the Roman census of the Jews,Raised revolution in religion’s name,A cunning strategy. You could not crushThe revolution, leave their faith unharmed.And now this new sect called the Nazarenes—The country’s in a tumult.AgrippaYes, these Nazarenes,The worst of all.BereniceI have heard the desertFosters a little burr of poisonous spinesWhich sometimes as the lion roams the sands,Sticks in the hairy clefts between his claws.It itches, stings, and maddens; with a growlThe lion lays him down and with his tongueLicks out the pest. It sticks upon his tongue.He has no second tongue to lick it thence.It sticks and stings. The poison spreads apaceAnd puffs the rebelling member till his throatNarrows for breath. And then he runs and roars,And with his nose plows through the sand, lies down,Digs in the desert, leaps, rolls over, froths,Grows green of eye; chokes to his death at last.Rome is your lion, and the burr these Jews.AgrippaSweet sister, be as apt with counsel asYour parable is apt.BereniceYou have my word.Let them alone, their internecine strife’Twixt sect and sect fight out. Madmen they areAnd zealots—let them choke and strive and wail.Jesus they killed and Stephen. But should RomeRepress religions, doctrines, script or speech?If what they teach be false ’twill die, if trueYou cannot kill it.AgrippaYou could say as wellIf thickets bear no apples they will die;If they bear apples you can kill them not.But thickets bear no apples. Apple treesFall easily to the ax. And so with truth,And false truth. Where you have one man who’s wiseYou have a million fools, who take the stonesOf ignorance and error in their handsAnd overwhelm the wise. Rome shall not fall,Recede, relent before a mob like this.FestusThey seem to thrive by being mowed, and yetIf left uncut they choke us. There is Paul,My heritage from Felix, jailed two years,And brought before me by the Jews, who chargedOffenses numerous against him, suchAs breaches of the Jewish law, attacksUpon their temple, on the emperor,Contemned perhaps, the which they could not prove.Now to report to you, O King, my judgmentDivided in the case of Paul. I soughtTo do the Jews a pleasure. So I asked:Will you go to Jerusalem and be judged?But Paul replied: I stand at Cæsar’s seat,There should my judgment be.AgrippaO, wicked Rome,Whose laws become a haven to her foesWhen they are troubled.FestusYes, I told these JewsRome does not give a man to die beforeHe meets his accusers face to face, has timeTo answer for himself. And so it wasI came to Cæsarea, had him broughtAnd heard the case. As I supposed, they chargedThis Paul with nothing, only matters raisedOf their own superstitions, and of JesusWhom Paul affirmed, affirms to be alive,Though dead long since. But as he had appealedTo Cæsar I commanded he be keptTill I might send him. But what shall I say?How shall I send him, after all, to CæsarWithout a writing that shall signifyWhy and for what I send him? Cæsar’s timeIs not for crimeless causes.AgrippaNeverthelessAs he’s appealed to Cæsar he must go.But I would hear him.FestusI have sent for himThat you may hear him. There, he enters now!
Agrippa
How is it with this people?
Festus
Much the same.They kick the Roman rule. Like flame in stubble,Which being slapped with sticks, leaps up and spreads,Oppression makes them hotter.
Berenice
And why not?Seeing their customs, altars, arks and templesThe beauty of their faith, as they have dreamed it,And fashioned it with hands from gold and woodIs desecrated.
Festus
How to firmly keepThe rule of Cæsar, leave their god untouched,That is the problem. Where the state and godAre one, inseparable, can Cæsar ruleAnd not subject their god? There was this JudasTogether with a Pharisee named SaddukWho fought the Roman census of the Jews,Raised revolution in religion’s name,A cunning strategy. You could not crushThe revolution, leave their faith unharmed.And now this new sect called the Nazarenes—The country’s in a tumult.
Agrippa
Yes, these Nazarenes,The worst of all.
Berenice
I have heard the desertFosters a little burr of poisonous spinesWhich sometimes as the lion roams the sands,Sticks in the hairy clefts between his claws.It itches, stings, and maddens; with a growlThe lion lays him down and with his tongueLicks out the pest. It sticks upon his tongue.He has no second tongue to lick it thence.It sticks and stings. The poison spreads apaceAnd puffs the rebelling member till his throatNarrows for breath. And then he runs and roars,And with his nose plows through the sand, lies down,Digs in the desert, leaps, rolls over, froths,Grows green of eye; chokes to his death at last.Rome is your lion, and the burr these Jews.
Agrippa
Sweet sister, be as apt with counsel asYour parable is apt.
Berenice
You have my word.Let them alone, their internecine strife’Twixt sect and sect fight out. Madmen they areAnd zealots—let them choke and strive and wail.Jesus they killed and Stephen. But should RomeRepress religions, doctrines, script or speech?If what they teach be false ’twill die, if trueYou cannot kill it.
Agrippa
You could say as wellIf thickets bear no apples they will die;If they bear apples you can kill them not.But thickets bear no apples. Apple treesFall easily to the ax. And so with truth,And false truth. Where you have one man who’s wiseYou have a million fools, who take the stonesOf ignorance and error in their handsAnd overwhelm the wise. Rome shall not fall,Recede, relent before a mob like this.
Festus
They seem to thrive by being mowed, and yetIf left uncut they choke us. There is Paul,My heritage from Felix, jailed two years,And brought before me by the Jews, who chargedOffenses numerous against him, suchAs breaches of the Jewish law, attacksUpon their temple, on the emperor,Contemned perhaps, the which they could not prove.Now to report to you, O King, my judgmentDivided in the case of Paul. I soughtTo do the Jews a pleasure. So I asked:Will you go to Jerusalem and be judged?But Paul replied: I stand at Cæsar’s seat,There should my judgment be.
Agrippa
O, wicked Rome,Whose laws become a haven to her foesWhen they are troubled.
Festus
Yes, I told these JewsRome does not give a man to die beforeHe meets his accusers face to face, has timeTo answer for himself. And so it wasI came to Cæsarea, had him broughtAnd heard the case. As I supposed, they chargedThis Paul with nothing, only matters raisedOf their own superstitions, and of JesusWhom Paul affirmed, affirms to be alive,Though dead long since. But as he had appealedTo Cæsar I commanded he be keptTill I might send him. But what shall I say?How shall I send him, after all, to CæsarWithout a writing that shall signifyWhy and for what I send him? Cæsar’s timeIs not for crimeless causes.
Agrippa
NeverthelessAs he’s appealed to Cæsar he must go.But I would hear him.
Festus
I have sent for himThat you may hear him. There, he enters now!
(Paul is brought in.)
He has a speech that he has often madeHow first he persecuted, for in truth AgrippaHe is a catapult that has sprung upAs far as he was pulled the other way.And he will tell you how he stoned this Stephen,And hunted Nazarenes: and how he wentWith writs of persecution from the priestsUp to Damascus, on the way saw lightFrom heaven, heard the voice of Jesus cryThat he should be a minister to the faith,And preach as he had persecuted. You seeThe rebound of nature, mind.BereniceHow thin,How pale he is, how bright his eyes! AgrippaConfine him to the matter of this godWho died, and from the dead arose. O Death,You are man’s horror, and we brood upon you,Our altars are placations to your wrath.This Paul is mad for thinking of you, madWith faith that he has conquered you. Look there!See how his eyes are staring bright as fire—I am afraid. And yet if it were trueJesus arose, nay if the world could bePersuaded that he rose, the faith would sweepThe world with fire, and crumble every templeAnd altar of our gods in almighty Rome.Look how he stares!AgrippaThere is a noble madness,A madness which has slaved nobilityAnd energy and eloquence. Say nowWho saw this Jesus after he arose?Did Paul? Who saw him?FestusNo one that I know.Not Paul. He says a multitude. Some disciples,Some women, and one Peter.AgrippaWhere are they?Bring one to me. Bring Peter; bring a woman.This is the cause I’d hear. And if this PaulCan bring me witness, though his crime were greatAs Hannibal’s on Rome, I’ll set him free.Why look at him! Is this new matter to me?Is he the first who for the gods went mad?Or for the mystery of life went mad?Or madness took for what we are and why,And what this life means? For this world has seenA perfect harmony and working thoughtAnd inspiration in a thousand mindsOf madness on some matter. Fellow, comeClose here before me. Look at me. Yes, well,There is the light of rising suns, and starsThat burn immortally, in your eyes. Now speak.Did Jesus die?PaulHe died.AgrippaDid he arise?PaulHe arose.AgrippaHow long being dead?PaulThree days.AgrippaSaw you him in life?PaulNo.AgrippaIn death?PaulNo.AgrippaAfter he rose?PaulNo! I only heard his voice.AgrippaWhere?PaulOn the way to Damascus.AgrippaWhat did he say?Paul“It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”AgrippaWhat else?PaulI asked, “Who art thou Lord?”AgrippaAnd then?Paul“I am Jesus,” he said, “whom thou persecutest.To thee have I come to make of thee a witnessAnd a minister.”AgrippaSince then you have preached,For which the Jews have persecuted youAs you stoned Stephen?PaulYes.AgrippaAnd you affirmThat Jesus from the dead arose?PaulThou hast said.But also I affirm that all shall riseFrom death who in the Christ believe, save thoseWho live now, and shall die not ere he come.AgrippaHe comes again?PaulQuickly, even beforeThis generation passes.AgrippaYou are mad.Do you appeal to Cæsar?PaulI appeal.AgrippaWhy not be stoned as Stephen was and rise?If you believe in Jesus, you believeThey cannot kill you.PaulAs you will, O King.I must finish my course, whatever time I die.AgrippaI could have set you free, if you had takenTo Cæsar no appeal. Being as it isI send you up to Rome. Who can find outThe workings of a mind? Yet true it isHe saves himself out of a cunning thoughtOf this appeal to Cæsar. Turn him overTo the Centurion Julius—on to Rome.We have conferred together. He has doneNo thing deserving death. Take him to Rome.He’ll find a house and hire it, in RomeLive unmolested, preach, hear Mithra preachedWho cheated death, they say, as Jesus did.Now let us rise and to the banquet room.Come Sister, Festus, to the banquet room.
He has a speech that he has often madeHow first he persecuted, for in truth AgrippaHe is a catapult that has sprung upAs far as he was pulled the other way.And he will tell you how he stoned this Stephen,And hunted Nazarenes: and how he wentWith writs of persecution from the priestsUp to Damascus, on the way saw lightFrom heaven, heard the voice of Jesus cryThat he should be a minister to the faith,And preach as he had persecuted. You seeThe rebound of nature, mind.BereniceHow thin,How pale he is, how bright his eyes! AgrippaConfine him to the matter of this godWho died, and from the dead arose. O Death,You are man’s horror, and we brood upon you,Our altars are placations to your wrath.This Paul is mad for thinking of you, madWith faith that he has conquered you. Look there!See how his eyes are staring bright as fire—I am afraid. And yet if it were trueJesus arose, nay if the world could bePersuaded that he rose, the faith would sweepThe world with fire, and crumble every templeAnd altar of our gods in almighty Rome.Look how he stares!AgrippaThere is a noble madness,A madness which has slaved nobilityAnd energy and eloquence. Say nowWho saw this Jesus after he arose?Did Paul? Who saw him?FestusNo one that I know.Not Paul. He says a multitude. Some disciples,Some women, and one Peter.AgrippaWhere are they?Bring one to me. Bring Peter; bring a woman.This is the cause I’d hear. And if this PaulCan bring me witness, though his crime were greatAs Hannibal’s on Rome, I’ll set him free.Why look at him! Is this new matter to me?Is he the first who for the gods went mad?Or for the mystery of life went mad?Or madness took for what we are and why,And what this life means? For this world has seenA perfect harmony and working thoughtAnd inspiration in a thousand mindsOf madness on some matter. Fellow, comeClose here before me. Look at me. Yes, well,There is the light of rising suns, and starsThat burn immortally, in your eyes. Now speak.Did Jesus die?PaulHe died.AgrippaDid he arise?PaulHe arose.AgrippaHow long being dead?PaulThree days.AgrippaSaw you him in life?PaulNo.AgrippaIn death?PaulNo.AgrippaAfter he rose?PaulNo! I only heard his voice.AgrippaWhere?PaulOn the way to Damascus.AgrippaWhat did he say?Paul“It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”AgrippaWhat else?PaulI asked, “Who art thou Lord?”AgrippaAnd then?Paul“I am Jesus,” he said, “whom thou persecutest.To thee have I come to make of thee a witnessAnd a minister.”AgrippaSince then you have preached,For which the Jews have persecuted youAs you stoned Stephen?PaulYes.AgrippaAnd you affirmThat Jesus from the dead arose?PaulThou hast said.But also I affirm that all shall riseFrom death who in the Christ believe, save thoseWho live now, and shall die not ere he come.AgrippaHe comes again?PaulQuickly, even beforeThis generation passes.AgrippaYou are mad.Do you appeal to Cæsar?PaulI appeal.AgrippaWhy not be stoned as Stephen was and rise?If you believe in Jesus, you believeThey cannot kill you.PaulAs you will, O King.I must finish my course, whatever time I die.AgrippaI could have set you free, if you had takenTo Cæsar no appeal. Being as it isI send you up to Rome. Who can find outThe workings of a mind? Yet true it isHe saves himself out of a cunning thoughtOf this appeal to Cæsar. Turn him overTo the Centurion Julius—on to Rome.We have conferred together. He has doneNo thing deserving death. Take him to Rome.He’ll find a house and hire it, in RomeLive unmolested, preach, hear Mithra preachedWho cheated death, they say, as Jesus did.Now let us rise and to the banquet room.Come Sister, Festus, to the banquet room.
He has a speech that he has often madeHow first he persecuted, for in truth AgrippaHe is a catapult that has sprung upAs far as he was pulled the other way.And he will tell you how he stoned this Stephen,And hunted Nazarenes: and how he wentWith writs of persecution from the priestsUp to Damascus, on the way saw lightFrom heaven, heard the voice of Jesus cryThat he should be a minister to the faith,And preach as he had persecuted. You seeThe rebound of nature, mind.
Berenice
How thin,How pale he is, how bright his eyes! AgrippaConfine him to the matter of this godWho died, and from the dead arose. O Death,You are man’s horror, and we brood upon you,Our altars are placations to your wrath.This Paul is mad for thinking of you, madWith faith that he has conquered you. Look there!See how his eyes are staring bright as fire—I am afraid. And yet if it were trueJesus arose, nay if the world could bePersuaded that he rose, the faith would sweepThe world with fire, and crumble every templeAnd altar of our gods in almighty Rome.Look how he stares!
Agrippa
There is a noble madness,A madness which has slaved nobilityAnd energy and eloquence. Say nowWho saw this Jesus after he arose?Did Paul? Who saw him?
Festus
No one that I know.Not Paul. He says a multitude. Some disciples,Some women, and one Peter.
Agrippa
Where are they?Bring one to me. Bring Peter; bring a woman.This is the cause I’d hear. And if this PaulCan bring me witness, though his crime were greatAs Hannibal’s on Rome, I’ll set him free.Why look at him! Is this new matter to me?Is he the first who for the gods went mad?Or for the mystery of life went mad?Or madness took for what we are and why,And what this life means? For this world has seenA perfect harmony and working thoughtAnd inspiration in a thousand mindsOf madness on some matter. Fellow, comeClose here before me. Look at me. Yes, well,There is the light of rising suns, and starsThat burn immortally, in your eyes. Now speak.Did Jesus die?
Paul
He died.
Agrippa
Did he arise?
Paul
He arose.
Agrippa
How long being dead?
Paul
Three days.
Agrippa
Saw you him in life?
Paul
No.
Agrippa
In death?
Paul
No.
Agrippa
After he rose?
Paul
No! I only heard his voice.
Agrippa
Where?
Paul
On the way to Damascus.
Agrippa
What did he say?
Paul
“It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”
Agrippa
What else?
Paul
I asked, “Who art thou Lord?”
Agrippa
And then?
Paul
“I am Jesus,” he said, “whom thou persecutest.To thee have I come to make of thee a witnessAnd a minister.”
Agrippa
Since then you have preached,For which the Jews have persecuted youAs you stoned Stephen?
Paul
Yes.
Agrippa
And you affirmThat Jesus from the dead arose?
Paul
Thou hast said.But also I affirm that all shall riseFrom death who in the Christ believe, save thoseWho live now, and shall die not ere he come.
Agrippa
He comes again?
Paul
Quickly, even beforeThis generation passes.
Agrippa
You are mad.Do you appeal to Cæsar?
Paul
I appeal.
Agrippa
Why not be stoned as Stephen was and rise?If you believe in Jesus, you believeThey cannot kill you.
Paul
As you will, O King.I must finish my course, whatever time I die.
Agrippa
I could have set you free, if you had takenTo Cæsar no appeal. Being as it isI send you up to Rome. Who can find outThe workings of a mind? Yet true it isHe saves himself out of a cunning thoughtOf this appeal to Cæsar. Turn him overTo the Centurion Julius—on to Rome.We have conferred together. He has doneNo thing deserving death. Take him to Rome.He’ll find a house and hire it, in RomeLive unmolested, preach, hear Mithra preachedWho cheated death, they say, as Jesus did.Now let us rise and to the banquet room.Come Sister, Festus, to the banquet room.
Nebuchadnezzar the King, called Ha-Rashang,Which is to say, the wicked, by the Jews;I, King of Babylon, the beautiful,The mighty who have spread the prospering codeOf Hammumrapi, and the obeliskOf diorite whereon the code is stamped,Kept in the Temple of Marduk, myselfThe lover of progress, beauty, breathe this prayer:Peace to all peoples, nations, languagesThat dwell in all the earth, and also peaceBe multiplied to you; this I recordUpon these bricks of Babylon, and as wellMy glory and my madness.First attend:What would the gods, the god Jehovah evenHave me to do, me gifted with this strength,This wisdom, skill in arms? Sit in a hutOf mud beside the Tigris, be a marshOf spirit, sleeping, oozing, grown with flags?Or be Euphrates rushing, giving lifeAnd drink of life to fields? What should I do?Suffer this Syra to dream and drool?Jerusalem to boast, dispute and trade,And vaunt its favoring heaven, or go forthAnd smite Jerusalem and Tyre and take them,And lead their peoples back to Babylon,And make them work and serve me, build canals,Great reservoirs, my palace, city walls,The Hanging Gardens, till my BabylonIn all this would become a wonder, terrorAnd worthy of my spirit, hope and dream;A city and a kingdom in the worldBecome the external substance, form and beauty,Administration, order of a soulLordly and gifted—mine, my Babylon,My dream expressed!That which I did they triedTo do and failed in doing, even themselvesWould rule as I have ruled, build as I builded,Win glory as I won it; to that endDid they invoke their gods, and in the mouthsOf gods and of Jehovah put the cursesAnd wails of failure. I have triumphed, nowMy gods are full of song; I have maintainedMy kingdom and my spirit, driving outThe aggressor Necho, who came forth from Egypt,Syria and Palestine to take from me,Him I destroyed at Carchemish—my spiritHave I regained and healed. And now in age,These eighty years of life gone over me,And rulership of forty years, I sitWithin the level sun-light of my age,And at this close of day upon my roofAnd view my Babylon; but without fearMadness will come upon me ever again.The glory of my kingdom has returned,My honor and my brightness have returned;My counselors and lords have come to me;I am established in my age, and excellentMajesty is added unto me.All thisThough here upon this roof, upon this spot,My madness came upon me, when I lookedOver the roofs and temples of my cityAnd said: Is not this Babylon, the great,That I have builded for my kingdom’s houseBy the might of my power and for the honorOf my great majesty? Why was it so?First genius and the dream, then toil and painWhile hands lay stone on stone, and as the stonesRise from the earth, where naked slaves cry out,Wheel, lift and grunt; and mortar, scaffolding,Pillars of cedar strewn confusedly,Your dream is blurred, even while your city risesOut of the dream. I was like to a womanIn the pain of travail, who is mad with pain,Scarce knows her friends or what is being done,Nor needs to know, since nature orders all,Delivers her, but lets the mid-wife liftThe infant to her breast. Even so with me,I had conceived this Babylon, nourished itIn the womb of my genius where it grew, came forthWhole like a child at last from scaffoldings,Confusion, waste of mortar, stone and bronze.And when it was accomplished, then my madnessCame on me in a moment of clear seeingThat this which was within me, was without me;Was substance and reality before me;Was even myself gone out of me, as the childGoes from the mother—then my madness cameNot when I saw it first, for I had seen itBoth from this roof and from the Hanging Gardens,And from the temple of Bel, and in the streets;But seen it without knowing, as the motherExhausted, dulled with agony may knowThe child is born, without the consciousness,The wonder and the rapture of the child,As the miracle that was of her, but nowIs a miracle external and a life,A beauty separate, that walks from herAnd has its life and way, herself and hers,But different and its own.And so it wasWhen I beheld my Babylon, saw my dreamSpread out before me, clear and definite,A beauty separate, my very soulTorn out of me and fashioned into stone,Having its life and way, myself and mine,Yet being itself, its own. If I had seenMyself divided and become two men,My other self come toward me, stand, extendHis hand to me, my terror were not moreThan this to see my Babylon. In that momentMy madness came upon me.But before,Some nights and days before this I had lainIn troubled dreams upon my couch, had dreamedOf images and trees, for daily caresOf empire and the fears of change and lossHad entered in my dreams. CyaxeresDreamed that a vine grew from his daughter’s wombAnd overshadowed Asia, which denotedHer offspring should be clothed with majestyAnd rulership of Asia. As for me,My tree was felled, only the stump was left,Bound to the earth with brass and iron—thisForetold what I am now, as Daniel said,Interpreting my dream. These dreams had comeWhich shook me for the thought of human life—How frail and fleeting! But again to hearCurses about me for my work and geniusCalled by these Jews Ha-Rashang; and to feelThough I had chosen Daniel, Hananiah,Michael, Azariah for mine own,And to be taught to help me in the taskOf my administration; even thoughI chose all men for duty, wisest useAnd in my great humanity and strengthHad placed my subjects where they best could serveThe beauty and the progress of my city—Though, as I said, to feel that I had doneAll things for good and with no thought but good,Yet still to hear these curses and to seeThe worthlessness of human kind, the crowd,I bowed my head and prayed to Ishtar saying:Make me an animal and let me feedWith beasts instead of these: So had I prayedBefore my madness in that moment came.Then as to that, my madness: it was sunset,I walked upon my palace’s level roof,And looked upon my Babylon; then I thoughtOf all my labors, how I had restoredThe temples of Borsippa, Uruk, Ur,Sippar and Larsa, Dilbat; made the plainsBelow the great Euphrates rich in corn;Brought plenty to my people, bread and wineTo all my people; laughter, as it may be,Between our fated tears to all my people,And then I looked on Babylon lying thereBeneath the evening’s sunlight, safe behindIts sixty miles of walls unscalable,Rising four hundred feet, impregnableFor near a hundred feet of width in stone.I saw its hundred gates of durable bronze;My eyes were lifted to the terracesUp, up above the river to the templeOf Bel who blessed my city, and I sawThe temples built to Nebo, Sin and Nana,Marduk and Shamash, saw my aqueducts,The houses of my people, in betweenThe palm grooves and the gardens bearing foodEnough to feed the city if besieged;Beheld the Hanging Gardens which I builtTo soothe Amytis, who had memoriesOf mountainous Media, gazing onThe Babylonian plains.So as I stoodAnd looked upon my city, voices passedBelow me muttering Ha-Rashang, and thenThis Babylon, my Babylon, lay before meAs my genius realized, grown out of me,Myself become another, and a beingWhich once was me, but now no more was me,Was mine and was not mine; and with that thoughtRising like Enlil, god of storm and thunder,Over my terrored spirit, I grew madAnd fled among the beasts, where for a seasonI ate grass with the oxen, let the dewFall on my body, till my hairs were grownLike eagle’s feathers and my nails were grownLike claws of birds. In madness and in hateOf men and life, in loathing of my glory,My genius and my labors did I live;In loathing of these tribes who hate the motherGoddess of our ritual and belief;Tribes who have made religion of the hateOf procreative nature, curse the flameOf beauty, and of love wherewith I builtThis Babylon of glory, lust of life;Till nature cured me and I came againTo rule my Babylon, my excellenceOf majesty returned.What am I now,Bowed with these eighty years? My Babylon,What is it now to me? I am a fatherWhose son is aging, even has made his placeAnd lived to see it fade, diminish. A sonSo old his sonship is a memory,Has almost ceased to be—that’s Babylon.And I, the father, know this BabylonAs creature of my loins, yet indeedThis city scarcely differs from the citiesThat lie afar, as aging sons are menAmong the men of earth, but scarcely moreTo a father bent with time than other men.For in my riotous genius, like a vineI did put forth this branch, the vine decays,The branch will live a season. Out of geniusAnd lust of life to madness, out of madnessTo this tranquillity, and this setting sun,This peace with heaven.
Nebuchadnezzar the King, called Ha-Rashang,Which is to say, the wicked, by the Jews;I, King of Babylon, the beautiful,The mighty who have spread the prospering codeOf Hammumrapi, and the obeliskOf diorite whereon the code is stamped,Kept in the Temple of Marduk, myselfThe lover of progress, beauty, breathe this prayer:Peace to all peoples, nations, languagesThat dwell in all the earth, and also peaceBe multiplied to you; this I recordUpon these bricks of Babylon, and as wellMy glory and my madness.First attend:What would the gods, the god Jehovah evenHave me to do, me gifted with this strength,This wisdom, skill in arms? Sit in a hutOf mud beside the Tigris, be a marshOf spirit, sleeping, oozing, grown with flags?Or be Euphrates rushing, giving lifeAnd drink of life to fields? What should I do?Suffer this Syra to dream and drool?Jerusalem to boast, dispute and trade,And vaunt its favoring heaven, or go forthAnd smite Jerusalem and Tyre and take them,And lead their peoples back to Babylon,And make them work and serve me, build canals,Great reservoirs, my palace, city walls,The Hanging Gardens, till my BabylonIn all this would become a wonder, terrorAnd worthy of my spirit, hope and dream;A city and a kingdom in the worldBecome the external substance, form and beauty,Administration, order of a soulLordly and gifted—mine, my Babylon,My dream expressed!That which I did they triedTo do and failed in doing, even themselvesWould rule as I have ruled, build as I builded,Win glory as I won it; to that endDid they invoke their gods, and in the mouthsOf gods and of Jehovah put the cursesAnd wails of failure. I have triumphed, nowMy gods are full of song; I have maintainedMy kingdom and my spirit, driving outThe aggressor Necho, who came forth from Egypt,Syria and Palestine to take from me,Him I destroyed at Carchemish—my spiritHave I regained and healed. And now in age,These eighty years of life gone over me,And rulership of forty years, I sitWithin the level sun-light of my age,And at this close of day upon my roofAnd view my Babylon; but without fearMadness will come upon me ever again.The glory of my kingdom has returned,My honor and my brightness have returned;My counselors and lords have come to me;I am established in my age, and excellentMajesty is added unto me.All thisThough here upon this roof, upon this spot,My madness came upon me, when I lookedOver the roofs and temples of my cityAnd said: Is not this Babylon, the great,That I have builded for my kingdom’s houseBy the might of my power and for the honorOf my great majesty? Why was it so?First genius and the dream, then toil and painWhile hands lay stone on stone, and as the stonesRise from the earth, where naked slaves cry out,Wheel, lift and grunt; and mortar, scaffolding,Pillars of cedar strewn confusedly,Your dream is blurred, even while your city risesOut of the dream. I was like to a womanIn the pain of travail, who is mad with pain,Scarce knows her friends or what is being done,Nor needs to know, since nature orders all,Delivers her, but lets the mid-wife liftThe infant to her breast. Even so with me,I had conceived this Babylon, nourished itIn the womb of my genius where it grew, came forthWhole like a child at last from scaffoldings,Confusion, waste of mortar, stone and bronze.And when it was accomplished, then my madnessCame on me in a moment of clear seeingThat this which was within me, was without me;Was substance and reality before me;Was even myself gone out of me, as the childGoes from the mother—then my madness cameNot when I saw it first, for I had seen itBoth from this roof and from the Hanging Gardens,And from the temple of Bel, and in the streets;But seen it without knowing, as the motherExhausted, dulled with agony may knowThe child is born, without the consciousness,The wonder and the rapture of the child,As the miracle that was of her, but nowIs a miracle external and a life,A beauty separate, that walks from herAnd has its life and way, herself and hers,But different and its own.And so it wasWhen I beheld my Babylon, saw my dreamSpread out before me, clear and definite,A beauty separate, my very soulTorn out of me and fashioned into stone,Having its life and way, myself and mine,Yet being itself, its own. If I had seenMyself divided and become two men,My other self come toward me, stand, extendHis hand to me, my terror were not moreThan this to see my Babylon. In that momentMy madness came upon me.But before,Some nights and days before this I had lainIn troubled dreams upon my couch, had dreamedOf images and trees, for daily caresOf empire and the fears of change and lossHad entered in my dreams. CyaxeresDreamed that a vine grew from his daughter’s wombAnd overshadowed Asia, which denotedHer offspring should be clothed with majestyAnd rulership of Asia. As for me,My tree was felled, only the stump was left,Bound to the earth with brass and iron—thisForetold what I am now, as Daniel said,Interpreting my dream. These dreams had comeWhich shook me for the thought of human life—How frail and fleeting! But again to hearCurses about me for my work and geniusCalled by these Jews Ha-Rashang; and to feelThough I had chosen Daniel, Hananiah,Michael, Azariah for mine own,And to be taught to help me in the taskOf my administration; even thoughI chose all men for duty, wisest useAnd in my great humanity and strengthHad placed my subjects where they best could serveThe beauty and the progress of my city—Though, as I said, to feel that I had doneAll things for good and with no thought but good,Yet still to hear these curses and to seeThe worthlessness of human kind, the crowd,I bowed my head and prayed to Ishtar saying:Make me an animal and let me feedWith beasts instead of these: So had I prayedBefore my madness in that moment came.Then as to that, my madness: it was sunset,I walked upon my palace’s level roof,And looked upon my Babylon; then I thoughtOf all my labors, how I had restoredThe temples of Borsippa, Uruk, Ur,Sippar and Larsa, Dilbat; made the plainsBelow the great Euphrates rich in corn;Brought plenty to my people, bread and wineTo all my people; laughter, as it may be,Between our fated tears to all my people,And then I looked on Babylon lying thereBeneath the evening’s sunlight, safe behindIts sixty miles of walls unscalable,Rising four hundred feet, impregnableFor near a hundred feet of width in stone.I saw its hundred gates of durable bronze;My eyes were lifted to the terracesUp, up above the river to the templeOf Bel who blessed my city, and I sawThe temples built to Nebo, Sin and Nana,Marduk and Shamash, saw my aqueducts,The houses of my people, in betweenThe palm grooves and the gardens bearing foodEnough to feed the city if besieged;Beheld the Hanging Gardens which I builtTo soothe Amytis, who had memoriesOf mountainous Media, gazing onThe Babylonian plains.So as I stoodAnd looked upon my city, voices passedBelow me muttering Ha-Rashang, and thenThis Babylon, my Babylon, lay before meAs my genius realized, grown out of me,Myself become another, and a beingWhich once was me, but now no more was me,Was mine and was not mine; and with that thoughtRising like Enlil, god of storm and thunder,Over my terrored spirit, I grew madAnd fled among the beasts, where for a seasonI ate grass with the oxen, let the dewFall on my body, till my hairs were grownLike eagle’s feathers and my nails were grownLike claws of birds. In madness and in hateOf men and life, in loathing of my glory,My genius and my labors did I live;In loathing of these tribes who hate the motherGoddess of our ritual and belief;Tribes who have made religion of the hateOf procreative nature, curse the flameOf beauty, and of love wherewith I builtThis Babylon of glory, lust of life;Till nature cured me and I came againTo rule my Babylon, my excellenceOf majesty returned.What am I now,Bowed with these eighty years? My Babylon,What is it now to me? I am a fatherWhose son is aging, even has made his placeAnd lived to see it fade, diminish. A sonSo old his sonship is a memory,Has almost ceased to be—that’s Babylon.And I, the father, know this BabylonAs creature of my loins, yet indeedThis city scarcely differs from the citiesThat lie afar, as aging sons are menAmong the men of earth, but scarcely moreTo a father bent with time than other men.For in my riotous genius, like a vineI did put forth this branch, the vine decays,The branch will live a season. Out of geniusAnd lust of life to madness, out of madnessTo this tranquillity, and this setting sun,This peace with heaven.
Nebuchadnezzar the King, called Ha-Rashang,Which is to say, the wicked, by the Jews;I, King of Babylon, the beautiful,The mighty who have spread the prospering codeOf Hammumrapi, and the obeliskOf diorite whereon the code is stamped,Kept in the Temple of Marduk, myselfThe lover of progress, beauty, breathe this prayer:Peace to all peoples, nations, languagesThat dwell in all the earth, and also peaceBe multiplied to you; this I recordUpon these bricks of Babylon, and as wellMy glory and my madness.
First attend:What would the gods, the god Jehovah evenHave me to do, me gifted with this strength,This wisdom, skill in arms? Sit in a hutOf mud beside the Tigris, be a marshOf spirit, sleeping, oozing, grown with flags?Or be Euphrates rushing, giving lifeAnd drink of life to fields? What should I do?Suffer this Syra to dream and drool?Jerusalem to boast, dispute and trade,And vaunt its favoring heaven, or go forthAnd smite Jerusalem and Tyre and take them,And lead their peoples back to Babylon,And make them work and serve me, build canals,Great reservoirs, my palace, city walls,The Hanging Gardens, till my BabylonIn all this would become a wonder, terrorAnd worthy of my spirit, hope and dream;A city and a kingdom in the worldBecome the external substance, form and beauty,Administration, order of a soulLordly and gifted—mine, my Babylon,My dream expressed!
That which I did they triedTo do and failed in doing, even themselvesWould rule as I have ruled, build as I builded,Win glory as I won it; to that endDid they invoke their gods, and in the mouthsOf gods and of Jehovah put the cursesAnd wails of failure. I have triumphed, nowMy gods are full of song; I have maintainedMy kingdom and my spirit, driving outThe aggressor Necho, who came forth from Egypt,Syria and Palestine to take from me,Him I destroyed at Carchemish—my spiritHave I regained and healed. And now in age,These eighty years of life gone over me,And rulership of forty years, I sitWithin the level sun-light of my age,And at this close of day upon my roofAnd view my Babylon; but without fearMadness will come upon me ever again.The glory of my kingdom has returned,My honor and my brightness have returned;My counselors and lords have come to me;I am established in my age, and excellentMajesty is added unto me.
All thisThough here upon this roof, upon this spot,My madness came upon me, when I lookedOver the roofs and temples of my cityAnd said: Is not this Babylon, the great,That I have builded for my kingdom’s houseBy the might of my power and for the honorOf my great majesty? Why was it so?
First genius and the dream, then toil and painWhile hands lay stone on stone, and as the stonesRise from the earth, where naked slaves cry out,Wheel, lift and grunt; and mortar, scaffolding,Pillars of cedar strewn confusedly,Your dream is blurred, even while your city risesOut of the dream. I was like to a womanIn the pain of travail, who is mad with pain,Scarce knows her friends or what is being done,Nor needs to know, since nature orders all,Delivers her, but lets the mid-wife liftThe infant to her breast. Even so with me,I had conceived this Babylon, nourished itIn the womb of my genius where it grew, came forthWhole like a child at last from scaffoldings,Confusion, waste of mortar, stone and bronze.And when it was accomplished, then my madnessCame on me in a moment of clear seeingThat this which was within me, was without me;Was substance and reality before me;Was even myself gone out of me, as the childGoes from the mother—then my madness cameNot when I saw it first, for I had seen itBoth from this roof and from the Hanging Gardens,And from the temple of Bel, and in the streets;But seen it without knowing, as the motherExhausted, dulled with agony may knowThe child is born, without the consciousness,The wonder and the rapture of the child,As the miracle that was of her, but nowIs a miracle external and a life,A beauty separate, that walks from herAnd has its life and way, herself and hers,But different and its own.
And so it wasWhen I beheld my Babylon, saw my dreamSpread out before me, clear and definite,A beauty separate, my very soulTorn out of me and fashioned into stone,Having its life and way, myself and mine,Yet being itself, its own. If I had seenMyself divided and become two men,My other self come toward me, stand, extendHis hand to me, my terror were not moreThan this to see my Babylon. In that momentMy madness came upon me.
But before,Some nights and days before this I had lainIn troubled dreams upon my couch, had dreamedOf images and trees, for daily caresOf empire and the fears of change and lossHad entered in my dreams. CyaxeresDreamed that a vine grew from his daughter’s wombAnd overshadowed Asia, which denotedHer offspring should be clothed with majestyAnd rulership of Asia. As for me,My tree was felled, only the stump was left,Bound to the earth with brass and iron—thisForetold what I am now, as Daniel said,Interpreting my dream. These dreams had comeWhich shook me for the thought of human life—How frail and fleeting! But again to hearCurses about me for my work and geniusCalled by these Jews Ha-Rashang; and to feelThough I had chosen Daniel, Hananiah,Michael, Azariah for mine own,And to be taught to help me in the taskOf my administration; even thoughI chose all men for duty, wisest useAnd in my great humanity and strengthHad placed my subjects where they best could serveThe beauty and the progress of my city—Though, as I said, to feel that I had doneAll things for good and with no thought but good,Yet still to hear these curses and to seeThe worthlessness of human kind, the crowd,I bowed my head and prayed to Ishtar saying:Make me an animal and let me feedWith beasts instead of these: So had I prayedBefore my madness in that moment came.
Then as to that, my madness: it was sunset,I walked upon my palace’s level roof,And looked upon my Babylon; then I thoughtOf all my labors, how I had restoredThe temples of Borsippa, Uruk, Ur,Sippar and Larsa, Dilbat; made the plainsBelow the great Euphrates rich in corn;Brought plenty to my people, bread and wineTo all my people; laughter, as it may be,Between our fated tears to all my people,And then I looked on Babylon lying thereBeneath the evening’s sunlight, safe behindIts sixty miles of walls unscalable,Rising four hundred feet, impregnableFor near a hundred feet of width in stone.I saw its hundred gates of durable bronze;My eyes were lifted to the terracesUp, up above the river to the templeOf Bel who blessed my city, and I sawThe temples built to Nebo, Sin and Nana,Marduk and Shamash, saw my aqueducts,The houses of my people, in betweenThe palm grooves and the gardens bearing foodEnough to feed the city if besieged;Beheld the Hanging Gardens which I builtTo soothe Amytis, who had memoriesOf mountainous Media, gazing onThe Babylonian plains.
So as I stoodAnd looked upon my city, voices passedBelow me muttering Ha-Rashang, and thenThis Babylon, my Babylon, lay before meAs my genius realized, grown out of me,Myself become another, and a beingWhich once was me, but now no more was me,Was mine and was not mine; and with that thoughtRising like Enlil, god of storm and thunder,Over my terrored spirit, I grew madAnd fled among the beasts, where for a seasonI ate grass with the oxen, let the dewFall on my body, till my hairs were grownLike eagle’s feathers and my nails were grownLike claws of birds. In madness and in hateOf men and life, in loathing of my glory,My genius and my labors did I live;In loathing of these tribes who hate the motherGoddess of our ritual and belief;Tribes who have made religion of the hateOf procreative nature, curse the flameOf beauty, and of love wherewith I builtThis Babylon of glory, lust of life;Till nature cured me and I came againTo rule my Babylon, my excellenceOf majesty returned.
What am I now,Bowed with these eighty years? My Babylon,What is it now to me? I am a fatherWhose son is aging, even has made his placeAnd lived to see it fade, diminish. A sonSo old his sonship is a memory,Has almost ceased to be—that’s Babylon.And I, the father, know this BabylonAs creature of my loins, yet indeedThis city scarcely differs from the citiesThat lie afar, as aging sons are menAmong the men of earth, but scarcely moreTo a father bent with time than other men.For in my riotous genius, like a vineI did put forth this branch, the vine decays,The branch will live a season. Out of geniusAnd lust of life to madness, out of madnessTo this tranquillity, and this setting sun,This peace with heaven.
You like store? You like Chinese tea? You like me?You like silk, fan, screen, dragon, pearl chair, jade;You like Chinese tobacco, picture, Budda too,Well, as Geesu Klist? All light Lee,You Chinaman, maybe. I like Chicago too.I like you, and Hinky Dink, lots I like.Good city here, much friends. I make some money,Go back to China sometime. Keep store here,Come back to store.China old country, vely old country,Wise country, much wise men long time ago.Here book Shu Ching, about old time,More’n tree tousand year ago. Here Lun Yu bookAbout Confucius, live long time ago, much timeBefore live Geesu; taught love one another,Be good to good men; bad men be fair to; speak truth.Where sun and moon shine, all place, love and honorCome to Confucius, brother of God.More yet:Lao Tzu great man, too, who say be goodTo bad men; Chinaman read; close book and speakWhat book says; to be wise, Chinese learn to speakWhat book say closed, on shelf, burned up, or lost.Chicago good town, Amelika good country, England,Europe good country too, but China good country,Wise long time ago, when no Amelika was,No town in England, and no book in Europe,Two tousand year before Geesu Kliste came.Some say Budda greater than Kliste;Chinee say Confucius greater than Budda.I say all gods; leave alone—what you care?Kill Chinaman if you wish, golden rule is golden ruleIn Pekin, or Jerusalem.Geesu Kliste people,Salvation Army come and say: “Hip Lung,Be saved, love Geesu Kliste, be baptized.”I know the Four Books, I say the Four BooksAnd never look; but when I say ConfuciusTaught Golden Rule and love, they say, not clearLike Geesu Kliste, Confucius heathen man,Not good like Geesu Kliste. All light! All light!I sing about the Dragon Boats, go roundThe store till they go on. They no readThe Four Books, no care. Sometime I askWhy China not hear about Geesu Kliste for years.Why? Eh? We hear of Budda, whyNo hear of Kliste?Kliste people sayTree hundred year they know Kliste comin’—China no hear. China hear ’bout BuddaTree hundred year after Budda die.Ming Ti, great king, sent down IndiaTo hear ’bout God Budda.China no hear of Kliste then ...Tousand year after God Budda die,Great man come to China; Fa Hsien,Kliste dead now four hundred year,But China no hear. Why?Fa Hsien go to India to get books about Budda.Go trou Gobi desert—no birds, tigers,But much dragons and devils.Fa Hsien go to Benares, Budda, Gaya, CeylonCome back with books about light way;See light, hope light, speak light,Do light, live light, try light; light mind,Light happiness. And China hearAnd love Budda!...Kliste dead four hundred year—Alle time much people in China, temples, cities,Much books, many wise men.And Kliste dead now six hundred year,And China no hear. Kliste!Same time god Budda grow in China.Kliste dead more’n six hundred year,And Arabs come from Medina to Canton,Tell about prophet of God Muhammed—Allah!But no Kliste much.Next year, Kliste dead now ’bout 630 year.Salvation Army come from Persia, and China hear’Bout Kliste, too late; god Budda worshipped nowBy much China people.Year before Salvation Army from PersiaGreat man come again: Yuan Chang.He go to India to get books’Bout god Budda, and see holy place.You no hear ’bout Yuan Chang? No?Greek men, great men, and Cheeser,Napoleon great men and popes, and Roosevelt—All light! Yuan Chang great man too.Like Fa Hsien he go trou Gobi desert,Fight robbers, dragons, no water, no food;See much broken cities;Go from Samarkand to Nepal;Gone fourteen years;Come back to Singor,Tai-tsung emperor now,And vely glad to see Yuan Chang,Who bring tousands of books by god Budda,Gold, silver, crystal images of god Budda,And bones of god Budda, hair, nails, leaves of Bo tree,All like that. Where is Kliste now? I don’t know.China hear not much....Tai-tsung great emperor! Know much too!Know about Allah, know about Budda,Know about Kliste, and Salvation Army.But Tai-tsung no give a damn,Only say to Yuan Chang:Write Budda books in China language.And write Lao Tzu in Indian language.Trade gods that way! We no lose.Maybe India see more in Lao TzuThan China, who knows? All timeKliste dead more’n six hundred year,And no body say much bout Kliste,And China goin’ to hell, as Salvation Army say,Alle time.Kliste dead six hundred year,Salvation Army come to England,And baptize everybody; but China no hear.Kliste dead eighteen hundred year,England come to China for Kliste and opium—Make nice dreams—what you care’Bout Budda, Kliste—Smoke? Eh?
You like store? You like Chinese tea? You like me?You like silk, fan, screen, dragon, pearl chair, jade;You like Chinese tobacco, picture, Budda too,Well, as Geesu Klist? All light Lee,You Chinaman, maybe. I like Chicago too.I like you, and Hinky Dink, lots I like.Good city here, much friends. I make some money,Go back to China sometime. Keep store here,Come back to store.China old country, vely old country,Wise country, much wise men long time ago.Here book Shu Ching, about old time,More’n tree tousand year ago. Here Lun Yu bookAbout Confucius, live long time ago, much timeBefore live Geesu; taught love one another,Be good to good men; bad men be fair to; speak truth.Where sun and moon shine, all place, love and honorCome to Confucius, brother of God.More yet:Lao Tzu great man, too, who say be goodTo bad men; Chinaman read; close book and speakWhat book says; to be wise, Chinese learn to speakWhat book say closed, on shelf, burned up, or lost.Chicago good town, Amelika good country, England,Europe good country too, but China good country,Wise long time ago, when no Amelika was,No town in England, and no book in Europe,Two tousand year before Geesu Kliste came.Some say Budda greater than Kliste;Chinee say Confucius greater than Budda.I say all gods; leave alone—what you care?Kill Chinaman if you wish, golden rule is golden ruleIn Pekin, or Jerusalem.Geesu Kliste people,Salvation Army come and say: “Hip Lung,Be saved, love Geesu Kliste, be baptized.”I know the Four Books, I say the Four BooksAnd never look; but when I say ConfuciusTaught Golden Rule and love, they say, not clearLike Geesu Kliste, Confucius heathen man,Not good like Geesu Kliste. All light! All light!I sing about the Dragon Boats, go roundThe store till they go on. They no readThe Four Books, no care. Sometime I askWhy China not hear about Geesu Kliste for years.Why? Eh? We hear of Budda, whyNo hear of Kliste?Kliste people sayTree hundred year they know Kliste comin’—China no hear. China hear ’bout BuddaTree hundred year after Budda die.Ming Ti, great king, sent down IndiaTo hear ’bout God Budda.China no hear of Kliste then ...Tousand year after God Budda die,Great man come to China; Fa Hsien,Kliste dead now four hundred year,But China no hear. Why?Fa Hsien go to India to get books about Budda.Go trou Gobi desert—no birds, tigers,But much dragons and devils.Fa Hsien go to Benares, Budda, Gaya, CeylonCome back with books about light way;See light, hope light, speak light,Do light, live light, try light; light mind,Light happiness. And China hearAnd love Budda!...Kliste dead four hundred year—Alle time much people in China, temples, cities,Much books, many wise men.And Kliste dead now six hundred year,And China no hear. Kliste!Same time god Budda grow in China.Kliste dead more’n six hundred year,And Arabs come from Medina to Canton,Tell about prophet of God Muhammed—Allah!But no Kliste much.Next year, Kliste dead now ’bout 630 year.Salvation Army come from Persia, and China hear’Bout Kliste, too late; god Budda worshipped nowBy much China people.Year before Salvation Army from PersiaGreat man come again: Yuan Chang.He go to India to get books’Bout god Budda, and see holy place.You no hear ’bout Yuan Chang? No?Greek men, great men, and Cheeser,Napoleon great men and popes, and Roosevelt—All light! Yuan Chang great man too.Like Fa Hsien he go trou Gobi desert,Fight robbers, dragons, no water, no food;See much broken cities;Go from Samarkand to Nepal;Gone fourteen years;Come back to Singor,Tai-tsung emperor now,And vely glad to see Yuan Chang,Who bring tousands of books by god Budda,Gold, silver, crystal images of god Budda,And bones of god Budda, hair, nails, leaves of Bo tree,All like that. Where is Kliste now? I don’t know.China hear not much....Tai-tsung great emperor! Know much too!Know about Allah, know about Budda,Know about Kliste, and Salvation Army.But Tai-tsung no give a damn,Only say to Yuan Chang:Write Budda books in China language.And write Lao Tzu in Indian language.Trade gods that way! We no lose.Maybe India see more in Lao TzuThan China, who knows? All timeKliste dead more’n six hundred year,And no body say much bout Kliste,And China goin’ to hell, as Salvation Army say,Alle time.Kliste dead six hundred year,Salvation Army come to England,And baptize everybody; but China no hear.Kliste dead eighteen hundred year,England come to China for Kliste and opium—Make nice dreams—what you care’Bout Budda, Kliste—Smoke? Eh?
You like store? You like Chinese tea? You like me?You like silk, fan, screen, dragon, pearl chair, jade;You like Chinese tobacco, picture, Budda too,Well, as Geesu Klist? All light Lee,You Chinaman, maybe. I like Chicago too.I like you, and Hinky Dink, lots I like.Good city here, much friends. I make some money,Go back to China sometime. Keep store here,Come back to store.
China old country, vely old country,Wise country, much wise men long time ago.Here book Shu Ching, about old time,More’n tree tousand year ago. Here Lun Yu bookAbout Confucius, live long time ago, much timeBefore live Geesu; taught love one another,Be good to good men; bad men be fair to; speak truth.Where sun and moon shine, all place, love and honorCome to Confucius, brother of God.
More yet:Lao Tzu great man, too, who say be goodTo bad men; Chinaman read; close book and speakWhat book says; to be wise, Chinese learn to speakWhat book say closed, on shelf, burned up, or lost.Chicago good town, Amelika good country, England,Europe good country too, but China good country,Wise long time ago, when no Amelika was,No town in England, and no book in Europe,Two tousand year before Geesu Kliste came.Some say Budda greater than Kliste;Chinee say Confucius greater than Budda.I say all gods; leave alone—what you care?Kill Chinaman if you wish, golden rule is golden ruleIn Pekin, or Jerusalem.
Geesu Kliste people,Salvation Army come and say: “Hip Lung,Be saved, love Geesu Kliste, be baptized.”I know the Four Books, I say the Four BooksAnd never look; but when I say ConfuciusTaught Golden Rule and love, they say, not clearLike Geesu Kliste, Confucius heathen man,Not good like Geesu Kliste. All light! All light!I sing about the Dragon Boats, go roundThe store till they go on. They no readThe Four Books, no care. Sometime I askWhy China not hear about Geesu Kliste for years.Why? Eh? We hear of Budda, whyNo hear of Kliste?
Kliste people sayTree hundred year they know Kliste comin’—China no hear. China hear ’bout BuddaTree hundred year after Budda die.Ming Ti, great king, sent down IndiaTo hear ’bout God Budda.China no hear of Kliste then ...Tousand year after God Budda die,Great man come to China; Fa Hsien,Kliste dead now four hundred year,But China no hear. Why?Fa Hsien go to India to get books about Budda.Go trou Gobi desert—no birds, tigers,But much dragons and devils.Fa Hsien go to Benares, Budda, Gaya, CeylonCome back with books about light way;See light, hope light, speak light,Do light, live light, try light; light mind,Light happiness. And China hearAnd love Budda!...
Kliste dead four hundred year—Alle time much people in China, temples, cities,Much books, many wise men.And Kliste dead now six hundred year,And China no hear. Kliste!Same time god Budda grow in China.
Kliste dead more’n six hundred year,And Arabs come from Medina to Canton,Tell about prophet of God Muhammed—Allah!But no Kliste much.
Next year, Kliste dead now ’bout 630 year.Salvation Army come from Persia, and China hear’Bout Kliste, too late; god Budda worshipped nowBy much China people.
Year before Salvation Army from PersiaGreat man come again: Yuan Chang.He go to India to get books’Bout god Budda, and see holy place.You no hear ’bout Yuan Chang? No?Greek men, great men, and Cheeser,Napoleon great men and popes, and Roosevelt—All light! Yuan Chang great man too.Like Fa Hsien he go trou Gobi desert,Fight robbers, dragons, no water, no food;See much broken cities;Go from Samarkand to Nepal;Gone fourteen years;Come back to Singor,Tai-tsung emperor now,And vely glad to see Yuan Chang,Who bring tousands of books by god Budda,Gold, silver, crystal images of god Budda,And bones of god Budda, hair, nails, leaves of Bo tree,All like that. Where is Kliste now? I don’t know.China hear not much....
Tai-tsung great emperor! Know much too!Know about Allah, know about Budda,Know about Kliste, and Salvation Army.But Tai-tsung no give a damn,Only say to Yuan Chang:Write Budda books in China language.And write Lao Tzu in Indian language.Trade gods that way! We no lose.Maybe India see more in Lao TzuThan China, who knows? All timeKliste dead more’n six hundred year,And no body say much bout Kliste,And China goin’ to hell, as Salvation Army say,Alle time.
Kliste dead six hundred year,Salvation Army come to England,And baptize everybody; but China no hear.Kliste dead eighteen hundred year,England come to China for Kliste and opium—Make nice dreams—what you care’Bout Budda, Kliste—Smoke? Eh?
Settled to evenings before the doorwayWith Telemachus, who sat at his knee,“Why did you stay so long from Ithaca,Leaving my mother Penelope?”The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered,Thinking of Scylla and Sicily.“That’s a hard question,” answered Ulysses,“Harder, if answered, for you to see.“There was the Cyclops, there was Æolus,There were the Sirens, and Hades for me;Apollo’s oxen, Hades’ horrors,Circe, and then Ogygia.“All these after the war, Telemachus—Too long a tale, as you will agree.The bards must write it, when you are olderRead till the gray hairs give you the key“Of the wonder and richness that were your father’sLife in the war, the long way home.No man has lived, as I, Telemachus,None ever will live in the days to come“A life that followed the paths and hollowsOf Time, the wayward ways of the streamsThat flow round earth, the winds and watersOf passion, wisdom, thought and dreams.“There are two things, my boy, and onlyTwo in the world, remember this:One thing is men, the other women,And after the two of them nothing is.“I have known men as king and warrior,Known them as liegmen, spears of the line.Good enough lamps for workaday darkness—They are not food, they are not wine;“They are not heat that stir the secretCore of the seed of a man, be sure.And I, Ulysses, needed the planets,And suns of the spring to live, mature.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus,“And, say is it true you lost eight yearsAway from Ithaca, me and my motherBecause of a certain Calypso’s tears?”The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered.“There now, my boy, you have the truth.I’ll try to tell you perhaps you’ll get itIn spite of your filial love and your youth.“First, understand there are two things only;—One is women, the other men.And men I knew before and at Troyland,And searched their hearts again and again.“What do you get? Secrets of cunning,Cruelty, strength, and much that you useIn the battle with them; but what’s a woman?She is the mother, she is the Muse“That leads and lifts to life—TelemachusHow can I tell you?—have a care!Young men seize on the words of wisdom,And find their hands in a silken snare,“Hearing blindly, seeing literally,What is a sword, a lamp, a shield?Touch and learn, the name is onlyThe shell wherein the thing is concealed.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“What do I mean? Attend to me!I’ll try to tell you, telling a storyOf the island called Ogygia.“I know women—how shall I tell you?Women are good, and good is wine.Yet how to tell the wine and womenThat turn her adorers into swine.“You must have aid of Hermes, swiftnessOf spirit and sense to tell them apart;How to be strong, how to be tender,How to surrender and keep your heart.“Easy for me to baffle Circe,Easy the Sirens to slip—just wax!I steered for Ithaca, you and your mother,Isle to isle on the ocean’s tracks,“Until I came and saw Calypso.Son you would be with Calypso yet.It takes a hero suppled in flameTo see Calypso, and leave, forgetFace and voice enough to leave her,Spurn her promises, turn from her tears,Come to Ithaca with this doorway,Age that hovers, the little years.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“Live and learn,” Ulysses replied.“Calypso promised me youth eternalIf I would stay and make her my bride.”“And why not stay?” asked Telemachus“To have her for wife, if not a youthEternal given you?” “Boy of me listenNow for the core of the deepest truth:“We dined in grottoes of blooming ivy;We supped in halls of cedar and gold;We slept on balconies, sapphire tented—But even I found this growing old.“I saw her beauty bare by star light,And by the sea in the sun, and stoledIn silk as white as snow on Parnassus—But even I found this growing old.“Her tresses smelt of the blooms of Hymettus,Her breasts were cymbals sweet to behold;Her voice was a harp of pearl and silver—But even I found this growing old.“Her Lips were like the flame of a taperScented and musical, as she would foldWhite arms over the brawn of my shoulders—But even I found this growing old.“She promised me this and youth forever,So long as the sun and the planets rolled.I knew they were gifts she could not give me,Empty promises too grow old.“And even if given, why foreverLive the things that have grown enough?She loved me, wonderful Calypso.But what is love? It is only love.“And the salt of a man turns to his doorway,He makes his will for his blood at the end.My boy, that’s why I left CalypsoAnd came to you—do you comprehend?“To sit unshorn, and clothed as I choose,Talk with the swineherd, potter or shirk,Babble at ease, my boy, with your motherAround the house at rest or at work.“And you must not forget, Telemachus,In order to have immortalityIt had to be with Calypso—thereforeI came to you and Penelope,“Who soon will leave me, at best, or elseI’ll leave you for the Isles of the Blest.I find this doorway good, Telemachus,As a place to dream and a place to rest.”“I do not understand, Ulysses,Father of me. At first the callOf the blood, I thought, would hasten you homeward.And now I wonder you came at all“Here to Ithaca. What, my father,Is here but my mother growing old;Aged Lærtes, Telemachus—What of Calypso’s hair of gold?“What of the island, what of the feasting,What of her kisses, were it II’d spurn eternal youth, as a mortalLive with Calypso until I should die.”“I have no doubt,” said the many mindedGreat Ulysses. “It’s plain to seeYou are a boy yet. When is supper?Go ask your mother Penelope.”
Settled to evenings before the doorwayWith Telemachus, who sat at his knee,“Why did you stay so long from Ithaca,Leaving my mother Penelope?”The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered,Thinking of Scylla and Sicily.“That’s a hard question,” answered Ulysses,“Harder, if answered, for you to see.“There was the Cyclops, there was Æolus,There were the Sirens, and Hades for me;Apollo’s oxen, Hades’ horrors,Circe, and then Ogygia.“All these after the war, Telemachus—Too long a tale, as you will agree.The bards must write it, when you are olderRead till the gray hairs give you the key“Of the wonder and richness that were your father’sLife in the war, the long way home.No man has lived, as I, Telemachus,None ever will live in the days to come“A life that followed the paths and hollowsOf Time, the wayward ways of the streamsThat flow round earth, the winds and watersOf passion, wisdom, thought and dreams.“There are two things, my boy, and onlyTwo in the world, remember this:One thing is men, the other women,And after the two of them nothing is.“I have known men as king and warrior,Known them as liegmen, spears of the line.Good enough lamps for workaday darkness—They are not food, they are not wine;“They are not heat that stir the secretCore of the seed of a man, be sure.And I, Ulysses, needed the planets,And suns of the spring to live, mature.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus,“And, say is it true you lost eight yearsAway from Ithaca, me and my motherBecause of a certain Calypso’s tears?”The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered.“There now, my boy, you have the truth.I’ll try to tell you perhaps you’ll get itIn spite of your filial love and your youth.“First, understand there are two things only;—One is women, the other men.And men I knew before and at Troyland,And searched their hearts again and again.“What do you get? Secrets of cunning,Cruelty, strength, and much that you useIn the battle with them; but what’s a woman?She is the mother, she is the Muse“That leads and lifts to life—TelemachusHow can I tell you?—have a care!Young men seize on the words of wisdom,And find their hands in a silken snare,“Hearing blindly, seeing literally,What is a sword, a lamp, a shield?Touch and learn, the name is onlyThe shell wherein the thing is concealed.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“What do I mean? Attend to me!I’ll try to tell you, telling a storyOf the island called Ogygia.“I know women—how shall I tell you?Women are good, and good is wine.Yet how to tell the wine and womenThat turn her adorers into swine.“You must have aid of Hermes, swiftnessOf spirit and sense to tell them apart;How to be strong, how to be tender,How to surrender and keep your heart.“Easy for me to baffle Circe,Easy the Sirens to slip—just wax!I steered for Ithaca, you and your mother,Isle to isle on the ocean’s tracks,“Until I came and saw Calypso.Son you would be with Calypso yet.It takes a hero suppled in flameTo see Calypso, and leave, forgetFace and voice enough to leave her,Spurn her promises, turn from her tears,Come to Ithaca with this doorway,Age that hovers, the little years.”“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“Live and learn,” Ulysses replied.“Calypso promised me youth eternalIf I would stay and make her my bride.”“And why not stay?” asked Telemachus“To have her for wife, if not a youthEternal given you?” “Boy of me listenNow for the core of the deepest truth:“We dined in grottoes of blooming ivy;We supped in halls of cedar and gold;We slept on balconies, sapphire tented—But even I found this growing old.“I saw her beauty bare by star light,And by the sea in the sun, and stoledIn silk as white as snow on Parnassus—But even I found this growing old.“Her tresses smelt of the blooms of Hymettus,Her breasts were cymbals sweet to behold;Her voice was a harp of pearl and silver—But even I found this growing old.“Her Lips were like the flame of a taperScented and musical, as she would foldWhite arms over the brawn of my shoulders—But even I found this growing old.“She promised me this and youth forever,So long as the sun and the planets rolled.I knew they were gifts she could not give me,Empty promises too grow old.“And even if given, why foreverLive the things that have grown enough?She loved me, wonderful Calypso.But what is love? It is only love.“And the salt of a man turns to his doorway,He makes his will for his blood at the end.My boy, that’s why I left CalypsoAnd came to you—do you comprehend?“To sit unshorn, and clothed as I choose,Talk with the swineherd, potter or shirk,Babble at ease, my boy, with your motherAround the house at rest or at work.“And you must not forget, Telemachus,In order to have immortalityIt had to be with Calypso—thereforeI came to you and Penelope,“Who soon will leave me, at best, or elseI’ll leave you for the Isles of the Blest.I find this doorway good, Telemachus,As a place to dream and a place to rest.”“I do not understand, Ulysses,Father of me. At first the callOf the blood, I thought, would hasten you homeward.And now I wonder you came at all“Here to Ithaca. What, my father,Is here but my mother growing old;Aged Lærtes, Telemachus—What of Calypso’s hair of gold?“What of the island, what of the feasting,What of her kisses, were it II’d spurn eternal youth, as a mortalLive with Calypso until I should die.”“I have no doubt,” said the many mindedGreat Ulysses. “It’s plain to seeYou are a boy yet. When is supper?Go ask your mother Penelope.”
Settled to evenings before the doorwayWith Telemachus, who sat at his knee,“Why did you stay so long from Ithaca,Leaving my mother Penelope?”
The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered,Thinking of Scylla and Sicily.“That’s a hard question,” answered Ulysses,“Harder, if answered, for you to see.
“There was the Cyclops, there was Æolus,There were the Sirens, and Hades for me;Apollo’s oxen, Hades’ horrors,Circe, and then Ogygia.
“All these after the war, Telemachus—Too long a tale, as you will agree.The bards must write it, when you are olderRead till the gray hairs give you the key
“Of the wonder and richness that were your father’sLife in the war, the long way home.No man has lived, as I, Telemachus,None ever will live in the days to come“A life that followed the paths and hollowsOf Time, the wayward ways of the streamsThat flow round earth, the winds and watersOf passion, wisdom, thought and dreams.
“There are two things, my boy, and onlyTwo in the world, remember this:One thing is men, the other women,And after the two of them nothing is.
“I have known men as king and warrior,Known them as liegmen, spears of the line.Good enough lamps for workaday darkness—They are not food, they are not wine;
“They are not heat that stir the secretCore of the seed of a man, be sure.And I, Ulysses, needed the planets,And suns of the spring to live, mature.”
“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus,“And, say is it true you lost eight yearsAway from Ithaca, me and my motherBecause of a certain Calypso’s tears?”
The eyes of the hero rolled and wandered.“There now, my boy, you have the truth.I’ll try to tell you perhaps you’ll get itIn spite of your filial love and your youth.
“First, understand there are two things only;—One is women, the other men.And men I knew before and at Troyland,And searched their hearts again and again.
“What do you get? Secrets of cunning,Cruelty, strength, and much that you useIn the battle with them; but what’s a woman?She is the mother, she is the Muse
“That leads and lifts to life—TelemachusHow can I tell you?—have a care!Young men seize on the words of wisdom,And find their hands in a silken snare,
“Hearing blindly, seeing literally,What is a sword, a lamp, a shield?Touch and learn, the name is onlyThe shell wherein the thing is concealed.”
“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“What do I mean? Attend to me!I’ll try to tell you, telling a storyOf the island called Ogygia.
“I know women—how shall I tell you?Women are good, and good is wine.Yet how to tell the wine and womenThat turn her adorers into swine.
“You must have aid of Hermes, swiftnessOf spirit and sense to tell them apart;How to be strong, how to be tender,How to surrender and keep your heart.
“Easy for me to baffle Circe,Easy the Sirens to slip—just wax!I steered for Ithaca, you and your mother,Isle to isle on the ocean’s tracks,
“Until I came and saw Calypso.Son you would be with Calypso yet.It takes a hero suppled in flameTo see Calypso, and leave, forget
Face and voice enough to leave her,Spurn her promises, turn from her tears,Come to Ithaca with this doorway,Age that hovers, the little years.”
“What do you mean?” asked Telemachus.“Live and learn,” Ulysses replied.“Calypso promised me youth eternalIf I would stay and make her my bride.”
“And why not stay?” asked Telemachus“To have her for wife, if not a youthEternal given you?” “Boy of me listenNow for the core of the deepest truth:
“We dined in grottoes of blooming ivy;We supped in halls of cedar and gold;We slept on balconies, sapphire tented—But even I found this growing old.
“I saw her beauty bare by star light,And by the sea in the sun, and stoledIn silk as white as snow on Parnassus—But even I found this growing old.
“Her tresses smelt of the blooms of Hymettus,Her breasts were cymbals sweet to behold;Her voice was a harp of pearl and silver—But even I found this growing old.
“Her Lips were like the flame of a taperScented and musical, as she would foldWhite arms over the brawn of my shoulders—But even I found this growing old.
“She promised me this and youth forever,So long as the sun and the planets rolled.I knew they were gifts she could not give me,Empty promises too grow old.
“And even if given, why foreverLive the things that have grown enough?She loved me, wonderful Calypso.But what is love? It is only love.
“And the salt of a man turns to his doorway,He makes his will for his blood at the end.My boy, that’s why I left CalypsoAnd came to you—do you comprehend?
“To sit unshorn, and clothed as I choose,Talk with the swineherd, potter or shirk,Babble at ease, my boy, with your motherAround the house at rest or at work.
“And you must not forget, Telemachus,In order to have immortalityIt had to be with Calypso—thereforeI came to you and Penelope,
“Who soon will leave me, at best, or elseI’ll leave you for the Isles of the Blest.I find this doorway good, Telemachus,As a place to dream and a place to rest.”
“I do not understand, Ulysses,Father of me. At first the callOf the blood, I thought, would hasten you homeward.And now I wonder you came at all
“Here to Ithaca. What, my father,Is here but my mother growing old;Aged Lærtes, Telemachus—What of Calypso’s hair of gold?
“What of the island, what of the feasting,What of her kisses, were it II’d spurn eternal youth, as a mortalLive with Calypso until I should die.”
“I have no doubt,” said the many mindedGreat Ulysses. “It’s plain to seeYou are a boy yet. When is supper?Go ask your mother Penelope.”