There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole,And the tiger banner, he cries.Pantagruel breaks into a laughAs the monarch dries his eyes.—The Search"The tiger banyer, that is what you call muchBad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer.That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you callNature. See! Nature!"—King Joy
Said Old King Cole I know the bannerOf dragon and tiger too,But I would know the vagrant fellowsWho came to my castle with you.
And I would know why they rise in the morningAnd never take bread or scrip;And why they hasten over the mountainIn a sorrowed fellowship.
Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not?One said he goes to Spain.One said he goes to Elsinore,And one to the Trojan plain.
Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole,There is a word that's more:Who is it goes to Spain and Troy?And who to Elsinore?
One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel,Out for the final joust.One may be Hamlet, said PantagruelAnd one I think is Faust.
Whoever they be, said Pantagruel,Why stand at the window and drool?Let's out and catch the runawaysWhile the morning hour is cool.
Pantagruel runs to the castle court,And King Cole follows soon.The cobblestones of the court yard ringTo the beat of their flying shoon.
Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle,And King Cole clutches his crown.They throw the bolt of the castle gateAnd race them through the town.
They cross the river and follow the road,They run by the willow trees,And the tiger banner and dragon bannerWait for the morning breeze.
They clamber the wall and part the brambles,And tear through thicket and thorn.And a wild dove in an olive treeDoes mourn and mourn and mourn.
A green snake starts in the tangled grass,And springs his length at their feet.And a condor circles the purple skyLooking for carrion meat.
And mad black flies are over their heads,And a wolf looks out of his hole.Great drops of sweat break out and runFrom the brow of Old King Cole.
Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend,From the holy bottle, I pray.My breath is short, my feet run blood,My throat is baked as clay.
Anon they reach a mountain top,And a mile below in the plainAre the glitter of guns and a million menLed by an idiot brain.
They come to a field of slush and flawRed with a blood red dye.And a million faces fungus paleStare horribly at the sky.
They come to a cross where a rotting thingIs slipping down from the nails.And a raven perched on the eyeless skullOpens his beak and rails:
"If thou be the Son of man come down,Save us and thyself save."Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven:"How now blaspheming knave!"
"Come down and of my bottle drink,And cease this scurvy rune."But the raven flapped its wings and laughedLoud as the water loon.
Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend,I faint, a drink in haste.But when he drinks he pales and mutters:"The wine has lost its taste."
"You have gone mad," said Pantagruel,"In faith 'tis the same old wine."Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottleBut the flavor is like sea brine.
And there on a rock is a cypress tree,And a form with a muffled face."I know you, Death," said Pantagruel,"But I ask of you no grace."
"Empty my bottle, sour my wine,Bend me, you shall not break.""Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a timeBefore I come and take."
"You have lost everything in life but the bottle,Youth and woman and friend.Pass on and laugh for a little space yetThe laugh that has an end."
Pantagruel passes and looks around himBrave and merry of soul.But there on the ground lies a dead body,The body of Old King Cole.
And a Voice said: Take the body upAnd carry the body for meUntil you come to a silent water,By the sands of a silent sea.
Pantagruel takes the body upAnd the dead fat bends him down.He climbs the mountains, runs the valleysWith body, bottle and crown.
And the wastes are strewn with skulls,And the desert is hot and cursed.And a phantom shape of the holy bottleMocks his burning thirst.
Pantagruel wanders seven days,And seven nights wanders he.And on the seventh night he rests himBy the sands of the silent sea.
And sees a new made fire on the shore,And on the fire is a dish.And by the fire two travelers sleep,And two are broiling fish.
Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping,And Faust is stirring the fire.But the fourth is a stranger with a faceStarred with a great desire.
Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts,Pantagruel falls to his knees.He flings down the body of Old King ColeAs a man throws off disease.
And rolls his burden away and cries:"Take and watch, if you will.But as for me I go to FranceMy bottle to refill."
"And as for me I go to FranceTo fill this bottle up."He felt at his side for the holy bottle,And found it turned a cup.
And the stranger said: Behold our friendHas brought my cup to me.That is the cup whereof I drankIn the garden Gethsemane.
Pantagruel hands the cup to JesusWho dips it in sea brine.This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth,Whereof I make your wine.
And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth,And his lips wear a purple stain.And Faust hands the cup to PantagruelWith the dregs for him to drain.
Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber,And Jesus strokes his hair.And Faust sings a song of EuphorionTo hide his heart's despair.
And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth,And they walk by the purple deep.Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers,And some grow tired and sleep."
He follows me no more, I said, nor standsBeside me. And I wake these later daysIn an April mood, a wonder light and free.The vision is gone, but gone the constant painOf constant thought. I see dawn from my hill,And watch the lights which fingers from the watersTwine from the sun or moon. Or look acrossThe waste of bays and marshes to the woods,Under the prism colors of the air,Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds,Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the skyIn terrible glory.And earth charmed I lieBefore the staring sphinx whose musing faceIs this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyesAre separate clouds of gold, whose pedestalIs earth, whose silken sheathed clawsNo longer toy with me, even while I stroke them:Since I have ceased to tease her.Then beholdA breeze is blown out of a world becalmed,And as I see the multitudinous leavesFluttered against the water and the light,And see this light unveil itself, revealAn inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor,I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels;And I have fears of dieties shown or spunFrom nothingness. But when I look againThe earth has stayed itself, I see the lake,The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoodsOf thunder heads, yet feel upon my armA hand I know, and hear a voice I know—He has returned and brought with him the thoughtAnd the old pain.The voice says: "Leave the sphinx.The garden waits your study fully grown."And I arise and follow down a slopeTo a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone,And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosingAn Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smileConsciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love,As he strokes with baby hand the slender archingNeck of a swan. And here is a peristyleWhose carven columns are pink as the long updrawnStalks of tulips bedded in April snow.And sunk amid tiger lillies is the faceOf an Asian Aphrodite close to the seatWith feet of a Babylonian lion amidThis ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppiesAnd ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems,Though here is our western moon as white and thinAs an abalone shell hung under the boughsOf an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky betweenHis boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ...We walk to the water's edge and here he shows meGreen scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs,That yield to trees beyond the levels, whereThe beech and oak have triumph; for alongThis gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses,That builds the soil against the water's hands,All things are fierce for place and garner lifeFrom weaker things.And then he shows me root stocks,And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawlBeneath the soil. Or as we leave the lakeAnd walk the forest I behold lianas,Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunksOf giant trees that live and out of earth,And out of air make strength and food and askNo other help. And in this place I seeSpiral bryony, python of the vinesThat coils and crushes; and that banyan treeWhose spreading branches drop new roots to earth,And lives afar from where the parent trunkHas sunk its roots, so that the healthful sunIs darkened: as a people might be darkenedBy ignorance or want or tyranny,Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith.Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak,That this should be to forests or to men;That water fails, and light decreases, heatOf God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent,Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well,Or migrate from the olden places, goIn search of life, or if they cannot moveDie in the ruthless marches.That is life, he said.For even these, the giants scatter lifeInto the maws of death. That towering treeThat for these hundred years has leafed itself,And through its leaves out of the magic airDrawn nutriment for annual girths, took rootOut of an acorn which good chance preserved,While all its brother acorns cast to earth,To make trees, by a parent tree now gone,Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sproutedAmid thick jealous growth wherein they fell.All acorns but this one were lost.Then he readsMy questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactusWhose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive.And shows me leaves that must have rain, and rootsThat must have water where the river flows.And how the spirit of life, though turned or drivenThis way or that beyond a course begun,Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conformsTo soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves,Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stemTo fashion forth itself, produce its kind.Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not,Is only changed or buried, re-appearsAs other forms of life.We had walked throughA forest of sequoias, beeches, pines,And ancient oaks where I could see the traceOf willows, alders, ruined or devouredBy the great Titans.At lastWe reached my hill and sat and overlookedThe garden at our feet, even to the placeOf tiger lilies and of asphodel,By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser:As where the wounded surface of the shellThickens its shimmering stuff in spiral coignsOf the shell, so was the moon above the seatBeside the Eros and the AphroditeSunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass.And here we sat and looked. And here my visionWas over all we saw, but not a partOf what we saw, for all we saw stood forthAs foreign to myself as something touchedTo learn the thing it is.I might have askedWho owns this garden, for the thought aroseWith my surprise, who owns this garden, whoPlanted this garden, why and to what end,And why this fight for place, for soil and sunWater and air, and why this enmityBetween the things here planted, and betweenFlying or crawling life and plants, and whenceThe power that falls in one place but arisesSome other place; and why the unceasing growthOf all these forms that only come to seed,Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soilWhere the new seed falls? But silence kept me thereFor wonder of the beauty which I saw,Even while the faculty of external visionKept clear the garden separate from me,Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders,As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn,As the vast theatre of unceasing life,Moving to life and blind to all but life;As places used, tried out, as if the gardener,For his delight or use, or for an endOf good or beauty made experimentsWith seed or soils or crossings of the seed.Even as peoples, epochs, did the gardenLie to my vision, or as races crowding,Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races,Not only for a place to grow, but underA stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet,Or Jesus, like a vital change of air,Or artifice of culture, made the garden,Which mortals call the world, grow in a way,And overgrow the world as neither dreamed.Who is the Gardener then? Or is there oneBeside the life within the plant, withinThe python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks,Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes,Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life,And praying to the urge within as God,The Gardener who lays out the garden, spraysFor insects which devour, keeps rich the soilFor those who pray and know the GardenerAs One who is without and over-sees? ...But while in contemplation of the garden,Whether from failing day or from departureOf my own vision in the things it saw,Bereft of penetrating thought I sank,Became a part of what I saw and lostThe great solution.As we sat in silence,And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon,Amid the yellow sedges by the lakeBegan to twinkle, as a fire were blown—And it was fire, the garden was afire,As it were all the world had flamed with war.And a wind came out of the bright heavenAnd blew the flames, first through the ruined garden,Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at lastNothing was left but waste and wreaths of smokeTwisting toward the stars. And there he satNor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said"If it be comforting I promise youAnother spring shall come.""And after that?""Another spring—that's all I know myself,There shall be springs and springs!"