 | As it Was in The Beginning |  |
CANTO VII.
I
The days grew longer, stronger, yetThe strong man grew then as a child.
Too hard the tension and too wild
The terror; he could not forget.
And now at last when Light was, now
He could not see, nor lift his eyes,
Nor lift a hand in any wise.
It was as when a race is won
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Who sinks down dying at your feet.
II
The red chief drew him on and onTo his own lodge up white Yukon
And housed him kindly as his own,
Blind, broken, dazed, and so alone!
The low, round lodge was desolate,
And deathly cold by night, by day.
Poor, hungered children of the snows,
They heaped the fire as he froze,
Did all they could, yet what could they
But pity his most piteous fate,
And pitying, silent, stare and wait?
III
His face was ever to the wallOr buried in his skins; the light—
He could not bear the light of day
Nor bear the heaped-up flame at night—
Not bear one touch of light at all.
There are no pains, no sharp death throes,
So dread as blindness of the snows.
IV
He thought of home, he thought of her,Thought most of her, and pictured how
She walked in silent splendor where
Warm sea winds twined her heavy hair
In great Greek braids piled fold on fold
Or loosely blown, as poppy gold.
V
And then he thought of her afarMid follies, and his soul at war
With self, self will and iron fate
Grew as a blackened gulf of hate!
And then he prayed forgiveness, prayed
As one in sin and sore afraid.
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VI
And praying so he dreamed, he dreamedShe sat there looking in his face,
Sat silent by in that dread place,
Sat still, sat weeping silently.
He saw her tears and yet he knew,
The blind man knew he could not see;
And then he seemed to hear her tears,
To hear them steal her loose hair through
And gently fall, as falls the dew—
The still, small rain of summer morn,
That makes for harvest yellow corn.
VII
He raised his hand, he touched her hair;He did not start, he did not say;
It seemed that she was surely there;
He only questioned would she stay.
How glad he was! Why, now, what care
For hunger, blindness, blinding pain,
Could he but touch her hair again?
VIII
He heard her rise, give quick commandTo patient, skin-clad, savage men
To heap the wood, come, go, and then
Go feed his woolly friends at hand,
To bring fresh stores, still heap fresh flame,
Then go, then come, as morning came.
IX
All seemed so real! He dared not stir,Lest he might break this dream of her.
How holy, holy sweet her voice,
Like benediction o'er the dead!
So glad he was, so grateful he,
In thanking God most fervently,
Forgot his plight, forgot his pain
And deep at heart did he rejoice;
Yet prayed he might not wake again
To peril, blindness, piteous pain.
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X
Then, as he hid his face, she cameAnd leaned quite near and took his hand.
'Twas cold 'twas very cold, 'twas thin
And bony, black, just skin and bone,
Just bone and wrinkled mummy-skin.
She held it out against the flame,
Then pressed it with her two warm hands.
It seemed as she could feel the sands
Of life slow sift to shadow land.
Close on his hurt eyes she laid hand,
The while she wearied, nodded, slept.
The flame burned low, the wind's wild moan
Awakened her. Cold as a stone
His starved form, shrunken to a shade,
Stretched in the darkness and, dismayed,
She put the skins back and she crept
Close down beside and softly laid
Her warm, strong form to his and slept,
The while her dusk men vigil kept.
XI
That long, long night, that needed rest!Then flames at morn; her precious store
Heaped hard by on the earthen floor
While mute, brown men, starved men, stood by
To wait the slightest breath or sigh
Or sign of wakening request—
What silence, patience, trust! What rest!
Of all good things I say the best
Beneath the sun is sleep—and rest.
XII
She slowly wakened from her sleepTo find him conscious in her keep!
What food for all, what feast for all
To chief or slave, or great or small,
Around the flaming, glowing heap—
Such reach of limb, such rest, such rest,
Such appetite, such hungry zest!
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XIII
Why, he had gone, had gladly goneIn quest of His eternal Light,
Beyond all dolours, that dread night,
Had she not reached her hand and drawn,
Hard drawn him back and held him so,
Held him so hard he could not go.
And yet he lingered by the brink,
As dulled and dazed as you can think.
Long, long he lingered, helpless lay,
A babe, a broken pot of clay.
XIV
She made a broader couch, she satAll day beside and held his hand
Lest he might sudden slip away.
And she all night beside him lay,
Lest the last grain of sinking sand
Might in the still night slip and pass,
With none at hand to turn the glass.
XV
And did the red men prate thereat?Why, they had laid them down and died
For her, these simple dusky sons
Of nature, children of the snows,
Born where the ice-bound river runs,
Born where the Arctic torrent flows.
Look you for evil? Look for ill
Or good, you find just what you will.
XVI
He spake no more than babe might speak;His eyes were as the kitty's eyes
That open slowly with surprise
Then close as if to sleep a week;
But still he held, as if he knew,
The warm, strong hand, the healthful hand,
The dauntless, daring hand and true,
Nor, while he waked, would his unfold,
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Who hopes no more of life or land,
But, as from habit, clutches hand.
XVII
Once, as she thought he surely slept,She slowly drew herself aside,
He thrust his hand as terrified,
Caught back her hand, kissed it and wept.
Then she, too, wept, wept tears like rain,
The very first, warm, welcome tears,
Drew in her breath, put by her fears
And felt she had not dared in vain.
Yet day by day, hard on the brink
He hung with half averted head,
As silent, listless as the dead,
As sad to see as she could think.
Their low lodge hung the terraced steep
Above the wide, wild, groaning stream
That, like some monster in a dream,
Cried out in broken, breathless sleep;
And looking down, night after night,
She saw leap forth a sword of light.
XVIII
She guessed, she knew the flaming swordThat turned which way to watch and ward
And guard the wall and ever guard
The Tree of Life, as it is writ.
The hand, the hilt, she could not see,
Nor yet the true, life-giving tree,
Nor cherubim that cherished it,
But yet she saw the flaming sword,
As written in the Book, the Word.
XIX
She held his hand, he did not stir,And as she nightly sat and sat
And silent gazed and guessed thereat.
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She could not see the Tree of Life,
How fair it grew or where it grew,
But this she knew and surely knew,
That gleaming sword meant holy strife
To keep and guard the Tree of Life.
XX
Oh, flaming sword, rest not nor rust!The Tree of Life is hewn and torn,
The Tree of Life is bowed and worn,
The Tree of Life is in the dust.
Hew brute man down, hew branch and root,
Till he may spare the Tree of Life,
The pale, the piteous woman wife—
Till he shall know as know he must
Her name is not a name for lust.
XXI
She watched the wabbly moose at mornClimb steeply up the further steep,
Huge, solitary and forlorn.
She saw him climb, turn, look and keep
Scared watch, this wild, ungainly beast,
This mateless, lost thing and the last
That roamed before and since the flood—
That climbed and climbed the topmost hill
As if he heard the deluge still.
XXII
The sparse, brown children of the snowBegan to stir, as sap is stirred
In springtime by the song of bird,
And trudge by, wearily and slow,
Beneath their load of dappled skins
That weighed them down as weighty sins.
XXIII
And oft they paused, turned and looked backAlong their desolate white track,
With arched hand raised to shield their eyes—
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Or left behind, of precious cost,
Sad-eyed and silent, mutely wise,
As just expelled from Paradise.
XXIV
How sad their dark, fixed faces seemed,As if of long-remembered sins!
They listless moved, as if they dreamed,
As if they knew not where to go
In all their wide, white world of snow.
She could but think upon the day
God made them garments from the skins
Of beasts, then turned and bade them go,
Go forth as willed they, to or fro.
XXV
Between the cloud-capped walls of snow,A wide-winged raven, croaking low,
Passed and repassed, each weary day,
And would not rest, not go, not stay,
But ever, ever to and fro,
As when forth form the ark of old;
And ever as he passed, each day
Let fall one note, so cold, so cold
It seemed to strike the ice below
And break in fragments hard as fate;
It fell so cold and desolate.
XXVI
At last the sun hung hot and high,Hung where that heartless moon had hung.
A dove-hued moose bird sudden sung
And had glad answering hard by;
The icy steeps began to pour
Mad tumult down upon the deep.
The great Yukon began to roar,
As if with pain in broken sleep.
The breaking ice began to groan,
The very mountains seemed to moan,
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The great stream broke its icy bands
And rushed and ran with outstretched hands
That laid hard hold the willow lands,
Rent wide the somber gopher gloom
And roared for room, for room and room!
XXVII
The stalwart moose climbed hard his steep,Climbed till he wallowed, brisket deep,
In soft'ning, sinking steeps of snow,
Then raging, turned to look below.
He tossed, shook his ungainly head,
Blew blast on blast through his huge nose,
Then, crazed with savage rage and fright,
He climbed, climbed to the highest height
As if he knew the flood once more
Had come to swallow sea and shore.
XXVIII
The waters sank, the man uprose,A boat of skins, an Eskimo,
Then down from out the world of snow
They passed to seas of calm repose
Where wide sails waited, warm sea wind,
For mango isles and tamarind.
| As it Was in The Beginning | |