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 | Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
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THALIA
Morocco, and the Muse, and mimicry
Of what God never made and never meant
For man—Himself—diaphanously blent
With living shadows, play the mastery:
Pollio capers with Terpsichore,
While ass-eared Midas, swinishly content,
Wallows and roots amid the mire anent,
Nor peers beyond the spangled scenery.
Of what God never made and never meant
For man—Himself—diaphanously blent
With living shadows, play the mastery:
Pollio capers with Terpsichore,
While ass-eared Midas, swinishly content,
Wallows and roots amid the mire anent,
Nor peers beyond the spangled scenery.
We know not, dying, what we may be, dead;
We know not, living, what we are, alive:—
While painted Sorrow's mercenary laugh
Is linked with living lies, and ever read
As truth—throughout this humming human hive
Where is the man to write man's epitaph?
We know not, living, what we are, alive:—
While painted Sorrow's mercenary laugh
Is linked with living lies, and ever read
As truth—throughout this humming human hive
Where is the man to write man's epitaph?
PALAEMON—DAMOETAS—MENALCAS
Menalcas.Whose flock is that, Damoetas? Meliboeus'?
Damoetas.
No, Argon lately placed them in my care.
M.
O sheep! forever an unhappy flock!
While, fearful of my own supremacy,
Argon himself the fair Naera courts,
The guard Damoetas drains them twice an hour
And robs the lambs and mothers of their milk.
D.
Less freedom, sir, in dealing words to men;
For well we know both who corrupted you
And what the goats with sidelong glances saw;
And more, we know the cave wherein 'twas done—
The kindly Dryads laughing all the while.
(“And the good-natured Nymphs etc.”)
4
And doubtless, too, they saw me with my knife
To cut the vines and tender shoots of Ulycon.
D.
Or rather when amidst this ancient wood
You broke the arrows and the bow of Daphne's
Which you, Menalcas, grieved to see returned
And would have died but for the pain you gave him.
M.
Where are the masters while their raging slaves
Dare to address me thus! O wicked one,
Did I not see you trap the goat of Damon,
Lycisca barking madly all the time?
And when I called out, “Tityrus, where goes he?
Collect your flock!”—you hid among the sedge.
D.
And should he not yield up the goat to me,
Since with my voice and reed I conquered him?
If you would know it, sir, the goat is mine:
Damon himself confessed as much to me,
Yet says he cannot pay one what is due.
M.
You won a prize at singing! as if you
Could play a waxen reed! Why clown, 'tis yours
To blow your murderous note upon the highway.
D.
Lo! shall we have a contest here between us?
I'll take this heifer, and, lest you refuse
I'll say she comes to milking twice a day,
And feeds two calves besides. Now, my good friend,
What pawn will you advance to cover mine?
M.
I dare not meet thy wager from the flock:
My father is at home, and worse than that,
A crabbed step-dame: both count twice a day
The sheep, and one the kids. But I will pledge—
Since 'tis your will to carry out this folly—
5
These beechen cups wrought for Alcimedon
On which the ivy, exquisitely carved
With facile chisel, sweetly intermingles
Its scattered fruit and pallid foliage.
Two figures are engravéd in the center:
The one is Conon, and—who was the other?—
Who with his rod marks out the world for man—
The time for ploughing and for harvesting?
These are kept hidden; lips have never touched them.
D.
Alcimedon has made for me two bowls
And wound the handles round with acanthus;
With Orpheus graven in a woodland scene.
These two are hidden; lips have never touched them.
Yet if you will but look upon my heifer
The cups are nothing to deserve your praise.
M.
Let there be no delay, for I will come
Wherever you may call. Or let the one
Who now approaches hear us—look—Palaemon.
And I will take good care that in the future
Damoetas tortures no man with his voice.
D.
Begin, if you have anything to sing;
You'll find me ready, nor will I dispute
The judgment; therefore, my good friend Palaemon,
This contest; 'tis no trifling affair.
Palaemon
Sing, as we sit amid the tufted grass:
Now all the field and all the wood is blooming;
The trees are green, the year is in its glory,
Begin, Damoetas, and Menalcas follow;
Alternately—the way the muses love.
D.
Begin with Jove, O Ulysses! all things are full of Jove:
'Tis he that loves the earth; 'tis he that loves my song.
6
Phoebus loves me; for him I ever keep close by
His chosen gifts; the laurel and blushing hyacinth.
D.
Galatea, playful maiden, seeks me with an apple;
Then flies, but wishes to be seen before she hides.
M.
My flame Amyntas comes of his own will to me,
And Delia to my dogs is now no better known.
D.
I'll make my love a gift: for I have found the spot
Where the high-soaring pigeons rear their tender young.
M.
I've sent my love ten apples all ruddy from the woodland—
As many as I could: I'll send ten more tomorrow.
D.
How many and how sweet the words of Galatea!
Bear them aloft ye winds, so may th'immortals hear them.
M.
Where is my joy, although you hold me dear, Amyntas,
While you pursue the goats for me to tend the toils?
D.
Bid Phyllis come to me, Iolas; 'tis my birthday.
I offer sacrifices ere long; then you may come.
M.
But I love Phyllis more: she weeps at separation;
And cries “Farewell! Farewell! a long farewell!”—Iolas.
D.
Wolves to the flock are fatal; showers to ripened grain;
Wind to the trees; to me the wrath of Amaryllis.
M.
Rain cheers the crops; arbutus is sweet to tender kids;
Osier to laden sheep, to me none save Amyntas.
7
Great Pollis loves to hear the rustic song I sing;
O, mountain Muses, rear a heifer to your lover.
M.
He writes a wondrous song—Oh, feed the bull that now
Lifts high his head and spurns the sand beneath his feet.
D.
Who loves thee, Pollis, may win they cherished fame:
For him may honey flow and bramble bear amomum.
M.
Who hates not Bavius must love thy song, O Maevius!
And he would milk a butting goat, or yoke his foxes.
D.
O boys, who gather flowers and growing fruits of earth,
Flee hence!—a long cold snake is lying in the grass.
M.
My sheep, go not too near! you cannot trust the bank;
For even now the rain shakes out his dripping fleece.
D.
O Tityrus, from the stream call back your feeding flock:
Ere long I'll wash them all myself, in yonder spring.
M.
O boys, collect the sheep—if summer's burning heat,
As formerly, destroys the milk we work in vain.
D.
Alas! how lank and lean my bull stands in the field!
The love that kills the herd will kill the keeper too.
M.
But love is not in mine—their bones scarce held together:
I cannot tell the eye that charms my tender lambs.
D.
Oh, tell me in what land, and be my great Apollo,
Only three ells of sky lie open to the sight.
8
Oh, tell me in what land the written names of kings
Are born with blooming flowers and Phyllis shall be thine.
Pal.
'Tis not for me to judge so fine a matter;
The prize belongs to one as to the other:
To any one who sings of love so sweet,
Or labors through such sorrow.—Now, my boys,
The rivers close—the fields have drunk their fill.
THE CLAM-DIGGER
CAPITOL ISLAND
There is a garden in a shallow cove
Planted by Neptune centuries ago,
Which Ocean covers with a thin, flat flow,
Then falling, leaves the sun to gleam above
Those oozy lives (which reasoning mortals love)
Reposed in slimy silence far below
The shell-strewn desert, while their virtues grow,
And over them the doughty diggers rove.
Planted by Neptune centuries ago,
Which Ocean covers with a thin, flat flow,
Then falling, leaves the sun to gleam above
Those oozy lives (which reasoning mortals love)
Reposed in slimy silence far below
The shell-strewn desert, while their virtues grow,
And over them the doughty diggers rove.
Then awful in his boots the King appears,
With facile fork and basket at his side;
Straight for the watery bound the master steers,
Where giant holes lie scattered far and wide;
And plays the devil with his bubbling dears
All through the bounteous, ottoitic tide.
With facile fork and basket at his side;
Straight for the watery bound the master steers,
Where giant holes lie scattered far and wide;
And plays the devil with his bubbling dears
All through the bounteous, ottoitic tide.
ISAAC PITMAN
With many a whirling dash of dim design
He snares the flying thought in frenzy flung;
The captive cadence of the human tongue
Follows his hand, immured in every line:
His labor through the centuries will shine,
And when this old man dwells no more among
The living, where his glories long have rung,
Calling his fellows to the phonic shrine—
He snares the flying thought in frenzy flung;
The captive cadence of the human tongue
Follows his hand, immured in every line:
9
And when this old man dwells no more among
The living, where his glories long have rung,
Calling his fellows to the phonic shrine—
Still will he walk Fame's flowering avenues,
Amid rich gardens through his life-work sown—
Fairer than vineyards in far Sicily;
And here the Master, mutely musing, views
New flowers springing where the old have grown,
The princely pageant of posterity.
Amid rich gardens through his life-work sown—
Fairer than vineyards in far Sicily;
And here the Master, mutely musing, views
New flowers springing where the old have grown,
The princely pageant of posterity.
THE GALLEY RACE
[AENEID] BOOK V, 104–285
The welcome day arrives; the rising sun
Brings the ninth morning in with glorious light
And all the neighboring country is aroused
By the great name and glory of Acestes.
An eager multitude they crowd the shore,
Some to behold the Trojans, some prepared
To enter for the glories of the day.
First, in their midst, the prizes are displayed;
The sacred tripods, wreaths of green, and palms;
Talents of gold and silver, arms and robes
Dyed with rich purple; now the trumpet's peal
Proclaims the joyous festival begun.
Four galleys chosen from the fleet appear,
Oared heavily and equally equipped.
The flying Pristis Mnestheus drives along
With rapid oars—Mnestheus of Italy
Soon after—whence have sprung the Memmii;
And Gyas with the great Chimera comes—
A huge affair, a city in itself—
Which Trojans in a triple line impel;
Sergestus (whence the Sergian house) commands
The mighty Centaur; and Cloanthus (whence
Your race Cluentius) the dark blue Scylla.
Brings the ninth morning in with glorious light
And all the neighboring country is aroused
By the great name and glory of Acestes.
An eager multitude they crowd the shore,
Some to behold the Trojans, some prepared
To enter for the glories of the day.
First, in their midst, the prizes are displayed;
The sacred tripods, wreaths of green, and palms;
Talents of gold and silver, arms and robes
Dyed with rich purple; now the trumpet's peal
Proclaims the joyous festival begun.
Four galleys chosen from the fleet appear,
Oared heavily and equally equipped.
The flying Pristis Mnestheus drives along
With rapid oars—Mnestheus of Italy
Soon after—whence have sprung the Memmii;
And Gyas with the great Chimera comes—
A huge affair, a city in itself—
Which Trojans in a triple line impel;
Sergestus (whence the Sergian house) commands
The mighty Centaur; and Cloanthus (whence
10
At sea, far distant from the foaming shore,
There is a rock, which when the wintry winds
Obscure the stars, is thumped and overwashed
By tumid floods; but when the waves are still
It rises silent from the silent sea,
A gracious haunt for sunny comorants [sic].
Here as a goal the great Aeneas fixed
A leafy oak, a signal for the seamen
That they may know the turning of the course.
Then lots are drawn for places, and the masters
Glitter in gold and purple from the sterns.
The crews are crowned with poplar leaves, and glossed
With oil, their naked shoulders turn the sun.
They take their seats and grasp with eager arms
The oars and anxiously await the sign,
While throbbing fears and burning hopes of praise
Glow in their ardent bosoms. Then at length,
When the clear trumpet sounds, without delay
All forge ahead, their clamor fills the air;
Torn by their arms the waters froth and foam;
Their wakes are equal and their trident beaks
Mixed with the oars tear up the foaming flood.
No flying chariot sweeps the field like these,
No charioteer so pays the loosened rein,
Nor hangs himself ahead to swing the lash.
Then all the grove resounds with shouts of men
And zealous cheers; along the curling shore
The voices roll; the quivering hills around
Throw back the clamor. Mid wild shoutings then
Leaps Gyas headlong, foremost in the fray;
Then comes Cloanthus, with more practiced oar,
But the huge weight of ship holds back itself;
Close after these the Centaur and the Pristis
Vie with each other striving for the lead:
'Tis now the Pristis, now the Centaur holds it;
Now they are borne together beak to beak,
Their long keels furrowing the salt sea waves.
Soon they approach the rock and reach the goal,
When conquering Gyas to the pilot cries,
“Why to the right!—come nearer—hug the shore!
So we may brush the rocks upon the left
Without the oars—let others hold away!”
He spoke, but blind Menoetes fearing reefs
Steered for the open sea. “Why thus Menortes [sic]!
Bear to the rock!” again called Gyas madly.
And now behold he sees Cloanthus coming
Close in the rear, to take the inner course;
Sheer to the left, between the sounding rocks
And Gyas' ship, he shoots a sudden course
And safely holds the sea beyond the goal.
Then fired with deep chagrin while tears of wrath
Rolled down his cheek, unmindful of the scene
And all regardless of the common safety,
He flung the dull Meneotes from the stern
Head-foremost to the sea, and took his post;
And mid the cheering of the sailors turned
The rudder to the rock. Now old Menoetes,
At length emerging from the water, climbs—
His heavy garments dripping in the sea—
High on the rock and perches in the sun.
The Trojans greet his tumble with a howl
And jeer him swimming; and they laugh aloud
To mark him heave and spew the swallowed brine.
Then to the minds of Mnestheus and Sergestus
A brave hope springs that they may overtake
The tardy Gyas. Now Sergestus leads
A little, and Pristis' forging beak
Comes tearing alongside. Then rushing down
Among the crew the urging Menesthus cries:
“Now! friends of Hector, now! bend to the oars!
Ye comrades whom I chose from falling Troy
Now show that strength and zeal by which ye passed
Graetulian [sic] quicksands and Ionian seas!
Not that I hope to win the first reward—
(Ah, if I could!)—But let thy will prevail,
O Neptune! Shameful 'tis to be last—
Conquer it, friends! and save us from disgrace.”—
Then all their power is given to the work;
The tall ship trembles with the giant strokes;
Drawing the sea beneath; with rapid breath
And parching throats their limbs are trembling,
And gushing sweat rolls over them in rivers.
Mere chance it was that gave the cherished glory:
Sergestus, furious, now turn'd his prow
Too near the rock and struck the jutting reef;
The rough crags trembled and the oars were snapped,
The broken beak hung pendant from the ledge;
The rowers with a might clamour cease
And rising seize sharp iron pikes and poles
And gather from the sea the broken oars.
But Mnestheus, joyful all the more for this,
With flying oars makes for the settling waves
And shoreward rushes down the spreading sea.
Just as a dove, whose home and cherished young
Lie in a rocky shade: the cave disturbed
And frightened from her nast she seeks the fields
With flapping wings, there through the tranquil air
She cuts a liquid course in silent flight.
So Mnestheus, so the Pristis cleaves the wave
Around the goal, borne by the impetus.
And now he leaves Sergestus on the rock
In shallow seas and vainly calling aid,
Striving to free his ship with shattered oars.
Soon the Chimera, Gyas' bulky craft—
The pilot gone—her overtakes and passes.
Cloanthus leading forges on ahead,
His only rival, whom he now pursues
With all his powers. Then great shouts arise
And all applaud while redoubled cheers
Roll through the trembling air. The Scylla's crew,
Scorning the thought of losing what is theirs,
Would willingly resign their lives for glory.
Success inflames the others: they can win
For they believe they can. Perchance they might
Have borne the prizes with an equal course
Had not Cloanthus, stretching out his hands,
Sought aid in prayers and called the gods to witness:
“Ye gods, who rule the sea, whose realms I sweep,
Joyfully will I offer unto you
Before the altar, on these shores, a bull
Snow white; and I will give unto the sea
His entrails, and pour out the flowing wine.”
He spoke, and from the bottom of the deep
His voice was heard alike by all the Nymphs,
And Phorcus and the virgin Panopea,
While old Portunus pushed with mighty hands.
Swift as the wind in arrowy flight she speeds,
And rides triumphant in the land-locked port.
There is a rock, which when the wintry winds
Obscure the stars, is thumped and overwashed
By tumid floods; but when the waves are still
It rises silent from the silent sea,
A gracious haunt for sunny comorants [sic].
Here as a goal the great Aeneas fixed
A leafy oak, a signal for the seamen
That they may know the turning of the course.
Then lots are drawn for places, and the masters
Glitter in gold and purple from the sterns.
The crews are crowned with poplar leaves, and glossed
With oil, their naked shoulders turn the sun.
They take their seats and grasp with eager arms
The oars and anxiously await the sign,
While throbbing fears and burning hopes of praise
Glow in their ardent bosoms. Then at length,
When the clear trumpet sounds, without delay
All forge ahead, their clamor fills the air;
Torn by their arms the waters froth and foam;
Their wakes are equal and their trident beaks
Mixed with the oars tear up the foaming flood.
No flying chariot sweeps the field like these,
No charioteer so pays the loosened rein,
Nor hangs himself ahead to swing the lash.
Then all the grove resounds with shouts of men
And zealous cheers; along the curling shore
The voices roll; the quivering hills around
Throw back the clamor. Mid wild shoutings then
Leaps Gyas headlong, foremost in the fray;
Then comes Cloanthus, with more practiced oar,
But the huge weight of ship holds back itself;
Close after these the Centaur and the Pristis
Vie with each other striving for the lead:
'Tis now the Pristis, now the Centaur holds it;
Now they are borne together beak to beak,
Their long keels furrowing the salt sea waves.
Soon they approach the rock and reach the goal,
11
“Why to the right!—come nearer—hug the shore!
So we may brush the rocks upon the left
Without the oars—let others hold away!”
He spoke, but blind Menoetes fearing reefs
Steered for the open sea. “Why thus Menortes [sic]!
Bear to the rock!” again called Gyas madly.
And now behold he sees Cloanthus coming
Close in the rear, to take the inner course;
Sheer to the left, between the sounding rocks
And Gyas' ship, he shoots a sudden course
And safely holds the sea beyond the goal.
Then fired with deep chagrin while tears of wrath
Rolled down his cheek, unmindful of the scene
And all regardless of the common safety,
He flung the dull Meneotes from the stern
Head-foremost to the sea, and took his post;
And mid the cheering of the sailors turned
The rudder to the rock. Now old Menoetes,
At length emerging from the water, climbs—
His heavy garments dripping in the sea—
High on the rock and perches in the sun.
The Trojans greet his tumble with a howl
And jeer him swimming; and they laugh aloud
To mark him heave and spew the swallowed brine.
Then to the minds of Mnestheus and Sergestus
A brave hope springs that they may overtake
The tardy Gyas. Now Sergestus leads
A little, and Pristis' forging beak
Comes tearing alongside. Then rushing down
Among the crew the urging Menesthus cries:
“Now! friends of Hector, now! bend to the oars!
Ye comrades whom I chose from falling Troy
Now show that strength and zeal by which ye passed
Graetulian [sic] quicksands and Ionian seas!
Not that I hope to win the first reward—
(Ah, if I could!)—But let thy will prevail,
O Neptune! Shameful 'tis to be last—
Conquer it, friends! and save us from disgrace.”—
Then all their power is given to the work;
12
Drawing the sea beneath; with rapid breath
And parching throats their limbs are trembling,
And gushing sweat rolls over them in rivers.
Mere chance it was that gave the cherished glory:
Sergestus, furious, now turn'd his prow
Too near the rock and struck the jutting reef;
The rough crags trembled and the oars were snapped,
The broken beak hung pendant from the ledge;
The rowers with a might clamour cease
And rising seize sharp iron pikes and poles
And gather from the sea the broken oars.
But Mnestheus, joyful all the more for this,
With flying oars makes for the settling waves
And shoreward rushes down the spreading sea.
Just as a dove, whose home and cherished young
Lie in a rocky shade: the cave disturbed
And frightened from her nast she seeks the fields
With flapping wings, there through the tranquil air
She cuts a liquid course in silent flight.
So Mnestheus, so the Pristis cleaves the wave
Around the goal, borne by the impetus.
And now he leaves Sergestus on the rock
In shallow seas and vainly calling aid,
Striving to free his ship with shattered oars.
Soon the Chimera, Gyas' bulky craft—
The pilot gone—her overtakes and passes.
Cloanthus leading forges on ahead,
His only rival, whom he now pursues
With all his powers. Then great shouts arise
And all applaud while redoubled cheers
Roll through the trembling air. The Scylla's crew,
Scorning the thought of losing what is theirs,
Would willingly resign their lives for glory.
Success inflames the others: they can win
For they believe they can. Perchance they might
Have borne the prizes with an equal course
Had not Cloanthus, stretching out his hands,
Sought aid in prayers and called the gods to witness:
“Ye gods, who rule the sea, whose realms I sweep,
13
Before the altar, on these shores, a bull
Snow white; and I will give unto the sea
His entrails, and pour out the flowing wine.”
He spoke, and from the bottom of the deep
His voice was heard alike by all the Nymphs,
And Phorcus and the virgin Panopea,
While old Portunus pushed with mighty hands.
Swift as the wind in arrowy flight she speeds,
And rides triumphant in the land-locked port.
Then all are summoned while the great Aeneas
Declares Cloanthus victor in the race
And crowns his temples with a wreath of laurel.
Three bullocks are awarded to the ships,
And wine, together with a weight of silver.
The leaders he rewards with special honors:
A golden chlamys to the conqueror,
Bordered by waving Meliboean purple;
And there inwoven the boy Ganymede
Through Ida's grove pursues the weary deer,
Breathless yet eager in the pictured scene:
Him Jupiter's swift eagle has caught up
And borne away from Ida in his claws;
In vain the aged guards uplift their palms,
While howls of raging dogs wail through the air.
To Mnesthus next, who by his valor won
The second place, he gives a coat of mail
Jointed with hooks and triple wove of gold.
The prince had stripped it from Demoleos
Where rapid Simois flows by lofty Troy.
This he presents. A rich defence in war,
With difficulty two attendants bore
The ponderous folds away upon their shoulders;
Demoleos however, thus arrayed,
Pursued the straggling Trojans in their flight.
Two brazen caldrons Gyas then receives,
With richly figured drinking cups of silver.
At length, now all rewarded and rejoicing,
They issue forth their temples bound with purple,
When, from the fateful rock released, Sergestus
Paddled with scanty oars his crippled craft,
Scoffed and unhonored. As a snake, o'ertaken
Upon the highway, which a wheel has crossed
Or traveller with heavy blow has struck
And left half-dead and ground beneath a rock,
Vainly retreating, curls its tortuous length
And hissing rears its head with glittering eyes,
Ferocious; though retarded by the wound
Twisting and writhing struggles on its way,
So the slow ship worked inward to the shore;
Now sails are set, and thus with spreading sheets
She enters port. Aeneas, gratified
To see the ship restored with all its crew,
Allows the foiled commander as a prize
Pholoe, a Cretan slave with nestling twins.
Declares Cloanthus victor in the race
And crowns his temples with a wreath of laurel.
Three bullocks are awarded to the ships,
And wine, together with a weight of silver.
The leaders he rewards with special honors:
A golden chlamys to the conqueror,
Bordered by waving Meliboean purple;
And there inwoven the boy Ganymede
Through Ida's grove pursues the weary deer,
Breathless yet eager in the pictured scene:
Him Jupiter's swift eagle has caught up
And borne away from Ida in his claws;
In vain the aged guards uplift their palms,
While howls of raging dogs wail through the air.
To Mnesthus next, who by his valor won
The second place, he gives a coat of mail
Jointed with hooks and triple wove of gold.
The prince had stripped it from Demoleos
Where rapid Simois flows by lofty Troy.
This he presents. A rich defence in war,
With difficulty two attendants bore
The ponderous folds away upon their shoulders;
Demoleos however, thus arrayed,
Pursued the straggling Trojans in their flight.
Two brazen caldrons Gyas then receives,
With richly figured drinking cups of silver.
At length, now all rewarded and rejoicing,
They issue forth their temples bound with purple,
When, from the fateful rock released, Sergestus
14
Scoffed and unhonored. As a snake, o'ertaken
Upon the highway, which a wheel has crossed
Or traveller with heavy blow has struck
And left half-dead and ground beneath a rock,
Vainly retreating, curls its tortuous length
And hissing rears its head with glittering eyes,
Ferocious; though retarded by the wound
Twisting and writhing struggles on its way,
So the slow ship worked inward to the shore;
Now sails are set, and thus with spreading sheets
She enters port. Aeneas, gratified
To see the ship restored with all its crew,
Allows the foiled commander as a prize
Pholoe, a Cretan slave with nestling twins.
TRIOLET
Silent they stand against the wall,The mouldering boots of other days.
No more they answer Duty's call—
Silent they stand against the wall,—
Over their tops the cold bugs crawl
Like distant herds o'er darkened ways.
Silent they stand against the wall.
The mouldering boots of other days.
BALLADE OF A SHIP
Down by the flash of the restless water
The dim White Ship like a white bird lay;
Laughing at life and the world they sought her,
And out she swung to the silvering bay.
Then off they flew on their roystering way,
And the keen moon fired the light foam flying
Up from the flood where the faint stars play,
And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
The dim White Ship like a white bird lay;
Laughing at life and the world they sought her,
And out she swung to the silvering bay.
Then off they flew on their roystering way,
And the keen moon fired the light foam flying
Up from the flood where the faint stars play,
And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
15
'Twas a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter,
And full three hundred beside, they say,—
Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter
So soon to seize them and hide them for aye;
But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay,
Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying
Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray
Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
And full three hundred beside, they say,—
Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter
So soon to seize them and hide them for aye;
But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay,
Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying
Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray
Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her
(This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey:
The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her,
And hurled her down where the dead men stay.
A torturing silence of wan dismay—
Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying—
Then down they sank to slumber and sway
Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
(This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey:
The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her,
And hurled her down where the dead men stay.
A torturing silence of wan dismay—
Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying—
Then down they sank to slumber and sway
Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
ENVOY
Prince, do you sleep to the sound alwayOf the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying?—
Or does love still shudder and steel still slay,
Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying?
IN HARVARD 5
In Harvard 5 the deathless lore
That haunts old Avon's classic shore
Wakens the long triumphant strain
Of Pride and Passion, Mirth and Pain,
That fed the Poet's mind of yore.
That haunts old Avon's classic shore
Wakens the long triumphant strain
Of Pride and Passion, Mirth and Pain,
That fed the Poet's mind of yore.
Time's magic glass is turned once more
And back the sands of ages pour,
While shades of mouldered monarchs reign
In Harvard 5.
And back the sands of ages pour,
While shades of mouldered monarchs reign
In Harvard 5.
16
Thin spirits flutter through the door,
Quaint phantoms flit across the floor:
Now Fancy marks the crimson stain
Of Murder. ... and there falls again
The fateful gloom of Elsinore.
In Harvard 5.
Quaint phantoms flit across the floor:
Now Fancy marks the crimson stain
Of Murder. ... and there falls again
The fateful gloom of Elsinore.
In Harvard 5.
MENOETES
Who is this fellow floundering in the wave,
Flung from the Trojan galley thundering by?
Lightly, my friend; he may be you, or I!
This passage from the master to the slave
Is but a flash; the pinnacle we crave
Totters and falls; and life is but to fly
The dark immediate anguish surging nigh—
To foil the shrewd enclosure of the grave.
Flung from the Trojan galley thundering by?
Lightly, my friend; he may be you, or I!
This passage from the master to the slave
Is but a flash; the pinnacle we crave
Totters and falls; and life is but to fly
The dark immediate anguish surging nigh—
To foil the shrewd enclosure of the grave.
So, when I read of old Menoetes thrown
By raging Gyas to the furrowed brine,
I cannot wholly laugh: there is a tone
Of merry sadness in the poet's line
That tells me summer suns will never shine
When skies with tyrannous clouds are overblown.
By raging Gyas to the furrowed brine,
I cannot wholly laugh: there is a tone
Of merry sadness in the poet's line
That tells me summer suns will never shine
When skies with tyrannous clouds are overblown.
BALLADE OF DEAD MARINERS: ENVOI
Days follow days till years and years are fled;Years follow years till hopes and cares are dead,
And life's hard billows boom their message home:
Love is the strongest where no words are said,
And women wait for ships that never come.
17
DOUBTS
Yes, this is the end of life, I suppose—
To do what we can for ourselves and others;
But men who find tragedy writ in a rose
May forget sometimes there are sons and mothers—
To do what we can for ourselves and others;
But men who find tragedy writ in a rose
May forget sometimes there are sons and mothers—
Fathers and daughters of love and hate,
Scattered like hell-spawn down from Heaven,
To teach mankind to struggle and wait
Till life be over and death forgiven.
Scattered like hell-spawn down from Heaven,
To teach mankind to struggle and wait
Till life be over and death forgiven.
FOR A COPY OF POE'S POEMS
Like a wild stranger out of wizard-land
He dwelt a little with us, and withdrew;
Bleak and unblossomed were the wayes he knew,
Dark was the glass through which his fine eye scanned
Life's hard perplexities; and frail his hand,
Groping in utter night for pleasure's clue.
These wonder-songs, fantastically few,
He left us. ... but we cannot understand.
He dwelt a little with us, and withdrew;
Bleak and unblossomed were the wayes he knew,
Dark was the glass through which his fine eye scanned
Life's hard perplexities; and frail his hand,
Groping in utter night for pleasure's clue.
These wonder-songs, fantastically few,
He left us. ... but we cannot understand.
Lone voices calling for a dimmed ideal
Mix with the varied music of the years
And take their place with sorrows gone before:
Some are wide yearnings ringing with a real
And royal hopelessness, some are thin tears.
Some are ghosts of dreams, and one—Lenore.
Mix with the varied music of the years
And take their place with sorrows gone before:
Some are wide yearnings ringing with a real
And royal hopelessness, some are thin tears.
Some are ghosts of dreams, and one—Lenore.
THE MIRACLE
“Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead,And you shall see no more this face of mine,
Let nothing but red roses be the sign
Of the white life I lost for him,” she said;
18
Forgive him!—forgive me! .. God's anodyne
For human hate is pity; and the wine
That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read
Love's message in love's murder, and I die.”
And so they laid her just where she would lie,—
Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell;
But when flushed autumn and the snows went by,
And spring came,—lo, from every bud's green shell
Burst a white blossom.—Can love reason why?
TAVERN SONGS: CHORUS.
There's a town down the riverDown the river, down the river,
There's a town down the river,
By the sea.
THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES
[1]
“Your pleasure—of the friend as of the foe—Is one with mine, O Creon.”
[Lines 211–212
September 29, 1894]
[2]
Nothing is there more marvelous than man!Driven by southern storms he sails amidst
The wild white water of the wintry sea,
And through the thunder of engulfing waves;
And Earth—unceasing monarch of the gods—
He furrows, and the plows go back and forth,
And turn the broken mold year after year.
19
The light birds and the creatures of the wild,
And in his nets the fishes of the sea;
He trains the tenants of the fields and hills,
And brings beneath the neck-encircling yoke
The rough-maned horse and the wild mountain bull.
[Lines 332–352
October 28, 1894]
[3]
“—money is the most accursed thingThat man has ever made; it strikes down cities
And scatters families; it leads away
Good souls of men to foul accomplishments
And teaches them the practice of all guile
And all iniquity.”
[Lines 296–301
November 48, 1894]
[4]
Strophe II
[And language has he learned and wind-swift thought]And speech and soaring wisdom has he learned,
With human measures and a way to shun
The sharp and painful arrows of the frost.
Full of resource, of all the future brings,
Resourceless meets he nothing; Death alone
He never shall escape; but he has found
[A cure] for life's unyielding maladies. [a cure].
20
Antistrophe II
Thus gifted with a shrewd inventive skill
Beyond belief, now makes he for the right,
Now for the wrong. And first of all the state
Is he who honors most the nation's law
And the sworn justice of the gods; but he
Becomes an outcast whom rash folly binds
In evil fellowship, nor shall he dwell
With me, nor think with me, whose action thus...
Beyond belief, now makes he for the right,
Now for the wrong. And first of all the state
Is he who honors most the nation's law
And the sworn justice of the gods; but he
Becomes an outcast whom rash folly binds
In evil fellowship, nor shall he dwell
With me, nor think with me, whose action thus...
I marvel at this portent of the gods!
Knowing her as I do can I deny
The maid Antigone?—O wretched girl—
Child of a wretched father, Œdipus,
Tell me!—they surely cannot lead you here
Captured in this wild work against the king!
Knowing her as I do can I deny
The maid Antigone?—O wretched girl—
Child of a wretched father, Œdipus,
Tell me!—they surely cannot lead you here
Captured in this wild work against the king!
[Lines 354–383
November 4, 1894]
GUARDHere is the guilty one that buried him—
We seized her in the work.—But where is Creon?
CHORUS
Returning from the palace—in good time
To meet your opportunity.
CREON
What is this?
I come to meet whose opportunity?
21
O King, 'tis not for any man to say
What things he will not do; for second thoughts
Belie the first resolve. I could have sworn
That I should never come this way again
But slowly, for your threats; yet am I here
(For joy without our expectation
Has none to match it) spite of my past vow,
Leading this maiden whom we found at work
Over the dead man's grave. No shaken lot
Is this, but still my own good fortune—mine,
And only mine.—And now, O King, I pray you,
Take her and question her, and do with her
According to your will. But I am free,
And justly clear of this unhappy crime.
CREON
'Tis she you bring! and how? Whence do you bring her.
GUARD
She buried Polynices; you know all
There is to know.
CREON
Is this truth you tell me?
GUARD
I saw this maiden burying the corpse
Against your order. Do I speak straight words?
CREON
And how was she discovered? and how taken?
GUARD
'Twas thus: In terror of your fearful threat,
As soon as we were there we swept away
The dust that hid the corpse; and having stripped
The body, damp with death, we placed ourselves
High on a windward hill to shun the stench;
And there we waited, busily alert
With hard reproach for any man of us
22
Until the noonday sun stood overhead,
Burning with his heat—when suddenly
There came an awful whirlwind out of heaven
That filled the plain and all the mighty air
And vexed the woodland with unwholesome dust.
This god-sent plague we suffered with closed eyes;
And when it ceased, after a weary time,
We saw this maiden coming; and she cried
With a quick bitter wailing, like a bird
Over an empty nest. So grieved she then,
When she beheld the body lying bare,
And called down imprecations upon those
Who wrought the deed; and straightway did she bring
Dry dust in her own hands, and from an urn
Well shaped of brass and lifted high in air,
Thrice did she crown him with poured offerings.
When we saw this we rushed at once upon her
And seized her, unappalled at our approach;
And when we there accused her of this crime
And of the first as well, she made no sign,
Nor uttered any word in her defense.
At once a pleasure and a pain to me
Was this: for, though it be a pleasant thing
To make one's own way out of jeopardy,
Painful it is to send another there.
But then all this was naturally less
To me than my own safety.
CREON
(To Antigone)
Tell me, you
With your head bowed to earth, if you confess
Or you deny that you have done this thing.
ANTIGONE
Yes, I confess.
23
(To Guard)
You may go where you will,
Acquitted of this heavy charge.—(To Antigone) But you
Will tell me, and that briefly, did you know
The proclamation that made this forbidden?
ANTIGONE
I knew it, and why not—'Twas very plain.
CREON
And you have dared then to transgress the laws!
ANTIGONE
Yes, for the word was not of Jove at all;
Nor was it Justice, dwelling with the gods
Below the earth, that framed your government;
Nor did I think this edict you proclaimed
So strong that I could break the laws of heaven,
Unwritten and unchanging. For, O King,
They are not of today, nor yesterday
But for all time they are, and no man knows
Of their beginning. It was not for fear
Of any human will that I would pay
The gods my penalty—for I must die.
Well did I know that ere I ever heard
Your proclamation; and if I die now,
Before my time, so much I count my gain;
For whosoever lives as I have lived,
In many sorrows, will by dying reap
His best reward. Therefore to meet my fate
The pain is nothing; but if I had left
The child of my own mother to lie dead
Without a mound above him—that indeed
Were sorrow; but there is no sorrow now.
And if by chance you still declare
What I have done to be a foolish thing
Then I am charged with folly by a fool.
[Lines 384–470
November 11, 1894]
24
KOSMOS
Ah,—shuddering men that falter and shrink so
To look on death,—what were the days we live,
Where life is half a struggle to forgive,
But for the love that finds us when we go?
Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw
Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive
For some vague end that never shall arrive?
And is He not yet weary of the show?
To look on death,—what were the days we live,
Where life is half a struggle to forgive,
But for the love that finds us when we go?
Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw
Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive
For some vague end that never shall arrive?
And is He not yet weary of the show?
Think of it, all ye millions that have planned,
And only planned, the largess of hard youth!
Think of it, all ye builders on the sand,
Whose works are down?—Is love so small, forsooth?
Be brave! To-morrow you will understand
The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth!
And only planned, the largess of hard youth!
Think of it, all ye builders on the sand,
Whose works are down?—Is love so small, forsooth?
Be brave! To-morrow you will understand
The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth!
FOR A BOOK BY THOMAS HARDY
With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways,
I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near,
Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear,
Twisting and turning in a bootless chase,—
When, like an exile given by God's grace
To feel once more a human atmosphere,
I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear,
Flung from a singing river's endless race.
I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near,
Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear,
Twisting and turning in a bootless chase,—
When, like an exile given by God's grace
To feel once more a human atmosphere,
I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear,
Flung from a singing river's endless race.
Then, through a magic twilight from below,
I heard its grand sad song as in a dream:
Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe
It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam,
Across the music of its onward flow
I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam.
I heard its grand sad song as in a dream:
Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe
It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam,
Across the music of its onward flow
I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam.
25
EDWARD ALPHABET
Look at Edward AlphabetGoing home to pray!
Drunk as he can ever get,
And on the Sabbath day!—
THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT
For those that never know the light,
The darkness is a sullen thing;
And they, the Children of the Night,
Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing.
The darkness is a sullen thing;
And they, the Children of the Night,
Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing.
But some are strong and some are weak,—
And there's the story. House and home
Are shut from countless hearts that seek
World-refuge that will never come.
And there's the story. House and home
Are shut from countless hearts that seek
World-refuge that will never come.
And if there be no other life,
And if there be no other chance
To weigh their sorrow and their strife
Than in the scales of circumstance,
And if there be no other chance
To weigh their sorrow and their strife
Than in the scales of circumstance,
'T were better, ere the sun go down
Upon the first day we embark,
In life's imbittered sea to drown,
Than sail forever in the dark.
Upon the first day we embark,
In life's imbittered sea to drown,
Than sail forever in the dark.
But if there be a soul on earth
So blinded with its own misuse
Of man's revealed, incessant worth,
Or worn with anguish, that it views
So blinded with its own misuse
Of man's revealed, incessant worth,
Or worn with anguish, that it views
No light but for a mortal eye,
No rest but of a mortal sleep,
No God but in a prophet's lie,
No faith for “honest doubt” to keep;
No rest but of a mortal sleep,
No God but in a prophet's lie,
No faith for “honest doubt” to keep;
26
If there be nothing, good or bad,
But chaos for a soul to trust,—
God counts it for a soul gone mad,
And if God be God, He is just.
But chaos for a soul to trust,—
God counts it for a soul gone mad,
And if God be God, He is just.
And if God be God, He is Love;
And though the Dawn be still so dim,
It shows us we have played enough
With creeds that make a fiend of Him.
And though the Dawn be still so dim,
It shows us we have played enough
With creeds that make a fiend of Him.
There is one creed, and only one,
That glorifies God's excellence;
So cherish, that His will be done,
The common creed of common sense.
That glorifies God's excellence;
So cherish, that His will be done,
The common creed of common sense.
It is the crimson, not the gray,
That charms the twilight of all time;
It is the promise of the day
That makes the starry sky sublime;
That charms the twilight of all time;
It is the promise of the day
That makes the starry sky sublime;
It is the faith within the fear
That holds us to the life we curse;—
So let us in ourselves revere
The Self which is the Universe!
That holds us to the life we curse;—
So let us in ourselves revere
The Self which is the Universe!
Let us, the Children of the Night,
Put off the cloak that hides the scar!
Let us be Children of the Light,
And tell the ages what we are!
Put off the cloak that hides the scar!
Let us be Children of the Light,
And tell the ages what we are!
“I MAKE NO MEASURE OF THE WORDS THEY SAY”
I make no measure of the words they say
Whose tongues would so mellifluously tell
With prescient zeal what I shall find in hell
When all my roving whims have had their day,—
I take no pleasure of the time they stay
Who wring my wasted minutes from the well
Of cool forgetfulness wherein they dwell
Contented there to slumber on alway;—
Whose tongues would so mellifluously tell
With prescient zeal what I shall find in hell
When all my roving whims have had their day,—
I take no pleasure of the time they stay
27
Of cool forgetfulness wherein they dwell
Contented there to slumber on alway;—
But when some rare old master, with an eye
Lit with a living sunset, takes me home
To his long-tutored consciousness, there springs
Into my soul a warm serenity
Of hope that I may know, in years to come,
The true magnificence of better things.
Lit with a living sunset, takes me home
To his long-tutored consciousness, there springs
Into my soul a warm serenity
Of hope that I may know, in years to come,
The true magnificence of better things.
BOSTON
I know my Boston is a counterfeit,—A frameless imitation, all bereft
Of living nearness, noise, and common speech;
But I am glad for every glimpse of it,—
And there it is, plain as a name that's left
In letters by warm hands I cannot reach.
FOR SOME POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD
Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand,
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,
And brings their crystal cadence back once more
To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land
Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band
Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore
Of heroes and the men that long before
Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,
And brings their crystal cadence back once more
To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land
Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band
Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore
Of heroes and the men that long before
Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go
For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray—
For Balder, all but apared by Frea's charms;
And still does art's imperial vista show,
On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away,
Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.
For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray—
For Balder, all but apared by Frea's charms;
And still does art's imperial vista show,
On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away,
Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.
28
BALLADE OF DEAD FRIENDS
As we the withered ferns
By the roadway lying,
Time, the jester, spurns
All our prayers and prying—
All our tears and sighing,
Sorrow, change, and woe—
All our where-and-whying
For friends that come and go.
By the roadway lying,
Time, the jester, spurns
All our prayers and prying—
All our tears and sighing,
Sorrow, change, and woe—
All our where-and-whying
For friends that come and go.
Life awakes and burns,
Age and death defying,
Till at last it learns
All but Love is dying;
Love's the trade we're plying,
God has willed it so;
Shrouds are what we're buying
For friends that come and go.
Age and death defying,
Till at last it learns
All but Love is dying;
Love's the trade we're plying,
God has willed it so;
Shrouds are what we're buying
For friends that come and go.
Man forever yearns
For the thing that's flying.
Everywhere he turns,
Men to dust are drying,—
Dust that wanders, eying
(With eyes that hardly glow)
New faces, dimly spying
For friends that come and go.
For the thing that's flying.
Everywhere he turns,
Men to dust are drying,—
Dust that wanders, eying
(With eyes that hardly glow)
New faces, dimly spying
For friends that come and go.
ENVOY
And thus we all are nighingThe truth we fear to know:
Death will end our crying
For friends that come and go.
29
FOR CALDERON
And now, my brother, it is time
For me to tell the truth to you:
To tell the story of a crime
As black as Mona's eyes were blue.—
Yes, here to-night, before I die,
I'll speak the words that burn in me;
And you may send them, bye-and-bye,
To Calderon across the sea.
For me to tell the truth to you:
To tell the story of a crime
As black as Mona's eyes were blue.—
Yes, here to-night, before I die,
I'll speak the words that burn in me;
And you may send them, bye-and-bye,
To Calderon across the sea.
Now get some paper and a pen,
And sit right here, beside my bed.
Write every word I say, and then—
And then ... well, what then?—I'll be dead!—
... But here I am alive enough,
And I remember all I've done ...
God knows what I was thinking of!—
But send it home—to Calderon.
And sit right here, beside my bed.
Write every word I say, and then—
And then ... well, what then?—I'll be dead!—
... But here I am alive enough,
And I remember all I've done ...
God knows what I was thinking of!—
But send it home—to Calderon.
And you, Francisco, brother, say,—
What is there for a man like me?—
I tell you God sounds far away—
As far—almost as far—as she!
I killed her! ... Yes, I poisoned her—
So slowly that she never knew ...
Francisco,—I'm a murderer.—
Now tell me what there is to do!
What is there for a man like me?—
I tell you God sounds far away—
As far—almost as far—as she!
I killed her! ... Yes, I poisoned her—
So slowly that she never knew ...
Francisco,—I'm a murderer.—
Now tell me what there is to do!
To die—of course; but after that,
I wonder if I live again!
And if I live again, for what?—
To suffer? ... Bah!—there is no pain
But one; and that I know so well
That I can shame the devil's eyes! ...
For twenty years I've heard in hell
What Mona sings in Paradise!
I wonder if I live again!
And if I live again, for what?—
To suffer? ... Bah!—there is no pain
But one; and that I know so well
That I can shame the devil's eyes! ...
For twenty years I've heard in hell
What Mona sings in Paradise!
Strange, that a little Northern girl
Should love my brother Calderon,
And set my brain so in a whirl
That I was mad till she was gone! ...
I wonder if all men be such
As I?—I wonder what love is!—
I never loved her very much
Until I saw that she was his;—
Should love my brother Calderon,
And set my brain so in a whirl
That I was mad till she was gone! ...
30
As I?—I wonder what love is!—
I never loved her very much
Until I saw that she was his;—
And then I knew that I was lost:
And then—I knew that I was mad.—
I reasoned what it all would cost,
But that was nothing.—I was glad
To feel myself so foul a thing!—
And I was glad for Calderon. ...
My God! if he could hear her sing
Just once, as I do!—There! she's done. ...
And then—I knew that I was mad.—
I reasoned what it all would cost,
But that was nothing.—I was glad
To feel myself so foul a thing!—
And I was glad for Calderon. ...
My God! if he could hear her sing
Just once, as I do!—There! she's done. ...
No, it was only something wrong
A minute—something in my head.—
God, no!—she'll never stop that song
As long as I'm alive or dead!
As long as I am here or there,
She'll sing to me, a murderer!—
Well, I suppose the gods are fair. ...
I killed her ... yes, I poisoned her!
A minute—something in my head.—
God, no!—she'll never stop that song
As long as I'm alive or dead!
As long as I am here or there,
She'll sing to me, a murderer!—
Well, I suppose the gods are fair. ...
I killed her ... yes, I poisoned her!
But you, Francisco,—you are young;—
So take my hand and hear me, now:—
There are no lies upon your tongue,
There is no guilt upon your brow.—
But there is blood upon your name?—
And blood, you say, will rust the steel
That strikes for honor or for shame? ...
Francisco, it is fear you feel!—
So take my hand and hear me, now:—
There are no lies upon your tongue,
There is no guilt upon your brow.—
But there is blood upon your name?—
And blood, you say, will rust the steel
That strikes for honor or for shame? ...
Francisco, it is fear you feel!—
And such a miserable fear
That you, my boy, will call it pride;—
But you will grope from year to year
Until as last the clouds divide,
And all at once you meet the truth,
And curse yourself, with helpless rage,
For something you have lost with youth
And found again, too late, with age.
That you, my boy, will call it pride;—
But you will grope from year to year
Until as last the clouds divide,
And all at once you meet the truth,
And curse yourself, with helpless rage,
For something you have lost with youth
And found again, too late, with age.
31
The truth, my brother, is just this:—
Your title here is nothing more
Or less than what your courage is:
The man must put himself before
The name, and once the master stay
Forever—or forever fall.—
Good-bye!—Remember what I say ...
Good-bye;—Good-by! ... And that was all.
Your title here is nothing more
Or less than what your courage is:
The man must put himself before
The name, and once the master stay
Forever—or forever fall.—
Good-bye!—Remember what I say ...
Good-bye;—Good-by! ... And that was all.
The lips were still: the man was dead.—
Francisco, with a weird surprise,
Stood like a stranger by the bed,
And there were no tears in his eyes.
But in his heart there was a grief
Too strong for human tears to free,—
And in his hand a written leaf
For Calderon across the sea.
Francisco, with a weird surprise,
Stood like a stranger by the bed,
And there were no tears in his eyes.
But in his heart there was a grief
Too strong for human tears to free,—
And in his hand a written leaf
For Calderon across the sea.
THE WORLD
Some are the brothers of all humankind,
And own them, whatsoever their estate;
And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind
With enmity for man's unguarded fate.
And own them, whatsoever their estate;
And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind
With enmity for man's unguarded fate.
For some there is a music all day long
Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad;
And there is hell's eternal under-song
Of curses and the cries of men gone mad.
Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad;
And there is hell's eternal under-song
Of curses and the cries of men gone mad.
Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous,
Some say 'twere better back to chaos hurled;
And so 'tis what we are that makes for us
The measure and the meaning of the world.
Some say 'twere better back to chaos hurled;
And so 'tis what we are that makes for us
The measure and the meaning of the world.
WALT WHITMAN
The master-songs are ended, and the man
That sang them is a name. And so is God
A name; and so is love, and life, and death,
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink and wonder.
That sang them is a name. And so is God
32
And everything. But we, who are too blind
To read what we have written, or what faith
Has written for us, do not understand:
We only blink and wonder.
Last night it was the song that was the man,
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us—too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
But now it is the man that is the song.
We do not hear him very much to-day:
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us—too powerfully pure,
Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
The master-songs are ended? Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no names are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
A POEM FOR MAX NORDAU
Dun shades quiver down the lone long fallow,
And the scared night shudders at the brown owl's cry;
The bleak reeds rattle as the winds whirl by,
And frayed leaves flutter through the clumped shrubs callow.
And the scared night shudders at the brown owl's cry;
The bleak reeds rattle as the winds whirl by,
And frayed leaves flutter through the clumped shrubs callow.
Chill dews clinging on the low cold mallow
Make a steel-keen shimmer where the spent stems lie;
Dun shades quiver down the lone long fallow,
And the scared night shudders at the brown owl's cry.
Make a steel-keen shimmer where the spent stems lie;
Dun shades quiver down the lone long fallow,
And the scared night shudders at the brown owl's cry.
Pale stars peering through the clouds' curled shallow
Make a thin still flicker in a foul round sky;
Black damp shadows through the hushed air fly;
The lewd gloom wakens to a moon-sad sallow,
Dun shades quiver down the lone long fallow.
Make a thin still flicker in a foul round sky;
Black damp shadows through the hushed air fly;
The lewd gloom wakens to a moon-sad sallow,
Dun shades quiver down the lone long fallow.
33
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Look you, Dominie; look you, and listen!
Look in my face, first; search every line there;
Mark every feature,—chin, lips, and forehead!
Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson
You read there; measure my nose, and tell me
Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie,
Is often the cast of his inward spirit;
So mark mine well. But why do you smile so?
Pity, or what? Is it written all over,
This face of mine, with a brute's confession?
Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars?
Or is it because there is something better—
A glimmer of good, maybe—or a shadow
Of something that's followed me down from childhood—
Followed me all these years and kept me,
Spite of my slips and sins and follies,
Spite of my last red sin, my murder,—
Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind?
And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie,
The one good man in the world who knows me,—
My one good friend in a world that mocks me,
Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it
To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying?
Are these things tears? Tears? What! am I frightened?
I, who swore I should go to the scaffold
With big strong steps, and—No more. I thank you,
But no—I am all right now! No!—listen!
I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow
At six o'clock, when the sun is rising.
And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you
But this poor shivering thing before you,
This fluttering wreck of the man God made him,
For God knows what wild reason. Hear me,
And learn from my lips the truth of my story.
There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you,
Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly,—
But damnably human,—and you shall hear it.
Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it;
The judge, with his big bald head, never knew it;
And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it.
Once there were three in the world who could tell it;
Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow,—
You, my friend, and—But there's the story:—
Look in my face, first; search every line there;
Mark every feature,—chin, lips, and forehead!
Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson
You read there; measure my nose, and tell me
Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie,
Is often the cast of his inward spirit;
So mark mine well. But why do you smile so?
Pity, or what? Is it written all over,
This face of mine, with a brute's confession?
Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars?
Or is it because there is something better—
A glimmer of good, maybe—or a shadow
Of something that's followed me down from childhood—
Followed me all these years and kept me,
Spite of my slips and sins and follies,
Spite of my last red sin, my murder,—
Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind?
And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie,
The one good man in the world who knows me,—
My one good friend in a world that mocks me,
Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it
To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying?
Are these things tears? Tears? What! am I frightened?
I, who swore I should go to the scaffold
With big strong steps, and—No more. I thank you,
But no—I am all right now! No!—listen!
I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow
At six o'clock, when the sun is rising.
And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you
But this poor shivering thing before you,
This fluttering wreck of the man God made him,
For God knows what wild reason. Hear me,
And learn from my lips the truth of my story.
There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you,
Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly,—
But damnably human,—and you shall hear it.
Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it;
34
And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it.
Once there were three in the world who could tell it;
Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow,—
You, my friend, and—But there's the story:—
When I was a boy the world was heaven.
I never knew then that the men and the women
Who petted and called me a brave big fellow
Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom—
Which comes with the years, you know—soon showed me
The secret of all my glittering childhood,
The broken key to the fairies' castle
That held my life in the fresh, glad season
When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly—
And yet so swiftly!—there came the knowledge
That the marvellous life I had lived was my life;
That the glorious world I had loved was my world;
And that every man, and every woman,
And every child was a different being,
Wrought with a different heat, and fired
With passions born of a single spirit;
That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure,
Nor my sorrow—a kind of nameless pity
For something, I knew not what—their sorrow.
And thus was I taught my first hard lesson,—
The lesson we suffer the most in learning:
That a happy man is a man forgetful
Of all the torturing ills around him.
When or where I first met the woman
I cherished and made my wife, no matter.
Enough to say that I found her and kept her
Here in my heart with as pure a devotion
As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me
For naming His name in your patient presence;
But I feel my words, and the truth I utter
Is God's own truth. I loved that woman,—
Not for her face, but for something fairer,
Something diviner, I thought, than beauty:
I loved the spirit—the human something
That seemed to chime with my own condition,
And make soul-music when we were together;
And we were never apart, from the moment
My eyes flashed into her eyes the message
That swept itself in a quivering answer
Back through my strange lost being. My pulses
Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure
Of this great world grew small and smaller,
Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean
Closed at last in a mist all golden
Around us two. And we stood for a season
Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming
That we were the king and the queen of the fire
That reddened the clouds of love that held us
Blind to the new world soon to be ours—
Ours to seize and sway. The passion
Of that great love was a nameless passion,
Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday,
Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you,
Never a whit less pure for its fervor.
The baseness in me (for I was human)
Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing
Was left me then but a soul that mingled
Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered
In fearful triumph. When I consider
That helpless love and the cursed folly
That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman
Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage
(Whatever the word may mean), I wonder
If all the woe was her sin, or whether
The chains themselves were enough to lead her
In love's despite to break them. ... Sinners
And saints—I say—are rocked in the cradle,
But never are known till the will within them
Speaks in its own good time. So I foster
Even to-night for the woman who wronged me,
Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling
Of still regret; for the man—But hear me,
And judge for yourself:—
For a time the seasons
Changed and passed in a sweet succession
That seemed to me like an endless music:
Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs
Of God were glad for our love. I fancied
All this, and more than I dare to tell you
To-night,—yes, more than I dare to remember;
And then—well, the music stopped. There are moments
In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy,—
Or seems to stop,—till it comes to cheer them
Again with a larger sound. The curtain
Of life just then is lifted a little
To give to their sight new joys—new sorrows—
Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching
The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture,
Flushed and alive with a long delusion
That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered
And felt like a knife that awful silence
That comes when the music goes—forever.
The truth came over my life like a darkness
Over a forest where one man wanders,
Worse than alone. For a time I staggered
And stumbled on with a weak persistence
After the phantom of hope that darted
And dodged like a frightened thing before me,
To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing
Was left me then but the curse of living
And bearing through all my days the fever
And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger,
Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me,
Given me strength to crush my sorrow
With hate for her and the world that praised her—
To have left her, then and there—to have conquered
That old false life with a new and a wiser,—
Such things are easy in words. You listen,
And frown, I suppose, that I never mention
That beautiful word, forgive!—I forgave her
First of all; and I praised kind Heaven
That I was a brave, clean man to do it;
And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness!
What does it mean when the one forgiven
Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses
The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him
A thousand things of a good man's mercy,
And then slips off with a laugh and plunges
Back to the sin she has quit for a season,
To tell him that hell and the world are better
For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me,
The love that dies ere its flames are wasted
In search of an alien soul is better,
Better by far than the lonely passion
That burns back into the heart and feeds it.
For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me,—
Fooled with her endless pleading promise
Of future faith,—the more I believed her
The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger
Her choking arms and her small hot kisses
Bound me and burned my brain to pity,
The more she grew to the heavenly creature
That brightened the life I had lost forever.
The truth was gone somehow for the moment;
The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied
We were again like gods together,
Loving again with the old glad rapture.
But scenes like these, too often repeated,
Failed at last, and her guile was wasted.
I made an end of her shrewd caresses
And told her a few straight words. She took them
Full at their worth—and the farce was over.
I never knew then that the men and the women
Who petted and called me a brave big fellow
Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom—
Which comes with the years, you know—soon showed me
The secret of all my glittering childhood,
The broken key to the fairies' castle
That held my life in the fresh, glad season
When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly—
And yet so swiftly!—there came the knowledge
That the marvellous life I had lived was my life;
That the glorious world I had loved was my world;
And that every man, and every woman,
And every child was a different being,
Wrought with a different heat, and fired
With passions born of a single spirit;
That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure,
Nor my sorrow—a kind of nameless pity
For something, I knew not what—their sorrow.
And thus was I taught my first hard lesson,—
The lesson we suffer the most in learning:
That a happy man is a man forgetful
Of all the torturing ills around him.
When or where I first met the woman
I cherished and made my wife, no matter.
Enough to say that I found her and kept her
Here in my heart with as pure a devotion
As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me
For naming His name in your patient presence;
But I feel my words, and the truth I utter
Is God's own truth. I loved that woman,—
Not for her face, but for something fairer,
Something diviner, I thought, than beauty:
I loved the spirit—the human something
35
And make soul-music when we were together;
And we were never apart, from the moment
My eyes flashed into her eyes the message
That swept itself in a quivering answer
Back through my strange lost being. My pulses
Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure
Of this great world grew small and smaller,
Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean
Closed at last in a mist all golden
Around us two. And we stood for a season
Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming
That we were the king and the queen of the fire
That reddened the clouds of love that held us
Blind to the new world soon to be ours—
Ours to seize and sway. The passion
Of that great love was a nameless passion,
Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday,
Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you,
Never a whit less pure for its fervor.
The baseness in me (for I was human)
Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing
Was left me then but a soul that mingled
Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered
In fearful triumph. When I consider
That helpless love and the cursed folly
That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman
Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage
(Whatever the word may mean), I wonder
If all the woe was her sin, or whether
The chains themselves were enough to lead her
In love's despite to break them. ... Sinners
And saints—I say—are rocked in the cradle,
But never are known till the will within them
Speaks in its own good time. So I foster
Even to-night for the woman who wronged me,
Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling
Of still regret; for the man—But hear me,
And judge for yourself:—
36
Changed and passed in a sweet succession
That seemed to me like an endless music:
Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs
Of God were glad for our love. I fancied
All this, and more than I dare to tell you
To-night,—yes, more than I dare to remember;
And then—well, the music stopped. There are moments
In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy,—
Or seems to stop,—till it comes to cheer them
Again with a larger sound. The curtain
Of life just then is lifted a little
To give to their sight new joys—new sorrows—
Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching
The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture,
Flushed and alive with a long delusion
That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered
And felt like a knife that awful silence
That comes when the music goes—forever.
The truth came over my life like a darkness
Over a forest where one man wanders,
Worse than alone. For a time I staggered
And stumbled on with a weak persistence
After the phantom of hope that darted
And dodged like a frightened thing before me,
To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing
Was left me then but the curse of living
And bearing through all my days the fever
And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger,
Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me,
Given me strength to crush my sorrow
With hate for her and the world that praised her—
To have left her, then and there—to have conquered
That old false life with a new and a wiser,—
Such things are easy in words. You listen,
And frown, I suppose, that I never mention
That beautiful word, forgive!—I forgave her
First of all; and I praised kind Heaven
That I was a brave, clean man to do it;
And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness!
37
Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses
The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him
A thousand things of a good man's mercy,
And then slips off with a laugh and plunges
Back to the sin she has quit for a season,
To tell him that hell and the world are better
For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me,
The love that dies ere its flames are wasted
In search of an alien soul is better,
Better by far than the lonely passion
That burns back into the heart and feeds it.
For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me,—
Fooled with her endless pleading promise
Of future faith,—the more I believed her
The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger
Her choking arms and her small hot kisses
Bound me and burned my brain to pity,
The more she grew to the heavenly creature
That brightened the life I had lost forever.
The truth was gone somehow for the moment;
The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied
We were again like gods together,
Loving again with the old glad rapture.
But scenes like these, too often repeated,
Failed at last, and her guile was wasted.
I made an end of her shrewd caresses
And told her a few straight words. She took them
Full at their worth—and the farce was over.
At first my dreams of the past upheld me,
But they were a short support: the present
Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission
Of life (whatever it was) was blasted;
My game was lost. And I met the winner
Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers
His painful strength at the sight of his master;
And when he was past I cursed him, fearful
Of that strange chance which makes us mighty
Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated
The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed
His easy march with a backward envy,
And cursed myself for the beast within me.
But pride is the master of love, and the vision
Of those old days grew faint and fainter:
The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered
Was nothing now but a woman,—a woman
Out of my way and out of my nature.
My battle with blinded love was over,
My battle with aching pride beginning.
If I was the loser at first, I wonder
If I am the winner now! ... I doubt it.
My life is a losing game; and to-morrow—
To-morrow!—Christ! did I say to-morrow? ...
Is your brandy good for death? ... There,—listen:—
But they were a short support: the present
Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission
Of life (whatever it was) was blasted;
My game was lost. And I met the winner
Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers
His painful strength at the sight of his master;
And when he was past I cursed him, fearful
Of that strange chance which makes us mighty
Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated
38
His easy march with a backward envy,
And cursed myself for the beast within me.
But pride is the master of love, and the vision
Of those old days grew faint and fainter:
The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered
Was nothing now but a woman,—a woman
Out of my way and out of my nature.
My battle with blinded love was over,
My battle with aching pride beginning.
If I was the loser at first, I wonder
If I am the winner now! ... I doubt it.
My life is a losing game; and to-morrow—
To-morrow!—Christ! did I say to-morrow? ...
Is your brandy good for death? ... There,—listen:—
When loves goes out, and a man is driven
To shun mankind for the scars that make him
A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries
A double burden. The woes I suffered
After that hard betrayal made me
Pity, at first, all breathing creatures
On this bewildered earth. I studied
Their faces and made for myself the story
Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers
And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished
A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy
Between those people and me. But somehow,
As time went on, there came queer glances
Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me
Harassed my pride with a crazed impression
That every face in the surging city
Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers,
Now and then, as I walked and wearied
My wasted life twice over in bearing
With all my sorrow the sorrows of others,—
Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled,—
A poor scared thing,—and their prying faces
Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing
At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it—
That laughter! And then the children caught it;
And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened.
And then when I met the man who had weakened
A woman's love to his own desire,
It seemed to me that all hell were laughing
In fiendish concert! I was their victim—
And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle!
As long as the earth we tread holds something
A tortured heart can love, the meaning
Of life is not wholly blurred; but after
The last loved thing in the world has left us,
We know the triumph of hate. The glory
Of good goes out forever; the beacon
Of sin is the light that leads us downward—
Down to the fiery end. The road runs
Right through hell; and the souls that follow
The cursed ways where its windings lead them
Suffer enough, I say, to merit
All grace that a God can give.—The fashion
Of our belief is to lift all beings
Born for a life that knows no struggle
In sin's tight snares to eternal glory—
All apart from the branded millions
Who carry through life their faces graven
With sure brute scars that tell the story
Of their foul, fated passions. Science
Has yet no salve to smooth or soften
The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage;
No drugs to purge from the vital essence
Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue
May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted
And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger
Never is known till there comes that battle
With sin to prove the victor. Perilous
Things are these demons we call our passions:
Slaves are we of their roving fancies,
Fools of their devilish glee.—You think me,
I know, in this maundering way designing
To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it
Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me!
I'm partly a man,—for all my weakness,—
If weakness it were to stand and murder
Before men's eyes the man who had murdered
Me, and driven my burning forehead
With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me!
And try to believe my words but a portion
Of what God's purpose made me! The coward
Within me cries for this; and I beg you
Now, as I come to the end, to remember
That women and men are on earth to travel
All on a different road. Hereafter
The roads may meet. ... I trust in something—
I know not what. ...
To shun mankind for the scars that make him
A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries
A double burden. The woes I suffered
After that hard betrayal made me
Pity, at first, all breathing creatures
On this bewildered earth. I studied
Their faces and made for myself the story
Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers
And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished
A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy
Between those people and me. But somehow,
As time went on, there came queer glances
Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me
Harassed my pride with a crazed impression
That every face in the surging city
Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers,
Now and then, as I walked and wearied
My wasted life twice over in bearing
With all my sorrow the sorrows of others,—
Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled,—
A poor scared thing,—and their prying faces
Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing
At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it—
39
And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened.
And then when I met the man who had weakened
A woman's love to his own desire,
It seemed to me that all hell were laughing
In fiendish concert! I was their victim—
And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle!
As long as the earth we tread holds something
A tortured heart can love, the meaning
Of life is not wholly blurred; but after
The last loved thing in the world has left us,
We know the triumph of hate. The glory
Of good goes out forever; the beacon
Of sin is the light that leads us downward—
Down to the fiery end. The road runs
Right through hell; and the souls that follow
The cursed ways where its windings lead them
Suffer enough, I say, to merit
All grace that a God can give.—The fashion
Of our belief is to lift all beings
Born for a life that knows no struggle
In sin's tight snares to eternal glory—
All apart from the branded millions
Who carry through life their faces graven
With sure brute scars that tell the story
Of their foul, fated passions. Science
Has yet no salve to smooth or soften
The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage;
No drugs to purge from the vital essence
Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue
May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted
And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger
Never is known till there comes that battle
With sin to prove the victor. Perilous
Things are these demons we call our passions:
Slaves are we of their roving fancies,
Fools of their devilish glee.—You think me,
I know, in this maundering way designing
To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it
Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me!
40
If weakness it were to stand and murder
Before men's eyes the man who had murdered
Me, and driven my burning forehead
With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me!
And try to believe my words but a portion
Of what God's purpose made me! The coward
Within me cries for this; and I beg you
Now, as I come to the end, to remember
That women and men are on earth to travel
All on a different road. Hereafter
The roads may meet. ... I trust in something—
I know not what. ...
Well, this was the way of it:—
Stung with the shame and the secret fury
That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance
Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered
Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy,
Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him,
And laughed at the love that strove to touch me,—
The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon
Close to my breast, and held him, praising
The fates and the furies that gave me the courage
To follow his wild command. Forgetful
Of all to come when the work was over,—
There came to me then no stony vision
Of these three hundred days,—I cherished
An awful joy in my brain. I pondered
And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried
In life to think that I was to conquer
Death at his own dark door,—and chuckled
To think of it done so cleanly. One evening
I knew that my time had come. I shuddered
A little, but rather for doubt than terror,
And followed him,—led by the nameless devil
I worshipped and called my brother. The city
Shone like a dream that night; the windows
Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements
Pulsed and swayed with a warmth—or something
That seemed so then to my feet—and thrilled me
With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women
And men, like marvellous things of magic,
Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder,
Sent with a wizard motion. Through it
And over and under it all there sounded
A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened
And laughed again to think of the flower
That grew, blood-red, for me! ... This fellow
Was one of the popular sort who flourish
Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience
He carried a snug deceit that made him
The man of the time and the place, whatever
The time or the place might be. Were he sounding,
With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose,
Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman
Fooled with his brainless art, or sending
The midnight home with songs and bottles,—
The cad was there, and his ease forever
Shone with the smooth and slippery polish
That tells the snake. That night he drifted
Into an up-town haunt and ordered—
Whatever it was—with a soft assurance
That made me mad as I stood behind him,
Gripping his death, and waited. Coward,
I think, is the name the world has given
To men like me; but I'll swear I never
Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him—
Yes, in the back,—I know it, I know it
Now; but what if I do? ... As I watched him
Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust,
Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted
That things were still; that the walnut tables,
Where men but a moment before were sitting,
Were gone; that a screen of something around me
Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded
Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys
Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors
And glasses behind the bar were lighted
In some strange way, and into my spirit
A thousand shafts of terrible fire
Burned like death, and I fell. The story
Of what came then, you know.
Stung with the shame and the secret fury
That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance
Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered
Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy,
Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him,
And laughed at the love that strove to touch me,—
The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon
Close to my breast, and held him, praising
The fates and the furies that gave me the courage
To follow his wild command. Forgetful
Of all to come when the work was over,—
There came to me then no stony vision
Of these three hundred days,—I cherished
An awful joy in my brain. I pondered
And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried
In life to think that I was to conquer
Death at his own dark door,—and chuckled
To think of it done so cleanly. One evening
I knew that my time had come. I shuddered
A little, but rather for doubt than terror,
And followed him,—led by the nameless devil
I worshipped and called my brother. The city
Shone like a dream that night; the windows
Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements
Pulsed and swayed with a warmth—or something
41
With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women
And men, like marvellous things of magic,
Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder,
Sent with a wizard motion. Through it
And over and under it all there sounded
A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened
And laughed again to think of the flower
That grew, blood-red, for me! ... This fellow
Was one of the popular sort who flourish
Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience
He carried a snug deceit that made him
The man of the time and the place, whatever
The time or the place might be. Were he sounding,
With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose,
Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman
Fooled with his brainless art, or sending
The midnight home with songs and bottles,—
The cad was there, and his ease forever
Shone with the smooth and slippery polish
That tells the snake. That night he drifted
Into an up-town haunt and ordered—
Whatever it was—with a soft assurance
That made me mad as I stood behind him,
Gripping his death, and waited. Coward,
I think, is the name the world has given
To men like me; but I'll swear I never
Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him—
Yes, in the back,—I know it, I know it
Now; but what if I do? ... As I watched him
Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust,
Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted
That things were still; that the walnut tables,
Where men but a moment before were sitting,
Were gone; that a screen of something around me
Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded
Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys
Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors
And glasses behind the bar were lighted
In some strange way, and into my spirit
42
Burned like death, and I fell. The story
Of what came then, you know.
But tell me,
What does the whole thing mean? What are we,—
Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets
Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it?
Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation,—
Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie,
There are times in the lives of us poor devils
When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience
May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us
Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at,—
And then we fall. And for all who have fallen—
Even for him—I hold no malice,
Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy
Than mine must shrive him.—And I—I am going
Into the light?—or into the darkness?
Why do I sit through these sickening hours,
And hope? Good God! are they hours?—hours?
Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow—
We two may meet! To-morrow!—To-morrow! ...
What does the whole thing mean? What are we,—
Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets
Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it?
Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation,—
Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie,
There are times in the lives of us poor devils
When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience
May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us
Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at,—
And then we fall. And for all who have fallen—
Even for him—I hold no malice,
Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy
Than mine must shrive him.—And I—I am going
Into the light?—or into the darkness?
Why do I sit through these sickening hours,
And hope? Good God! are they hours?—hours?
Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow—
We two may meet! To-morrow!—To-morrow! ...
SHOOTING STARS
When ardent summer skies are bright
With myriad friendly lamps that glow
Down from their dark, mysterious height
To charm the shrouded earth below—
Lost in a faith we do not know,
Nor human discord ever jars
With eyes that wide and wider grow,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
With myriad friendly lamps that glow
Down from their dark, mysterious height
To charm the shrouded earth below—
Lost in a faith we do not know,
Nor human discord ever jars
With eyes that wide and wider grow,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
And when they slide across the night
Like arrows from a Titan's bow,
He shudders for supreme delight
And shouts to see them scamper so,
No sneering science comes to show
The poor brain crossed with silly scars;
But flushed with joys that overflow,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
Like arrows from a Titan's bow,
He shudders for supreme delight
And shouts to see them scamper so,
43
The poor brain crossed with silly scars;
But flushed with joys that overflow,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
We call him an unlovely wight;
But if his wit be something slow,
Nor ever weary of the sight
That Adam saw so long ago—
Released from knowledge and its woe,
No gloom his constant rapture mars:—
Oblivious from head to toe,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
But if his wit be something slow,
Nor ever weary of the sight
That Adam saw so long ago—
Released from knowledge and its woe,
No gloom his constant rapture mars:—
Oblivious from head to toe,
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
ENVOY
Nor is it yet for us, I trow,To mock him, or to shut the bars
Of scorn against him—even though
He sits and waits for shooting stars.
OCTAVE
Saints of all times I love, but I love bestThe saints that never yet were calendered.
Their silence is my shame, their life my life;
Their pleasure is my pleasure, and their grief
My guide forever. Grief that knows itself
Soon glorifies itself; and some rough man
With no name but his own may tell me more
Of God than all the tomes of printed prayers.
THE IDEALIST
Idealist?—Oh yes, or what you will.I do not wrangle any more with names—
44
And let the system go; give me the Truth,
And I stand satisfied. Fame, glory, gold,—
Take them, and keep them. They were never mine—
I do not ask for them. I only ask
That I, and you, and you, may get the Truth!
TWO OCTAVES
I
Not by the grief that suns and overwhelmsAll outward recognition of revealed
And righteous omnipresence are the days
Of most of us affrighted and diseased,
But rather by the common snarls of life
That come to test us and to strengthen us
In this the prentice-age of discontent,
Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame.
II
When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks downUpon a stagnant earth where listless men
Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat,
Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert,—
It seems to me somehow that God himself
Scans with a close reproach what I have done,
Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears,
And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts.
OCTAVES
I
To get at the eternal strength of things,And fearlessly to make strong songs of it,
45
The world would call a poet. He may sing
But roughly, and withal ungraciously;
But if he touch to life the one right chord
Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake
To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well.
II
To mortal ears the plainest word may ringFantastic and unheard-of, and as false
And out of tune as ever to our own
Did ring the prayers of man-made maniacs;
But if that word be the plain word of Truth,
It leaves an echo that begets itself,
Persistent in itself and of itself,
Regenerate, reiterate, replete.
ROMANCE
I
BOYS
We were all boys, and three of us were friends;And we were more than friends, it seemed to me:—
Yes, we were more than brothers then, we three ...
Brothers? ... But we were boys, and there it ends.
II
JAMES WETHERELL
We never half believed the stuffThey told about James Wetherell;
We always liked him well enough,
And always tried to use him well;
But now some things have come to light,
And James has vanished from our view,—
There isn't very much to write,
There isn't very much to do.
46
LIMERICKS
[1]
There was a calm man in SabattisWho shot at a skunk through a lattice.
The skunk became dead.
“I got him,” he said,
“And now let me see where my hat is.”
[2]
There's this about the HinduHe does the best he kin do,
But when he wants
A pair of pants
He has to make his skin do.
[3]
There was a pale artist named Ransom,Whose hands were exceedingly handsome.
To be sure they were seen
He painted them green
And held them all day through the transom.
PLUMMER STREET, GARDINER, MAINE
What are those houses doing in a row?
What is it that makes everything so queer?
Was it a dream of mine, or was it here
Van Amburgh used to come so long ago?—
So long ago? If it was not last year,
When was it, then, the place was all arrayed
With tents and elephants and lemonade,
Lifting-machines, freaks, peanuts, and pop-beer?
What is it that makes everything so queer?
Was it a dream of mine, or was it here
Van Amburgh used to come so long ago?—
So long ago? If it was not last year,
When was it, then, the place was all arrayed
With tents and elephants and lemonade,
Lifting-machines, freaks, peanuts, and pop-beer?
Where are they gone now? Tell me, if you can,
Where is the giant? and the tattooed man,
Where are the clowns that once were garrulous?
Where are the people who “performed” on bars?
Where are the targets and “ten-cent cigars”
Gone now? Where is the Hipper Pottamus?
Where is the giant? and the tattooed man,
Where are the clowns that once were garrulous?
Where are the people who “performed” on bars?
Where are the targets and “ten-cent cigars”
Gone now? Where is the Hipper Pottamus?
47
TWILIGHT SONG
We have worked, we have played,
We have won the day's grace,
And at noon through the shade
Read the sun face to face;
We have won the sun's touch,
We have seen the leaf curl,
And we've sold the King's crutch
For a boy and a girl;
We have heard the girl sing
To the tune the Queen made,
We have called the boy King,
We have worked, we have played.
We have won the day's grace,
And at noon through the shade
Read the sun face to face;
We have won the sun's touch,
We have seen the leaf curl,
And we've sold the King's crutch
For a boy and a girl;
We have heard the girl sing
To the tune the Queen made,
We have called the boy King,
We have worked, we have played.
We have loved, we have sung,
We have shared the day's joy,
And the wide skies have rung
With a “long live the Boy!”
We have seen the boy ride
With the King's cloak and spurs,
And the Queen by his side
With the girl's hand in hers;
We've a long way to go,
But the King's knell is rung;
And we're glad now to know
We have loved, we have sung.
We have shared the day's joy,
And the wide skies have rung
With a “long live the Boy!”
We have seen the boy ride
With the King's cloak and spurs,
And the Queen by his side
With the girl's hand in hers;
We've a long way to go,
But the King's knell is rung;
And we're glad now to know
We have loved, we have sung.
48
AU REVOIR
(MARCH 23, 1909.)
What libellers of destiny
Are these who are afraid
That something yet without a name
Will seize him in the shade?
Are these who are afraid
That something yet without a name
Will seize him in the shade?
Though fever-demons may compound
Their most malefic brew,
No fever can defeat the man
Who still has work to do;
Their most malefic brew,
No fever can defeat the man
Who still has work to do;
Though mighty lions walk about,
Inimical to see,
No lion yet has ever fed
On things that are to be.
Inimical to see,
No lion yet has ever fed
On things that are to be.
Wherefore, and of necessity,
Will he meet what may come;
And from a nation will be missed
As others are from home.
Will he meet what may come;
And from a nation will be missed
As others are from home.
49
VARIATIONS OF GREEK THEMES, V
WITH SAPPHO'S COMPLIMENTS
But you are dead now—yes, you are—
And what you say will not go far;
I don't think any one I knew
Was ever quite so dead as you.
And what you say will not go far;
I don't think any one I knew
Was ever quite so dead as you.
I'll say no more, for what remains?
You must have known you had no brains;
For you had nothing but your looks,
And you would never read my books.
You must have known you had no brains;
For you had nothing but your looks,
And you would never read my books.
So now you'll hate yourself, and hide
Where most ignoble shades abide;
But I'll not make your spirit sad,
For you are dead now—and I'm glad.
Where most ignoble shades abide;
But I'll not make your spirit sad,
For you are dead now—and I'm glad.
BEN JONSON ENTERTAINS A MAN FROM STRATFORD
But he's not of our time, or any time;He's of all time. He needs Greek, even at that,—
And a little braver manner with a shilling
O' mornings for the more nefarious
And out o' nights, who are to be forgotten;
Though I'd assure ye—and I'm saying this—
The worthy, for a word, may have his breeches.
NIMMO'S EYES
And think of Nimmo's eyes; and if you can,
Remember something in them that was wrong.
A casual thing to ask of any man,
You tell me,—and you laugh? You won't laugh long.
Remember something in them that was wrong.
A casual thing to ask of any man,
You tell me,—and you laugh? You won't laugh long.
50
She makes an epic of an episode,
I tell her, and the toil is ruinous;
And I may tell her till I go the road
We find alone, the best and worst of us.
I tell her, and the toil is ruinous;
And I may tell her till I go the road
We find alone, the best and worst of us.
HANNIBAL BROWN
An Alcaic
Although his wish was never to baffle usHannibal Brown was dolichocephalous.
His head reached half way up to heaven.
Hannibal's hat was a number seven.
BROADWAY
By night a gay leviathan
That fades before the sun—
A monster with a million eyes
Without the sight of one—
A coruscating thing with claws
To tear the soul apart—
Breaker of men and avenues,
It throbs, and has no heart.
That fades before the sun—
A monster with a million eyes
Without the sight of one—
A coruscating thing with claws
To tear the soul apart—
Breaker of men and avenues,
It throbs, and has no heart.
By day it has another life
That feeds on hopes and dreams;
And wears, to cover what it is,
The mask of what it seems.
But soon its iridescent length
Will make a fiery show,
To cheer, to dazzle, or to scorch
The wingless moths below.
That feeds on hopes and dreams;
And wears, to cover what it is,
The mask of what it seems.
But soon its iridescent length
Will make a fiery show,
To cheer, to dazzle, or to scorch
The wingless moths below.
And if, at cynic intervals,
And like a thing in pain,
By chance it implicates itself
With something not insane,
It will not often, nor for long,
Relinquish what allures
With everything that has the shine
Of nothing that endures.
And like a thing in pain,
51
With something not insane,
It will not often, nor for long,
Relinquish what allures
With everything that has the shine
Of nothing that endures.
52
A WREATH FOR EDWIN MARKHAM
Time, always writing, sees no traceOf all he writes on Markham's face.
On Markham's face he writes in vain:
Apollo rubs it out again.
TOO MUCH COFFEE
Together in infinite shadeThey defy the invincible dawn:
The Measure that never was made,
The Line that never was drawn.
FORTUNATUS
Be as you are; your story is all told,
And all without the cost of augury.
Nothing in years, nothing in chance or fate,
May dent the mail of your complacency.
And all without the cost of augury.
Nothing in years, nothing in chance or fate,
May dent the mail of your complacency.
Be as you are, and always as you are;
Grope for no more than may be requisite.
You are among the chosen of the world
Who serve it best when unaware of it.
Grope for no more than may be requisite.
You are among the chosen of the world
Who serve it best when unaware of it.
For while you see it as it never was,
Your ministration will not be in vain;
You will ameliorate the mystery
Somewhat in seeing so little to explain.
Your ministration will not be in vain;
You will ameliorate the mystery
Somewhat in seeing so little to explain.
You will not see the drama of dead lives
That are behind calm faces and closed doors;
You will not feel the weight of heavy chains
That others wear that you may not wear yours;
That are behind calm faces and closed doors;
You will not feel the weight of heavy chains
That others wear that you may not wear yours;
53
You will not hear the breathing of the beast
That has been history since there was man;
And seeing not much that need be different,
You will not wonder why it all began.
That has been history since there was man;
And seeing not much that need be different,
You will not wonder why it all began.
You will not have to see how small a place
Will be enough to make of you a king;
You will have all there is for you to use,
And having little will have everything.
Will be enough to make of you a king;
You will have all there is for you to use,
And having little will have everything.
MODRED
A FRAGMENT
Time and the dark
Had come, but not alone. The southern gate
That had been open wide for Lancelot
Made now an entrance for three other men,
Who strode along the gravel or the grass,
Careless of who should hear them. When they came
To the great oak and the two empty chairs,
One paused, and held the others with a tongue
That sang an evil music while it spoke:
“Sit here, my admirable Colgrevance,
And you, my gentle Agravaine, sit here.
For me, well I have had enough of sitting;
And I have heard enough and seen enough
To blast a kingdom into kingdom come,
Had I so fierce a mind—which happily
I have not, for the king here is my father.
There's been a comment and a criticism
Abounding, I believe, in Camelot
For some time at my undeserved expense,
But God forbid that I should make my father
Less happy than he will be when he knows
What I shall have to tell him presently;
And that will only be what he has known
Since Merlin, or the ghost of Merlin, came
Two years ago to warn him. Though he sees,
One thing he will not see; and this must end.
We must have no blind kings in Camelot,
Or we shall have no land worth harrowing,
And our last harvest will be food for strangers.
My father, as you know, has gone a-hunting.”
Had come, but not alone. The southern gate
That had been open wide for Lancelot
Made now an entrance for three other men,
Who strode along the gravel or the grass,
Careless of who should hear them. When they came
To the great oak and the two empty chairs,
One paused, and held the others with a tongue
That sang an evil music while it spoke:
“Sit here, my admirable Colgrevance,
And you, my gentle Agravaine, sit here.
For me, well I have had enough of sitting;
And I have heard enough and seen enough
To blast a kingdom into kingdom come,
Had I so fierce a mind—which happily
I have not, for the king here is my father.
There's been a comment and a criticism
Abounding, I believe, in Camelot
For some time at my undeserved expense,
But God forbid that I should make my father
Less happy than he will be when he knows
What I shall have to tell him presently;
And that will only be what he has known
Since Merlin, or the ghost of Merlin, came
Two years ago to warn him. Though he sees,
One thing he will not see; and this must end.
54
Or we shall have no land worth harrowing,
And our last harvest will be food for strangers.
My father, as you know, has gone a-hunting.”
“We know about the king,” said Agravaine,
“And you know more than any about the queen.
We are still waiting, Modred. Colgrevance
And I are waiting.”
“And you know more than any about the queen.
We are still waiting, Modred. Colgrevance
And I are waiting.”
Modred laughed at him
Indulgently: “Did I say more than any?
If so, then inadvertently I erred;
For there is one man here, one Lancelot,
Who knows, I fancy, a deal more than I do,
And I know much. Yes, I know more than much.
Yet who shall snuff the light of what he knows
To blind the king he serves? No, Agravaine,
A wick like that would smoke and smell of treason.”
Indulgently: “Did I say more than any?
If so, then inadvertently I erred;
For there is one man here, one Lancelot,
Who knows, I fancy, a deal more than I do,
And I know much. Yes, I know more than much.
Yet who shall snuff the light of what he knows
To blind the king he serves? No, Agravaine,
A wick like that would smoke and smell of treason.”
“Your words are mostly smoke, if I may say so,”
Said Colgrevance: “What is it you have seen,
And what are we to do? I wish no ill
To Lancelot. I know no evil of him,
Or of the queen; and I'll hear none of either,
Save what you, on your oath, may tell me now.
I look yet for the trail of your dark fancy
To blur your testament.”
Said Colgrevance: “What is it you have seen,
And what are we to do? I wish no ill
To Lancelot. I know no evil of him,
Or of the queen; and I'll hear none of either,
Save what you, on your oath, may tell me now.
I look yet for the trail of your dark fancy
To blur your testament.”
“No, Colgrevance,
There are no blurs or fancies exercising
Tonight where I am. Lancelot will ascend
Anon, betimes, and with no drums or shawms
To sound the appointed progress of his feet;
And he will not be lost along the way,
For there are landmarks and he knows them all.
No, Colgrevance, there are no blurs or fancies
Unless it be that your determination
Has made them for your purpose what they seem.
But here I beg your pardon, Colgrevance.
We reticent ones are given to say too much,
With our tongues once in action. Pray forgive.
Your place tonight will be a shadowed alcove,
Where you may see this knight without a stain
While he goes in where no man save the king
Has dared before to follow. Agravaine
And I will meet you on the floor below,
Having already beheld this paragon-Joseph
Go by us for your clinching observation.
Then we, with a dozen or so for strength, will act;
And there shall be no more of Lancelot.”
There are no blurs or fancies exercising
Tonight where I am. Lancelot will ascend
Anon, betimes, and with no drums or shawms
To sound the appointed progress of his feet;
And he will not be lost along the way,
For there are landmarks and he knows them all.
No, Colgrevance, there are no blurs or fancies
Unless it be that your determination
Has made them for your purpose what they seem.
But here I beg your pardon, Colgrevance.
55
With our tongues once in action. Pray forgive.
Your place tonight will be a shadowed alcove,
Where you may see this knight without a stain
While he goes in where no man save the king
Has dared before to follow. Agravaine
And I will meet you on the floor below,
Having already beheld this paragon-Joseph
Go by us for your clinching observation.
Then we, with a dozen or so for strength, will act;
And there shall be no more of Lancelot.”
“Modred, I wish no ill to Lancelot,
And I know none of him,” said Colgrevance.
“My dream is of a sturdier way than this
For me to serve my king. Give someone else
That alcove, and let me be of the twelve.
I swear it irks the marrow of my soul
To shadow Lancelot—though I may fight him,
If so it is to be. Furthermore, Modred,
You gave me not an inkling of the part
That you have read off now so pleasantly
For me to play. No, Modred, by the God
Who knows the right way and the wrong, I'll be
This night no poisonous inhabitant
Of alcoves in your play, not even for you.
No man were more the vassal of his friend
Than I am, but I'm damned if I'll be owned.”
And I know none of him,” said Colgrevance.
“My dream is of a sturdier way than this
For me to serve my king. Give someone else
That alcove, and let me be of the twelve.
I swear it irks the marrow of my soul
To shadow Lancelot—though I may fight him,
If so it is to be. Furthermore, Modred,
You gave me not an inkling of the part
That you have read off now so pleasantly
For me to play. No, Modred, by the God
Who knows the right way and the wrong, I'll be
This night no poisonous inhabitant
Of alcoves in your play, not even for you.
No man were more the vassal of his friend
Than I am, but I'm damned if I'll be owned.”
In a becoming darkness Modred smiled
Away the first accession of his anger.
“Say not like that,” he answered, musically.
“Be temperate, Colgrevance. Remember always
Your knighthood and your birth. Remember, too,
That I may hold him only as my friend
Who loves me for myself, not for my station.
We're born for what we're born for, Colgrevance;
And you and I and Agravaine are born
To serve our king. It's all for the same end,
Whether we serve in alcoves, or behind
A velvet arras on another floor.
What matters it, if we be loyal men—
With only one defection?”
Away the first accession of his anger.
“Say not like that,” he answered, musically.
“Be temperate, Colgrevance. Remember always
Your knighthood and your birth. Remember, too,
That I may hold him only as my friend
Who loves me for myself, not for my station.
We're born for what we're born for, Colgrevance;
And you and I and Agravaine are born
To serve our king. It's all for the same end,
Whether we serve in alcoves, or behind
56
What matters it, if we be loyal men—
With only one defection?”
“Which is—what?”
Said Agravaine, who breathed hard and said little,
Albeit he had no fame abroad for silence.
Said Agravaine, who breathed hard and said little,
Albeit he had no fame abroad for silence.
“Delay—procrastination—overcaution—
Or what word now assimilates itself
The best with your inquiring mood, my brother.
These operations that engage us now
Were planned and executed long ago,
Had I but acted then on what was written
No less indelibly than at this hour,
Though maybe not so scorchingly on me.
‘If there were only Modred in the way,’—
I heard her saying it—‘would you come tonight?’
Saint Brandan! How she nuzzled and smothered him!
Forgive me, Colgrevance, when I say more
Than my raw vanity may reconcile
With afterthought. But that was what she said
To Lancelot, and that was what I heard.
And what I saw was of an even bias
With all she told him here. God, what a woman!
She floats about the court so like a lily,
That even I'd be fooled were I the king,
Seeing with his eyes what I would not see.
But now the stars are crying in their courses
For this to end, and we are men to end it.
Meanwhile, for the king's hunting and his health,
We have tonight a sort of wassailing;
Wherefore we may as well address ourselves,
Against our imminent activities,
To something in the way of trencher service—
Which also is a service to the king.
For they who serve must eat. God save the King!”
Or what word now assimilates itself
The best with your inquiring mood, my brother.
These operations that engage us now
Were planned and executed long ago,
Had I but acted then on what was written
No less indelibly than at this hour,
Though maybe not so scorchingly on me.
‘If there were only Modred in the way,’—
I heard her saying it—‘would you come tonight?’
Saint Brandan! How she nuzzled and smothered him!
Forgive me, Colgrevance, when I say more
Than my raw vanity may reconcile
With afterthought. But that was what she said
To Lancelot, and that was what I heard.
And what I saw was of an even bias
With all she told him here. God, what a woman!
She floats about the court so like a lily,
That even I'd be fooled were I the king,
Seeing with his eyes what I would not see.
But now the stars are crying in their courses
For this to end, and we are men to end it.
Meanwhile, for the king's hunting and his health,
We have tonight a sort of wassailing;
Wherefore we may as well address ourselves,
Against our imminent activities,
To something in the way of trencher service—
Which also is a service to the king.
For they who serve must eat. God save the King!”
They took the way of Lancelot along
The darkened hedges to the palace lights,
With Modred humming lowly to himself
A chant of satisfaction. Colgrevance,
Not healed of an essential injury,
Nor given the will to cancel his new pledge
To Modred, made with neither knowing why,
Passed in without a word, leaving his two
Companions hesitating on the steps
Outside, one scowling and the other smiling.
The darkened hedges to the palace lights,
57
A chant of satisfaction. Colgrevance,
Not healed of an essential injury,
Nor given the will to cancel his new pledge
To Modred, made with neither knowing why,
Passed in without a word, leaving his two
Companions hesitating on the steps
Outside, one scowling and the other smiling.
“Modred, you may have gone an inch too far
With Colgrevance tonight. Why set a trap
For trouble? We've enough with no additions.
His fame is that of one among the faithful,
Without a fear, and fearless without guile.”
With Colgrevance tonight. Why set a trap
For trouble? We've enough with no additions.
His fame is that of one among the faithful,
Without a fear, and fearless without guile.”
“And that is why we need him, Agravaine,”
Said Modred, with another singing laugh.
“He'll go as was appointed by his fate
For my necessity. A man to achieve
High deeds must have a Colgrevance or two
Around him for unused emergencies,
And for the daily sweat. Your Colgrevance
May curse himself till he be violet,
Yet he will do your work. There is none else,
Apparently, that God will let him do.”
Said Modred, with another singing laugh.
“He'll go as was appointed by his fate
For my necessity. A man to achieve
High deeds must have a Colgrevance or two
Around him for unused emergencies,
And for the daily sweat. Your Colgrevance
May curse himself till he be violet,
Yet he will do your work. There is none else,
Apparently, that God will let him do.”
“Not always all of it,” said Agravaine.
But Modred answered with another laugh
And led the way in to the wassailing,
Where Dagonet was trolling a new song
To Lancelot, who smiled—as if in pain
To see so many friends and enemies,
All cheering him, all drinking, and all gay.
But Modred answered with another laugh
And led the way in to the wassailing,
Where Dagonet was trolling a new song
To Lancelot, who smiled—as if in pain
To see so many friends and enemies,
All cheering him, all drinking, and all gay.
| Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |