 | Later Poems |  |
III. A Poet
How long ago? Have years or only days
Gone by? We live in sense and not in years.
They said—what was it?—an ugly piece of work.
Well, one may think that out of ugliness
The perfect beauty shall be born some day:
Or shall we say, things are not as they seem?
Nothing is fair or ugly in itself?
Who would have thought that small-faced, soft-eyed child,
Mildred, who lay upon my breast and cooed,
Would slay another, and then kill herself?
The world is very evil; O dear God,
When shall Thy light arise and all be peace?
We poets are forerunners of the time
When all shall run in rhythmic harmony:
We, the great poets, like the Weimar sage,
Who keep us calm amid the tempest's roar.
The lesser poets are beaten, driven about,
Are passion's slaves. Well, well, they have their place;
They take the big world's anguish on their heart,
And so their songs, half-stifled, only rise
To sink; a poet should be no mere man,
And these are men. God give us gracious calm
To float immortal song on: I am calm,
Yet touched by gentle sorrow's tenderness,
Which lies on me like dew upon a flower.
Gone by? We live in sense and not in years.
They said—what was it?—an ugly piece of work.
Well, one may think that out of ugliness
The perfect beauty shall be born some day:
Or shall we say, things are not as they seem?
Nothing is fair or ugly in itself?
Who would have thought that small-faced, soft-eyed child,
Mildred, who lay upon my breast and cooed,
Would slay another, and then kill herself?
The world is very evil; O dear God,
When shall Thy light arise and all be peace?
We poets are forerunners of the time
When all shall run in rhythmic harmony:
We, the great poets, like the Weimar sage,
Who keep us calm amid the tempest's roar.
The lesser poets are beaten, driven about,
Are passion's slaves. Well, well, they have their place;
They take the big world's anguish on their heart,
And so their songs, half-stifled, only rise
To sink; a poet should be no mere man,
21
To float immortal song on: I am calm,
Yet touched by gentle sorrow's tenderness,
Which lies on me like dew upon a flower.
These little women! It is very strange!
Mildred's small face, white star in glooms of hair,
Slight body like a child's, and little soft
Child-hands; who would have thought she could have slain
That Elsa, glorious-limbed and Juno-tall?
O my poor Elsa, I would not see you dead,
I keep the memory of your beauty safe!
She poisoned you. She said—what was it she said?—
I did not mean to make the woman die,
But take a memory away from her.
They thought her mad, and shut her up away
From fair world-life: and then she slew herself;
And all for love—why should she not have known
That love is but a little part of life,
As poets know, and all harmonious souls?
Mildred was not harmonious; Elsa was;
One living harmony of spirit and sense,
One flame-like motion quick and passionate.
Mildred's small face, white star in glooms of hair,
Slight body like a child's, and little soft
Child-hands; who would have thought she could have slain
That Elsa, glorious-limbed and Juno-tall?
O my poor Elsa, I would not see you dead,
I keep the memory of your beauty safe!
She poisoned you. She said—what was it she said?—
I did not mean to make the woman die,
But take a memory away from her.
They thought her mad, and shut her up away
From fair world-life: and then she slew herself;
And all for love—why should she not have known
That love is but a little part of life,
As poets know, and all harmonious souls?
Mildred was not harmonious; Elsa was;
One living harmony of spirit and sense,
One flame-like motion quick and passionate.
Well, these things rightly apprehended blend themselves
In life, to make the harmony of song.
Shall Mildred's tear-drenched kisses leave a taste
Of brine upon my lips? Not so, not so.
Nothing shall break this splendid calm of mine.
One cannot sing in tempest, therefore, peace.
The small among us cannot do the work,
The great wait for the greater ones to come.
Shall I keep earth a-waiting? Surely not.
In life, to make the harmony of song.
Shall Mildred's tear-drenched kisses leave a taste
Of brine upon my lips? Not so, not so.
Nothing shall break this splendid calm of mine.
One cannot sing in tempest, therefore, peace.
The small among us cannot do the work,
The great wait for the greater ones to come.
Shall I keep earth a-waiting? Surely not.
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They are at rest, Elsa and Mildred too,
Mildred, poor passion-beaten barque! God brings
Such to the haven where they fain would be.
Mildred, poor passion-beaten barque! God brings
Such to the haven where they fain would be.
Ah, I will weave their story into my life,
And so my Art will be the richer much.
I, Goethe-like, will drink experience
In at each pore. Good-night, dear Mildred, now.
If Elsa blended spirit more with sense,
You sounded passion's glorious monochord
Full deeply. Well, good-night, my lady dear!
Good-night, dear Elsa!
It is night, and peace.
And so my Art will be the richer much.
I, Goethe-like, will drink experience
In at each pore. Good-night, dear Mildred, now.
If Elsa blended spirit more with sense,
You sounded passion's glorious monochord
Full deeply. Well, good-night, my lady dear!
Good-night, dear Elsa!
It is night, and peace.
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