 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
THE POET'S ADVICE
I
YOU wish to be a poet, Little Man?
More verses limping 'neath their big intent?
Well—one must be a poet if one can!
But do you know the way the others went?
More verses limping 'neath their big intent?
Well—one must be a poet if one can!
But do you know the way the others went?
Who buys of gods must pay a heavy fee.
The World loves not its dreamers overmuch.
And he who longs to drink at Castaly,
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch.
The World loves not its dreamers overmuch.
And he who longs to drink at Castaly,
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch.
One sins by being different, it seems;
At least so in our human commonweal.
Who goes to market with his minted dreams,
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal.
At least so in our human commonweal.
Who goes to market with his minted dreams,
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal.
Lo, tall amid the forest, blackened, grim,
The lightning-riven pine!—God-kissed was he.
How all the little beeches jeer at him,
Safe in their snug arrays of greenery!
The lightning-riven pine!—God-kissed was he.
How all the little beeches jeer at him,
Safe in their snug arrays of greenery!
And who shall call the little beeches mad?
Not I, who know how big are little acts.
Want what you have, and cherish, O my Lad,
The downright, foursquare, geometric facts!
Not I, who know how big are little acts.
53
The downright, foursquare, geometric facts!
II
But—Oh, the ancient glory in your eyes!
How bursts a dazzling wonder all around!
Wild tempests of ineffable surprise—
All color, dream and sound!
How bursts a dazzling wonder all around!
Wild tempests of ineffable surprise—
All color, dream and sound!
You lip the awful flagons of old time,
And mystic apples lure you to the bite!
Blown down the dizzy winds of woven rhyme,
Dead women come and woo you in the night!
And mystic apples lure you to the bite!
Blown down the dizzy winds of woven rhyme,
Dead women come and woo you in the night!
You tread the myrtle woods past time and place,
Where shadows flit and splendid echoes croon;
And through the boughs some fatal storied face
Breathes muted music like a Summer moon!
Where shadows flit and splendid echoes croon;
And through the boughs some fatal storied face
Breathes muted music like a Summer moon!
I know the secret altars where you kneel.
I know what lips fling fever in your kiss.
That sorry little drab to whom you steal
Is Queen Semiramis!
I know what lips fling fever in your kiss.
That sorry little drab to whom you steal
Is Queen Semiramis!
The Bacchanalia of the sap now reigns!
Priapic fires burn yonder bough with blooms!
Lo, goat-songs warbled from the vineyard fanes!
Lo, Venus-nipples in the apple-glooms!
Priapic fires burn yonder bough with blooms!
Lo, goat-songs warbled from the vineyard fanes!
Lo, Venus-nipples in the apple-glooms!
54
Ah, who is older than the vernal surge,
And who is wiser than the sap a-thrill?
Forever, he who feels the lyric urge
Shall do its will!
And who is wiser than the sap a-thrill?
Forever, he who feels the lyric urge
Shall do its will!
—Your rhymes?—Some nimbler footed have been worse.
What broken trumpet echoes from the van
Where march the cohorts of Immortal Verse!
Well—one must be a poet if one can.
What broken trumpet echoes from the van
Where march the cohorts of Immortal Verse!
Well—one must be a poet if one can.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |