Part 2

Bleating of sheep, the bark of a dog and, dun-yellow in the snow a long flock straggles. Crying of lambs, twitching noses of snowflecked ewes, the proud curved horns of a regal broadgirthed ram, yellow backs steaming; then, tails and tracks in the snow, and the responsible lope of the dog who stops with a paw lifted to look back at the baked apple face of the shepherd.

_Cercedilla_

XXIII JULIET

You were beside me on the stony path down from the mountain.

And I was the rain that lashed such flame into your cheeks and the sensuous rolling hills where the mists clung like garments.

I was the sadness that came out of the languid rain and the soft dove-tinted hills and choked you with the harsh embrace of a lover so that you almost sobbed.

_Siete Picos_

XXIV

When they sang as they marched in step on the long path that wound to the valley I followed lonely in silence.

When they sat and laughed by the hearth where our damp clothes steamed in the flare of the noisy prancing flames I sat still in the shadow for their language was strange to me.

But when as they slept I sat and watched by the door of the cabin I was not lonely for they lay with quiet faces stroked by the friendly tongues of the silent firelight and outside the white stars swarmed like gnats about a lamp in autumn an intelligible song.

_Cercedilla_

XXV

I lie among green rocks on the thyme-scented mountain. The thistledown clouds and the sky grey-white and grey-violet are mirrored in your dark eyes as in the changing pools of the mountain.

I have made for your head a wreath of livid crocuses. How strange they are the wan lilac crocuses against your dark smooth skin in the intense black of your wind-towseled hair.

Sleet from the high snowfields snaps a lash down the mountain bruising the withered petals of the last crocuses.

I am alone in the swirling mist beside the frozen pools of the mountain.

_La Maliciosa_

XXVI

Infinities away already are your very slender body and the tremendous dark of your eyes where once beyond the laughingness of childhood, came a breath of jessamine prophetic of summer, a sudden flutter of yellow butterflies above dark pools.

Shall I take down my books and weave from that glance a romance and build tinsel thrones for you out of old poets' fancies?

Shall I fashion a temple about you where to burn out my life like frankincense till you tower dark behind the sultry veil huge as Isis?

Or shall I go back to childhood remembering butterflies in sunny fields to cower with you when the chilling shadow fleets across the friendly sun?

_Bordeaux_

XXVII

And neither did Beatrice and Dante ... But Beatrice they say was a convention.

_November, 1916--February, 1917._

NIGHTS AT BASSANO

I DIRGE OF THE EMPRESS TAITU OF ABYSSINIA

_And when the news of the Death of the Empress of that Far Country did come to them, they fashioned of her an Image in doleful wise and poured out Rum and Marsala Sack and divers Liquors such as were procurable in that place into Cannikins to do her Honor and did wake and keen and make moan most piteously to hear. And that Night were there many Marvels and Prodigies observed; the Welkin was near consumed with fire and Spirits and Banashees grumbled and wailed above the roof and many that were in that place hid themselves in Dens and Burrows in the ground. Of the swanlike and grievously melodious Ditties the Minstrels fashioned in that fearsome Night these only are preserved for the Admiration of the Age._

[I]

Our lady lies on a brave high bed, On pillows of gold with gold baboons On red silk deftly embroidered-- O anger and eggs and candlelight-- Her gold-specked eyes have little sight.

Our lady cries on a brave high bed; The golden light of the candles licks The crown of gold on her frizzly head-- O candles and angry eggs so white-- Her gold-specked eyes are sharp with fright.

Our lady sighs till the high bed creaks; The golden candles gutter and sway In the swirling dark the dark priest speaks-- O his eyes are white as eggs with fright --Our lady will die twixt night and night.

Our lady lies on a brave high bed; The golden crown has slipped from her head On the pillows crimson embroidered-- O baboons writhing in candlelight-- Her gold-specked soul has taken flight.

[II] ZABAGLIONE

Champagne-colored Deepening to tawniness As the throats of nightingales Strangled for Nero's supper.

Champagne-colored Like the coverlet of Dudloysha At the Hotel Continental.

Thick to the lips and velvety Scented of rum and vanilla Oversweet, oversoft, overstrong, Full of froth of fascination, Drink to be drunk of Isoldes Sunk in champagne-colored couches While Tristans with fair flowing hair And round cheeks rosy as cherubs Stand and stretch their arms, And let their great slow tears Roll and fall, And splash in the huge gold cups.

And behind the scenes with his sleeves rolled up, Grandiloquently Kurwenal beats the eggs Into spuming symphonic splendor Champagne-colored.

Red-nosed gnomes roll and tumble Tussle and jumble in the firelight Roll on their backs spinning rotundly, Out of earthern jars Gloriously gurgitating, Wriggling their huge round bellies.

And the air of the cave is heavy With steaming Marsala and rum And hot bruised vanilla.

Champagne-colored, one lies in a velvetiness Of yellow moths stirring faintly tickling wings One is heavy and full of languor And sleep is a champagne-colored coverlet, the champagne-colored stockings of Venus ... And later One goes And pukes beautifully beneath the moon, Champagne-colored.

II ODE TO ENNUI

The autumn leaves that this morning danced with the wind, curtseying in slow minuettes, giddily whirling in bacchanals, balancing, hesitant, tiptoe, while the wind whispered of distant hills, and clouds like white sails, sailing in limpid green ice-colored skies, have crossed the picket fence and the three strands of barbed wire; they have leapt the green picket fence despite the sentry's bayonet.

Under the direction of a corporal three soldiers in khaki are sweeping them up, sweeping up the autumn leaves, crimson maple leaves, splotched with saffron, ochre and cream, brown leaves of horse-chestnuts ... and the leaves dance and curtsey round the brooms, full of mirth, wistful of the journey the wind promised them.

This morning the leaves fluttered gaudily, reckless, giddy from the wind's dances, over the green picket fence and the three strands of barbed wire. Now they are swept up and put in a garbage can with cigarette butts and chewed-out quids of tobacco, burnt matches, old socks, torn daily papers, and dust from the soldiers' blankets.

And the wind blows tauntingly over the mouth of the garbage can, whispering, Far away, mockingly, Far away ...

And I too am swept up and put in a garbage can with smoked cigarette ash and chewed-out quids of tobacco; I am fallen into the dominion of the great dusty queen ... Ennui, iron goddess, cobweb-clothed goddess of all useless things, of attics cluttered with old chairs for centuries unsatupon, of strong limbs wriggling on office stools, of ancient cab-horses and cabs that sleep all day in silent sunny squares, of camps bound with barbed wire, and green picket fences-- bind my eyes with your close dust choke my ears with your grey cobwebs that I may not see the clouds that sail away across the sky, far away, tauntingly, that I may not hear the wind that mocks and whispers and is gone in pursuit of the horizon.

III TIVOLI TO D. P.

The ropes of the litter creak and groan As the bearers turn down the steep path; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet. But the Roman poet lies back confident On his magenta cushions and mattresses, Thinks of Greek bronzes At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves.

The slaves' breasts shine with sweat, And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air As they lurch through tunnel after tunnel of leaves. At last, where the spray swirls like smoke, And the river roars in a cauldron of green, The poet feels his fat arms quiver And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted In the reverberance of the fall.

The ropes of the litter creak and groan, The embroidered curtains, moist with spray, Flutter in the poet's face; Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet As the slaves strain up the path again, And the Roman poet lies back confident Among silk cushions of gold and magenta, His hands clasped across his mountainous belly, Thinking of the sibyll and fate, And gorgeous and garlanded death, Mouthing hexameters.

But I, my belly full and burning as the sun With the good white wine of the Alban hills Stumble down the path Into the cool green and the roar, And wonder, and am abashed.

IV VENICE

The doge goes down in state to the sea To inspect with beady traders' eyes New cargoes from Crete, Mytilene, Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piled With bales off which in all the days Of sailing the sea-wind has not blown The dust of Arabian caravans.

In velvet the doge goes down to the sea. And sniffs the dusty bales of spice Pepper from Cathay, nard and musk, Strange marbles from ruined cities, packed In unfamiliar-scented straw. Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun. Marmosets pull at the pompous gowns Of burgesses. Parrots scream And cling swaying to the ochre bales ... Dazzle of the rising dust of trade Smell of pitch and straining slaves ...

And out on the green tide towards the sea Drift the rinds of orient fruits Strange to the lips, bitter and sweet.

V ASOLO GATE

The air is drenched to the stars With fragrance of flowering grape Where the hills hunch up from the plain To the purple dark ridges that sweep Towards the flowery-pale peaks and the snow.

Faint as the peaks in the glister of starlight, A figure on a silver-tinkling snow-white mule Climbs the steeply twining stony road Through murmuring vineyards to the gate That gaps with black the wan starlight.

The watchman on his three-legged stool Drowses in his beard, dreams He is a boy walking with strong strides Of slender thighs down a wet road, Where flakes of violet-colored April sky Have brimmed the many puddles till the road Is as a tattered path across another sky.

The watchman on his three-legged stool, Sits snoring in his beard; His dream is full of flowers massed in meadowland, Of larks and thrushes singing in the dawn, Of touch of women's lips and twining hands, And madness of the sprouting spring ... His ears a-sudden ring with the shrill cry: Open watchman of the gate, It is I, the Cyprian.

--It is ruled by the burghers of this town Of Asolo, that from sundown To dawn no stranger shall come in, Be he even emperor, or doge's kin. --Open, watchman of the gate, It is I, the Cyprian. --Much scandal has been made of late By wandering women in this town. The laws forbid the opening of the gate Till next day once the sun is down. --Watchman know that I who wait Am Queen of Jerusalem, Queen Of Cypress, Lady of Asolo, friend Of the Doge and the Venetian State.

There is a sound of drums, and torches flare Dims the star-swarm, and war-horns' braying Drowns the fiddling of crickets in the wall, Hoofs strike fire on the flinty road, Mules in damasked silk caparisoned Climb in long train, strange shadows in torchlight, The road that winds to the city gate.

The watchman, fumbling with his keys, Mumbles in his beard:--Had thought She was another Cyprian, strange the dreams That come when one has eaten tripe. The great gates creak and groan, The hinges shriek, and the Queen's white mule Stalks slowly through.

The watchman, in the shadow of the wall, Looks out with heavy eyes:--Strange, What cavalcade is this that clatters into Asolo? These are not men-at-arms, These ruddy boys with vineleaves in their hair! That great-bellied one no seneschal Can be, astride an ass so gauntily! Virgin Mother! Saints! They wear no clothes!

And through the gate a warm wind blows, A dizzying perfume of the grape, And a great throng crying Cypris, Cyprian, with cymbals crashing and a shriek Of Thessalian pipes, and swaying of torches, That smell hot like wineskins of resin, That flare on arms empurpled and hot cheeks, And full shouting lips vermillion-red.

Youths and girls with streaming hair Pelting the night with flowers: Yellow blooms of Adonis, white scented stars of pale Narcissus, Mad incense of the blooming vine, And carmine passion of pomegranate blooms.

A-sudden all the strummings of the night, All the insect-stirrings, all the rustlings Of budding leaves, the sing-song Of waters brightly gurgling through meadowland, Are shouting with the shouting throng, Crying Cypris, Cyprian, Queen of the seafoam, Queen of the budding year, Queen of eyes that flame and hands that twine, Return to us, return from the fields of asphodel.

And all the grey town of Asolo Is full of lutes and songs of love, And vows exchanged from balcony to balcony Across the singing streets ... But in the garden of the nunnery, Of the sisters of poverty, daughters of dust, The cock crows. The cock crows.

The watchman rubs his old ribbed brow: Through the gate, in silk all dusty from the road, Into the grey town asleep under the stars, On tired mules and lean old war-horses Comes a crowd of quarrelling men-at-arms After a much-veiled lady with a falcon on her wrist. --This Asolo? What a nasty silent town He sends me to, that dull old doge.

And you, watchman, I've told you thrice That I am Cypress's Queen, Jerusalem's, And Lady of this dull village, Asolo; Tend your gates better. Are you deaf, That you stand blinking at me, pulling at your dirty beard? You shall be thrashed, when I rule Asolo. --What strange dreams, mumbled in his beard The ancient watchman, come from eating tripe.

VI HARLEQUINADE

Shrilly whispering down the lanes That serpent through the ancient night, They, the scoffers, the scornful of chains, Stride their turbulent flight.

The stars spin steel above their heads In the shut irrevocable sky; Gnarled thorn-branches tear to shreds Their cloaks of pageantry.

A wind blows bitter in the grey, Chills the sweat on throbbing cheeks, And tugs the gaudy rags away From their lean bleeding knees.

Their laughter startles the scarlet dawn Among a tangled spiderwork Of girdered steel, and shrills forlorn And dies in the rasp of wheels.

Whirling like gay prints that whirl In tatters of squalid gaudiness, Borne with dung and dust in the swirl Of wind down the endless street,

With thin lips laughing bitterly, Through the day smeared in sooty smoke That pours from each red chimney, They speed unseemily.

Women with unlustered hair, Men with huge ugly hands of oil, Children, impudently stare And point derisive hands.

Only ... where a barrel organ thrills Two small peak-chested girls to dance, And among the iron clatter spills A swiftening rhythmy song,

They march in velvet silkslashed hose, Strumming guitars and mellow lutes, Strutting pointed Spanish toes, A stately company.

VII TO THE MEMORY OF DEBUSSY _Good Friday, 1918._

This is the feast of death We make of our pain God; We worship the nails and the rod and pain's last choking breath and the bleeding rack of the cross.

The women have wept away their tears, with red eyes turned on death, and loss of friends and kindred, have left the biers flowerless, and bound their heads in their blank veils, and climbed the steep slope of Golgotha; fails at last the wail of their bereavement, and all the jagged world of rocks and desert places stands before their racked sightless faces, as any ice-sea silent.

This is the feast of conquering death. The beaten flesh worships the swishing rod. The lacerated body bows to its God, adores the last agonies of breath.

And one more has joined the unnumbered deathstruck multitudes who with the loved of old have slumbered ages long, where broods Earth the beneficent goddess, the ultimate queen of quietness, taker of all worn souls and bodies back into the womb of her first nothingness.

But ours, who in the iron night remain, ours the need, the pain of his departing. He had lived on out of a happier age into our strident torture-cage. He still could sing of quiet gardens under rain and clouds and the huge sky and pale deliciousness that is nearly pain. His was a new minstrelsy: strange plaints brought home out of the rich east, twanging songs from Tartar caravans, hints of the sounds that ceased with the stilling dawn, wailings of the night, echoes of the web of mystery that spans the world between the failing and the rising of the wan daylight of the sea, and of a woman's hair hanging gorgeous down a dungeon wall, evening falling on Tintagel, love lost in the mist of old despair.

Against the bars of our torture-cage we beat out our poor lives in vain. We live on cramped in an iron age like prisoners of old high on the world's battlements exposed until we die to the chilling rain crouched and chattering from cold for all scorn to stare at. And we watch one by one the great stroll leisurely out of the western gate and without a backward look at the strident city drink down the stirrup-cup of fate embrace the last obscurity.

We worship the nails and the rod and pain's last choking breath. We make of our pain God. This is the feast of death.

VIII PALINODE OF VICTORY

Beer is free to soldiers In every bar and tavern As the regiments victorious March under garlands to the city square.

Beer is free to soldiers And lips are free, and women, Breathless, stand on tiptoe To see the flushed young thousands in advance.

"Beer is free to soldiers; Give all to the liberators" ... Under wreaths of laurel And small and large flags fluttering, victorious, They of the frock-coats, with clink of official chains, Are welcoming with eloquence outpouring The liberating thousands, the victorious; In their speaking is a soaring of great phrases, Balloons of tissue paper, Hung with patriotic bunting, That rise serene into the blue, While the crowds with necks uptilted Gaze at their upward soaring Till they vanish in the blue; And each man feels the blood of life Rumble in his ears important With participation in Events.

But not the fluttering of great flags Or the brass bands blaring, victorious, Or the speeches of persons in frock coats, Who pause for the handclapping of crowds, Not the stamp of men and women dancing, Or the bubbling of beer in the taverns,-- Frothy mugs free for the victorious--, Not all the trombone-droning of Events, Can drown the inextinguishible laughter of the gods.

And they hear it, the old hooded houses, The great creaking peak-gabled houses, That gossip and chuckle to each other Across the clattering streets; They hear it, the old great gates, The grey gates with towers, Where in the changing shrill winds of the years Have groaned the poles of many various-colored banners. The poplars of the high-road hear it, From their trembling twigs comes a dry laughing, As they lean towards the glare of the city. And the old hard-laughing paving-stones, Old stones weary with the weariness Of the labor of men's footsteps, Hear it as they quake and clamour Under the garlanded wheels of the yawning confident cannon That are dragged victorious through the flutter of the city.

Beer is free to soldiers, Bubbles on wind-parched lips, Moistens easy kisses Lavished on the liberators.

Beer is free to soldiers All night in steaming bars, In halls delirious with dancing That spill their music into thronging streets.

--All is free to soldiers, To the weary heroes Who have bled, and soaked The whole earth in their sacrificial blood, Who have with their bare flesh clogged The crazy wheels of Juggernaut, Freed the peoples from the dragon that devoured them, That scorched with greed their pleasant fields and villages, Their quiet delightful places:

So they of the frock-coats, amid wreaths and flags victorious, To the crowds in the flaring squares, And a murmurous applause Rises like smoke to mingle in the sky With the crashing of the bells.

But, resounding in the sky, Louder than the tramp of feet, Louder than the crash of bells, Louder than the blare of bands, victorious, Shrieks the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.

The old houses rock with it, And wag their great peaked heads, The old gates shake, And the pavings ring with it, As with the iron tramp of old fighters, As with the clank of heels of the victorious, By long ages vanquished. The spouts in the gurgling fountains Wrinkle their shiny griffin faces, Splash the rhythm in their ice-fringed basins-- Of the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.

And far up into the inky sky, Where great trailing clouds stride across the world, Darkening the spired cities, And the villages folded in the hollows of hills, And the shining cincture of railways, And the pale white twining roads, Sounds with the stir of quiet monotonous breath Of men and women stretched out sleeping, Sounds with the thin wail of pain Of hurt things huddled in darkness, Sounds with the victorious racket Of speeches and soldiers drinking, Sounds with the silence of the swarming dead-- The inextinguishable laughter of the gods.

IX

O I would take my pen and write In might of words A pounding dytheramb Alight with teasing fires of hate, Or drone to numbness in the spell Of old loves long lived away A drowsy vilanelle. O I would build an Ark of words, A safe ciborium where to lay The secret soul of loveliness. O I would weave of words in rhythm A gaudily wrought pall For the curious cataphalque of fate.

But my pen does otherwise.