Part 2

The vast and intimate Silence--and your lips...

Faintly we saw the lanterns of three ships, Three swaying sparks of sudden red and green... We spoke no word; we heard unseen A night-bird wearily flapping. And nothing murmured in that world of wonder-- Only the hushing waters' gentle lapping.

A distant trembling, as of ghostly thunder; Then, poignantly and plain, The lonely whistle of a weary train... And once again the Silence--and your lips.

Oh let me never cease to thank you for that night; That night that eased and fortified my heart. When radiant peace, dearer than all delight, Bathed every old and feverish smart, Wiped out all memories of the uncleanly fight... Cradled in that great beauty, and your arms, The cries and mad alarms Were lulled and all the bitter banners furled. The tumult vanished, and the thought thereof... In you I knew the sweet contentment of the world, The balm of silence and the strength of love.

IN A STRANGE CITY

Dusk--and a hunger for your face That grows, with brooding twilight, deeper, While in this hushed and cheerless place, The world lies, like a careless sleeper. Oh for a brave, red wave of sound To send Life flowing somehow through me; Oh for the blatant, human round To end these hours lone and gloomy.

At last--the friendly summer night, And children's voices calling after. Long avenues sing out with light; Murmurs arise and bursts of laughter. I hear the lisp of happy feet-- Life goes by like a rushing river-- A boy comes whistling up the street... And I am lonelier than ever.

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?" "_Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!_"

Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?" "_Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain._"

Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care-- What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?" "_Oh mother--oh mother--you never can know-- I loved him so!_"

IN THE STREETS

Boy, my boy, it is lonely in the city, Days that have no pity and the nights without a tear Follow all too slowly and I can no more dissemble; I am frightened and I tremble--and I would that you were here. Oh boy--God keep you.

Boy, my boy, I had sworn to weep no longer. Time I thought was stronger than the evenings long gone by; The ardent looks, the eager hands, the whispers hot and hurried-- But they all come back unburied and not one of them will die. Oh boy--God save you.

Boy, my boy, you were bold with youth and power; Your love was like a flower that you wore upon your sleeve. And wherever you may go there'll be a girl with eyes that glisten; A girl to watch and listen, and a girl for you to leave. Oh boy--God help her!

ENVY

The willow and the river Ripple with silver speech, And one refrain forever They murmur each to each:

"Brook with the silver gravel, Would that your lot were mine; To wander free, to travel Where greener valleys shine-- Strange ventures, fresh revealings, And, at the end--the sea! Brook, with your turns and wheelings, How rich your life must be."

"Tree with the golden rustling, Would that I were so blessed, To cease this stumbling, jostling, This feverish unrest. I join the ocean's riot; You stand song-filled--and free! Tree, with your peace and quiet, How rich your life must be."

_The willow and the river Ripple with silver speech, And one refrain forever They murmur each to each._

A BIRTHDAY

Again I come With my handful of Song-- With my trumpery gift tricked out and made showy with rhyme. It is Spring, and the time When your thoughts are long; When the blossoming world in its confident prime Whispers and wakens imperative dreams; When you color and start With the airiest schemes And the laughter of children is stirring your heart...

With all of these voices that rise to restore you To gladness again, With your heart full of things that sing and adore you, I come with my strain-- I come with my tinkling that patters like rain On a rickety pane; With a jingle of words and old tunes which have long Done duty in song; Spreading my verse, like a showman, before you... And you turn to the world, as you turn to the bosom that bore you.

In all this singing at your heart, In all this ringing through the day, In the bravado of the May I have no part.... For I am not one with the conquering year That wakes without fear The lyrical souls of the feathery throng, That flames in the heavens when evenings are long; That surges with power and urges with cheer The boldness of love, the laugh of the strong, And the confident song...

I am no longer the masterful lover Storming my way to the shrine of your heart; Reckless with youth and the zest to discover All that the world sets apart. I am no longer Wiser and stronger; No longer I shout in the face of the world; No longer my challenge is sounded and hurled With such fury that even the heavens must hear it. No longer I mount on a passionate flood-- Something has changed my arrogant spirit, Something has left my braggart blood. Something has left me--something has entered in-- Something I knew not, something beyond my desire. Deeper and gentler I hold you; all that has been Seems like a spark that is lost in a forest of fire. Minor my song is, for still the old memories burn-- Only in you and your thought do I find my release... I have done with the blustering airs, and I turn From the clamorous strife to the greater heroics of peace.

_Take me again Out of the cries and alarms All of the tumult is vain... Here in your arms._

Hold me again-- Oft have we wandered apart; Now it is all made plain... Here in your heart.

Heal me again-- Cleanse me with tears that remove Pain and the ruins of pain... Here in your love.

Minor my song was--abashed I must lower my voice; Something has touched me with nobler and holier fire; Something that thrills, as when trumpets and children rejoice; Something I knew not, something beyond my desire... Minor no longer--the sighing and droning depart; In a chorus of triumph the jubilant spirits increase-- Shelter and spur me forever in the merciful strength of your heart, You who have soothed me with passion and roused me with passionate peace.

LEAVING THE HARBOR

At last the great, red sun sank low, An evil, blood-shot eye, And cooling airs sprang up to blow The sea that challenged, glow for glow, The angry face of the sky.

Still burned the streets we had left behind, Where, tortured and broken down, The millions scarcely hoped to find A moment's escape from the maddening grind In the terrible furnace of town.

And, blotting out cities, the twilight fell With a single star at seven... The sea grew wider beneath the spell And the moon, like a broken silver shell, Lay on the shore of heaven.

THE SHELL TO THE PEARL

Grow not so fast, glow not so warm; Thy hidden fires burn too wild-- Too perfect is thy rounded form; Cling close, my child.

Be yet my babe, rest quiet when The great sea-urges beat and call; Too soon wilt thou be ripe for men, The world and all.

Thy shining skin, thy silken sheath, These will undo thee all too soon; And men will fight for thee beneath Some paler moon...

Aye, thou my own, my undefiled, Shalt make the lewd world dream and start, When they have seized and torn thee, child, Out of my heart.

With velvets shall thy bed be laid; A royal captive thou shalt be-- And oh, what prices will be paid To ransom thee.

Thy path shall be a track of gold, Of lust, of death and countless crimes; Bought by a sensual world--and sold A thousand times...

And each shall lose thee at the last, Hating, yet still desiring thee... While I lie, where I have been cast, Back in the sea.

So wait--and, lest the world transform Thy soul and make thee wanton-wild, _Grow not so fast, glow not so warm, Cling close, my child._

THE YOUNG MYSTIC

We sat together close and warm, My little tired boy and I-- Watching across the evening sky The coming of the storm.

No rumblings rose, no thunders crashed, The west-wind scarcely sang aloud; But from a huge and solid cloud The summer lightnings flashed.

And then he whispered "Father, watch; I think God's going to light His moon--" "And when, my boy" ... "Oh, very soon-- I saw Him strike a match!"

HEALED

The winds like a pack of hounds Snap at my dragging heels With sudden leapings and playful bounds They urge me out to the greener grounds Where the butterfly sinks and the swallow reels Giddy with Spring, with its smells and sounds-- And I go...

For of late I have fretted and sulked, and clung to my books and the house; Lethargic with winter fancies and dulled with a torpid mood-- But now I am called by the grasses; the rumor of blossoming boughs; The hints of a thousand singers and the ancient thrill of the wood.

For the streets run over with sunlight and spill A glory on bricks and the dustiest sill; And Life, like a great drum, pulses and pounds-- I follow the world and I follow my will, And I go to see what the park reveals When the winds, like a pack of buoyant hounds, Snap at my dragging heels...

Once with the green again How I am changed-- Lo, I have seen again Friends long estranged. Once more the lyrical Rose-bush and river; Once more the miracle, Greater than ever!

Where is there dulness now-- Rich with new urges Life in its fullness now Surges and purges All that is brash in me-- Sunlight and Song These things will fashion me Splendid and strong.

Splendid and strong I shall grow once again; Joyful and clean as the mind of a child, As tears after pain, Or hearts reconciled, As woods washed with rain, As love in the wild, Or that bird to whom all things but singing is vain.

"Bird, there were songs in your heart just as rapturous As these that you bring-- Why when we longed for your magic to capture us Did you not sing? Now with the world making music we heed you not. Coward, for all your fine challenge, we need you not-- We too are brave with the Spring!"

So I sang--but a something was missing; the song and the sunlight were stale, Though a squirrel had sat on my shoulder and sparrows had fed from my hand; Though I heard the white laughter of ripples and the breezes' faint answering hail, And somewhere a bird's voice I knew not--yet hearing could half understand...

And lo, at my doorstep I saw it; it shouted to me as I came-- It laughed in its simple revealment, a miracle common and wild; Plainly I heard and beheld it, bright as a forest of flame-- And its face was the face of a mother, and its voice was the voice of a child.

THE STIRRUP-CUP

Your eyes--and a thousand stars Leap from the night to aid me; I scale the impossible bars, I laugh at a world that dismayed me.

Your voice--and the thundering skies Tremble and cease to appall me-- Coward no longer, I rise Spurred for what battles may call me.

Your arms--and my purpose grows strong; Your lips--and high passions complete me... For your love, it is armor and Song-- And where is the thing to defeat me!

SPRING ON BROADWAY

Make way for Spring-- Spring that's a stranger in the city, Spring that's a truant in the town. Make way for Spring, for she has no pity And she will tear your barriers down-- Make way for Spring!

See from her hidden valleys, With mirth that never palls, She comes with songs and sallies, With bells and magic calls, And dances down your alleys, And whispers through your walls.

You who never once have missed her In your town of pomp and pride Now in vain you will resist her-- You will feel her at your side; Even in the smallest street, Even in the densest throng, She will follow at your feet, She will walk with you along. She will stop you as you start Here and there, and growing bolder, She will touch you on the shoulder, She will clutch you at the heart...

Merchant, you who drink your mead From a golden cup, Shut your ears, and do not heed; Look not up. Beware--for she is light as air, And her charm will work confusion; Spring is but an old delusion And a snare.... Merchant, you who drink your mead While the thirsty die, Shut your eyes, and do not heed-- Pass her by.

Maiden with the nun-like eyes Do not pause to greet her; Spring is far too wild and wise-- Do not meet her. Do not listen while she tells Her persuasive lures and spells; Do not learn her secrets, lest She should plant them in your breast; Whisper things to shame and shock you, Make your heart beat fast--and mock you; Send you dreams that rob your rest... Maiden with the nun-like eyes Spring is far too wild and wise.

And you, my friend, with hasty stride Think you to escape her; Ah, like fire touching paper, She will burn into your side. She will rouse you once again; She will sway you, till you follow Like the smallest singing swallow In her train.

Put irons on your feet, my friend, And chain your soul with golden weights, Lest she should move you in the end And lead you past the city gates; And make you frolic with the wind; And play a thousand godlike parts; And sing--until within you starts A pity for the senseless blind, The deaf, the dumb and all their kind Whose eager, aimless footsteps wind Forever to the frantic marts, Through every mad and breathless street.., My friend, put irons on your feet.

So--and that is right, my friend; Do not yield. Send her on her way, and end All her follies; let her spend Her reckless days and nights concealed In wood and field...... The paths beyond the town are clear; These skies are wan-- Bid her begone. What is she doing here?

What is she doing here--and why? The city is no place for Spring. What can she have; what can she bring That you would care to buy. Her songs? Alas, you do not sing. Her smiles? You have no time to try. Her wings? You do not care to fly-- Spring has not fashioned anything To tempt your jaded eye.

The city is no place for her-- It is too violent and shrill; Too full of graver things--but still Beneath the throbbing surge and stir, Her spirit lives and moves, until Even the dullest feel the spur Of an awakened will.

Make way then--Life, rejoicing, Calls, with a lyric rout, Till in this mighty voicing The very stones sing out; Till nowhere is a single Sleeping or silent thing, And worlds that meet and mingle Fairly tingle with the Spring.

Make way for Her-- For the fervor of Life, For the passions that stir, For the courage of Strife; For the struggles that bring A more vivid day-- Make way for Spring; Make way!

IN A CAB

Rain--and the lights of the city, Blurred by the mist on the pane. A thing without passion or pity-- This is the rain.

It beats on the roof with derision, It howls at the doors of the cab-- Phantoms go by in a vision, Distorted and drab.

Torpor and dreariness greet me; All of the things I abhor Rise to confront and defeat me, As I ride to your door...

At last you have come; you have banished The gloom of each rain-haunted street-- The tawdry surroundings have vanished; The evening is sweet.

Now the whole city is dreamlike; The rain plays the lightest of tunes; The lamps through the mist make it seem like A city of moons.

No longer my fancies run riot; I hold the most magic of charms-- You smile at me, warm and unquiet, Here in my arms.

I do not wonder or witness Whether it rains or is fair; I only can think of your sweetness, And the scent of your hair.

I am deaf to the clatter and drumming, And life is a thing to ignore... Alas, my beloved, we are coming Once more to your door!...

You have gone; it is listless and lonely; The evening is empty again; The world is a blank--there is only The desolate rain.

SUMMER NIGHT--BROADWAY

Night is the city's disease. The streets and the people one sees Glow with a light that is strangely inhuman; A fever that never grows cold. Heaven completes the disgrace; For now, with her star-pitted face, Night has the leer of a dissolute woman, Cynical, moon-scarred and old.

And I think of the country roads; Of the quiet, sleeping abodes, Where every tree is a silent brother And the hearth is a thing to cling to. And I sicken and long for it now-- To feel clean winds on my brow, Where Night bends low, like an all-wise mother Looking for children to sing to.

HAUNTED

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop-- The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands...

Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred. Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride... _Who entered in?_

ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING

"IPHIGENIA IN AULIS"

1

Fling the stones and let them all Lie; Take a breath, and toss the ball High-- And before it strikes the floor Of the hoar and aged shore, Sweep them up, though there should be Even more than two or three.

Add a pebble, then once more Fling the stones and let them all Lie; Take a breath, and toss the ball High....

2

Rises now the sound of ancient chants And the circling figure moves more slowly. Thus the stately gods themselves must dance While the world grows rapturous and holy. Thus the gods might weave a great Romance Singing to the sighs of flute and psalter; Till the last of all the many chants, And the priestess sinks before the altar.

3

Cease, oh cease the murmured singing; Hush the numbers brave or blithe, For she enters gravely swinging, Lowering and lithe-- Dark and vengeful as the ringing Scythe meets scythe.

While the flame is fiercely sweeping All her virgin airs depart; She is, without smiles and weeping Or a maiden's art, Stern and savage as the leaping Heart meets heart!

4

Now the tune grows frantic, Now the torches flare-- Wild and corybantic Echoes fill the air. With a sudden sally All the voices shout; And the bacchic rally Turns into a rout.

Here is life that surges Through each burning vein; Here is joy that purges Every creeping pain. Even sober Sadness Casts aside her pall, Till with buoyant madness She must swoon and fall...

CHOPIN

Faint preludings on a flute And she swims before us; Shadows follow in pursuit, Like a phantom chorus. Sense and sound are intertwined Through her necromancy, Till our dreaming souls are blind To all things but fancy.

Haunted woods and perfumed nights, Swift and soft desires, Roses, violet-colored lights, And the sound of lyres, Vague chromatics on a flute-- All are subtly blended, Till the instrument grows mute And the dance is ended.

SONGS AND THE POET

(_For Sara Teasdale_)

Sing of the rose or of the mire; sing strife Or rising moons; the silence or the throng... Poet, it matters not, if Life Is in the song.

If Life rekindles it, and if the rhymes Bear Beauty as their eloquent refrain, Though it were sung a thousand times, Sing it again!

Thrill us with song--let others preach or rage; Make us so thirst for Beauty that we cease These struggles, and this strident age Grows sweet with peace.

THE HERETIC

I.

BLASPHEMY

I do not envy God-- There is no thing in all the skies or under To startle and awaken Him to wonder; No marvel can appear To stir His placid soul with terrible thunder-- He was not born with awe nor blessed with fear.

I do not envy God-- He is not burned with Spring and April madness; The rush of Life--its rash, impetuous gladness He cannot hope to know. He cannot feel the fever and the sadness The leaping fire, the insupportable glow.

I do not envy God-- Forever He must watch the planets crawling To flaming goals where sun and star are falling; He cannot wander free. For He must face, through centuries appalling, A vast and infinite monotony.

I do not envy God-- He cannot die, He dare not even slumber. Though He be God and free from care and cumber, I would not share His place; For He must live when years have lost their number And Time sinks crumbling into shattered Space.

I do not envy God-- Nay more, I pity Him His lonely heaven; I pity Him each lonely morn and even, His splendid lonely throne: For He must sit and wait till all is riven Alone--through all eternity--alone.

II.

IRONY

Why are the things that have no death The ones with neither sight nor breath. Eternity is thrust upon A bit of earth, a senseless stone. A grain of dust, a casual clod Receives the greatest gift of God. A pebble in the roadway lies-- It never dies.

The grass our fathers cut away Is growing on their graves to-day; The tiniest brooks that scarcely flow Eternally will come and go. There is no kind of death to kill The sands that lie so meek and still... But Man is great and strong and wise-- And so he dies.

III.

MOCKERY