Chapter 3

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 that 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: --

When love 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 drug 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. . . .

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.

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! . . .

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.

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.

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.

The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus"

Ye gods that have a home beyond the world, Ye that have eyes for all man's agony, Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen, -- Look with a just regard, And with an even grace, Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king, Here on a suffering world where men grow old And wander like sad shadows till, at last, Out of the flare of life, Out of the whirl of years, Into the mist they go, Into the mist of death.

O shades of you that loved him long before The cruel threads of that black sail were spun, May loyal arms and ancient welcomings Receive him once again Who now no longer moves Here in this flickering dance of changing days, Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, And the black master Death is over all, To chill with his approach, To level with his touch, The reigning strength of youth, The fluttered heart of age.

Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost -- Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line! Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release -- Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! -- And thou, the saddest wind That ever blew from Crete, Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship! -- Sing to the western flame, Sing to the dying foam, A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be!

Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore: -- Whether or not there fell To the touch of an alien hand The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, Better his end had been To die as an old man dies, -- But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown is ever a crown.

The Wilderness

Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores.

_Come away! come away! you can hear them calling, calling, Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, There's an old song calling us to come!_

Come away! come away! -- for the scenes we leave behind us Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us, And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes.

_Come away! come away! there is nothing now to cheer us -- Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home: -- Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, And a warm hearth waits for us within._

Come away! come away! -- or the roving-fiend will hold us, And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring: There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know: -- The frost that skips the willow-leaf will again be back to blight it, And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see.

_Come away! come away! there are dead men all around us -- Frozen men that mock us with a wild, hard laugh That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes, And the long fall wind on the lake._

Octaves

I

To get at the eternal strength of things, And fearlessly to make strong songs of it, Is, to my mind, the mission of that man 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

We thrill too strangely at the master's touch; We shrink too sadly from the larger self Which for its own completeness agitates And undetermines us; we do not feel -- We dare not feel it yet -- the splendid shame Of uncreated failure; we forget, The while we groan, that God's accomplishment Is always and unfailingly at hand.

III

To mortal ears the plainest word may ring Fantastic 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.

IV

Tumultuously void of a clean scheme Whereon to build, whereof to formulate, The legion life that riots in mankind Goes ever plunging upward, up and down, Most like some crazy regiment at arms, Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance, And ever led resourcelessly along To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters.

V

To me the groaning of world-worshippers Rings like a lonely music played in hell By one with art enough to cleave the walls Of heaven with his cadence, but without The wisdom or the will to comprehend The strangeness of his own perversity, And all without the courage to deny The profit and the pride of his defeat.

VI

While we are drilled in error, we are lost Alike to truth and usefulness. We think We are great warriors now, and we can brag Like Titans; but the world is growing young, And we, the fools of time, are growing with it: -- We do not fight to-day, we only die; We are too proud of death, and too ashamed Of God, to know enough to be alive.

VII

There is one battle-field whereon we fall Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred By sorrow, and the ministering wheels Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds Of human gloom are lost against the gleam That shines on Thought's impenetrable mail.

VIII

When we shall hear no more the cradle-songs Of ages -- when the timeless hymns of Love Defeat them and outsound them -- we shall know The rapture of that large release which all Right science comprehends; and we shall read, With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, That record of All-Soul whereon God writes In everlasting runes the truth of Him.

IX

The guerdon of new childhood is repose: -- Once he has read the primer of right thought, A man may claim between two smithy strokes Beatitude enough to realize God's parallel completeness in the vague And incommensurable excellence That equitably uncreates itself And makes a whirlwind of the Universe.

X

There is no loneliness: -- no matter where We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends Forsake us in the seeming, we are all At one with a complete companionship; And though forlornly joyless be the ways We travel, the compensate spirit-gleams Of Wisdom shaft the darkness here and there, Like scattered lamps in unfrequented streets.

XI

When one that you and I had all but sworn To be the purest thing God ever made Bewilders us until at last it seems An angel has come back restigmatized, -- Faith wavers, and we wonder what there is On earth to make us faithful any more, But never are quite wise enough to know The wisdom that is in that wonderment.

XII

Where does a dead man go? -- The dead man dies; But the free life that would no longer feed On fagots of outburned and shattered flesh Wakes to a thrilled invisible advance, Unchained (or fettered else) of memory; And when the dead man goes it seems to me 'T were better for us all to do away With weeping, and be glad that he is gone.

XIII

Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended, And unremunerative years we search To get where life begins, and still we groan Because we do not find the living spark Where no spark ever was; and thus we die, Still searching, like poor old astronomers Who totter off to bed and go to sleep, To dream of untriangulated stars.

XIV

With conscious eyes not yet sincere enough To pierce the glimmered cloud that fluctuates Between me and the glorifying light That screens itself with knowledge, I discern The searching rays of wisdom that reach through The mist of shame's infirm credulity, And infinitely wonder if hard words Like mine have any message for the dead.

XV

I grant you friendship is a royal thing, But none shall ever know that royalty For what it is till he has realized His best friend in himself. 'T is then, perforce, That man's unfettered faith indemnifies Of its own conscious freedom the old shame, And love's revealed infinitude supplants Of its own wealth and wisdom the old scorn.

XVI

Though the sick beast infect us, we are fraught Forever with indissoluble Truth, Wherein redress reveals itself divine, Transitional, transcendent. Grief and loss, Disease and desolation, are the dreams Of wasted excellence; and every dream Has in it something of an ageless fact That flouts deformity and laughs at years.

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