Part 3
The burning bulbs, in green and white and red, Spell out a _Change of Program Sun., Wed., Fri._, A clicking taxi spins with ruby spark. There is a sense of poising near the head Of some great flume of brightness, flowing by To pour in gathering torrent through the dark.
THE RIVER OF LIGHT
II. Below 96th
The current quickens, and in golden flow Hurries its flotsam downward through the night-- Here are the rapids where the undertow Whirls endless motors in a gleaming flight. From blazing tributaries, left and right, Influent streams of blue and amber grow. Columbus Circle eddies: all below Is pouring flame, a gorge of broken light.
See how the burning river boils in spate, Channeled by cliffs of insane jewelry, Painting a rosy roof on cloudy air-- And just about ten minutes after eight, Tossing a surf of color to the sky It bursts in cataracts upon Times Square!
OF HER GLORIOUS MADNESS
The city's mad: through her prodigious veins What errant, strange, eccentric humors thrill: Day, when her cataracts of sunlight spill-- Night, golden-panelled with her window panes; The toss of wind-blown skirts; and who can drill Forever his fierce heart with checking reins? Cruel and mad, my statisticians say-- Ah, but she raves in such a gallant way!
Brave madness, built for beauty and the sun-- In such a town who can be sane? Not I. Of clashing colors all her moods are spun-- A scarlet anger and a golden cry. This frantic town where madcap mischiefs run They ask to take the veil, and be a nun!
IN AN AUCTION ROOM
(_Letter of John Keats to Fanny Browne, Anderson Galleries,_ _March 15, 1920._)
To Dr. A. S. W. Rosenbach.
_How about this lot?_ said the auctioneer; _One hundred, may I say, just for a start?_ Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart, A written sheet was held.... And strange to hear (Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art) The cold quick bids. (_Against you in the rear!_) The crimson salon, in a glow more clear Burned bloodlike purple as the poet's heart.
Song that outgrew the singer! Bitter Love That broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall; Poor script, where still those tragic passions move-- _Eight hundred bid: fair warning: the last call:_ The soul of Adonais, like a star.... _Sold for eight hundred dollars--Doctor R.!_
EPITAPH FOR A POET WHO WROTE NO POETRY
"It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid."--Robert Louis Stevenson.
What was the service of this poet? He Who blinked the blinding dazzle-rays that run Where life profiles its edges to the sun, And still suspected much he could not see. Clay-stopped, yet in his taciturnity There lay the vein of glory, known to none; And moods of secret smiling, only won When peace and passion, time and sense, agree.
Fighting the world he loved for chance to brood, Ignorant when to embrace, when to avoid His loves that held him in their vital clutch-- This was his service, his beatitude; This was the inward trouble he enjoyed Who knew so little, and who felt so much.
SONNET BY A GEOMETER
THE CIRCLE
Few things are perfect: we bear Eden's scar; Yet faulty man was godlike in design That day when first, with stick and length of twine, He drew me on the sand. Then what could mar His joy in that obedient mystic line; And then, computing with a zeal divine, He called π 3-point-14159 And knew my lovely circuit 2 π r!
A circle is a happy thing to be-- Think how the joyful perpendicular Erected at the kiss of tangency Must meet my central point, my avatar! They talk of 14 points: yet only 3 Determine every circle: =Q. E. D.=
TO A VAUDEVILLE TERRIER SEEN ON A LEASH, IN THE PARK
Three times a day--at two, at seven, at nine-- O terrier, you play your little part: Absurd in coat and skirt you push a cart, With inner anguish walk a tight-rope line. Up there, before the hot and dazzling shine You must be rigid servant of your art, Nor watch those fluffy cats--your doggish heart Might leap and then betray you with a whine!
But sometimes, when you've faithfully rehearsed, Your trainer takes you walking in the park, Straining to sniff the grass, to chase a frog. The leash is slipped, and then your joy will burst-- Adorable it is to run and bark, To be--alas, how seldom--just a dog!
TO AN OLD FRIEND
(For Lloyd Williams.)
I like to dream of some established spot Where you and I, old friend, an evening through Under tobacco's fog, streaked gray and blue, Might reconsider laughters unforgot. Beside a hearth-glow, golden-clear and hot, I'd hear you tell the oddities men do. The clock would tick, and we would sit, we two-- Life holds such meetings for us, does it not?
Happy are men when they have learned to prize The sure unvarnished virtue of their friends, The unchanged kindness of a well-known face: On old fidelities our world depends, And runs a simple course in honest wise, Not a mere taxicab shot wild through space!
TO A BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE
Upstage the great high-shafted beefy choir Squawked in 2000 watts of orange glare-- You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.
Flung from the roof, spots red and yellow burned And followed you. The blatant brassy clang Of instruments drowned out the words you sang, But goldenly you capered, twirled and turned.
Boyish and slender, child-limbed, quick and proud, A sprite of irresistible disdain, Fair as a jonquil in an April rain, You seemed too sweet an imp for that dull crowd....
And then, behind the scenes, I heard you say, "_O Gawd, I got a hellish cold to-day!_"
THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK
The sonnet is a trunk, and you must pack With care, to ship frail baggage far away; The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray; Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack. First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack, And in the chinks your adjectives you lay-- Your phrases, folded neatly as you may, Stowing a syllable in every crack.
Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid: The tender quatrain where your moral sings-- Be careful, though, lest as you close the lid You crush and crumple all these fragile things. Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key-- Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.
STREETS
I have seen streets where strange enchantment broods: Old ruddy houses where the morning shone In seemly quiet on their tranquil moods, Across the sills white curtains outward blown. Their marble steps were scoured as white as bone Where scrubbing housemaids toiled on wounded knee-- And yet, among all streets that I have known These placid byways give least peace to me.
In such a house, where green light shining through (From some back garden) framed her silhouette I saw a girl, heard music blithely sung. She stood there laughing, in a dress of blue, And as I went on, slowly, there I met An old, old woman, who had once been young.
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
I
I have no hope to make you live in rhyme Or with your beauty to enrich the years-- Enough for me this now, this present time; The greater claim for greater sonneteers. But O how covetous I am of NOW-- Dear human minutes, marred by human pains-- I want to know your lips, your cheek, your brow, And all the miracles your heart contains, I wish to study all your changing face, Your eyes, divinely hurt with tenderness; I hope to win your dear unstinted grace For these blunt rhymes and what they would express. Then may you say, when others better prove:-- "_Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love._"
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
II
When all my trivial rhymes are blotted out, Vanished our days, so precious and so few, If some should wonder what we were about And what the little happenings we knew: I wish that they might know how, night by night, My pencil, heavy in the sleepy hours, Sought vainly for some gracious way to write How much this love is ours, and only ours. How many evenings, as you drowsed to sleep, I read to you by tawny candle-glow, And watched you down the valley dim and deep Where poppies and the April flowers grow. Then knelt beside your pillow with a prayer, And loved the breath of pansies in your hair.
PEDOMETER
My thoughts beat out in sonnets while I walk, And every evening on the homeward street I find the rhythm of my marching feet Throbs into verses (though the rhyme may balk). I think the sonneteers were walking men: The form is dour and rigid, like a clamp, But with the swing of legs the tramp, tramp, tramp Of syllables begins to thud, and then-- Lo! while you seek a rhyme for _hook_ or _crook_ Vanished your shabby coat, and you are kith To all great walk-and-singers--Meredith, And Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, and Rupert Brooke! Free verse is poor for walking, but a sonnet-- O marvellous to stride and brood upon it!
HOSTAGES
"He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune."--BACON.
Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best! I, that was once so heedless of thy frown, Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down, Have given thee blades to hold against my breast. My virtue, that was once all self-possessed, Is parceled out in little hands, and brown Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown: To threaten these will put me to the test.
Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinks Upon the makeshift armor of my heart, For thee no honor lies in such a fight! And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks, Who came awake with such a painful start To hear the coughing of a child at night.
ARS DURA
How many evenings, walking soberly Along our street all dappled with rich sun, I please myself with words, and happily Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run; And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask, Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!
Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft But he had put away his sleep, his ease, The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed To brood upon such thankless tricks as these? And yet, such joy does in that craft abide He greets the paper as the groom the bride!
O. HENRY--APOTHECARY
("O. Henry" once worked in a drug-store in Greensboro, N.C.)
Where once he measured camphor, glycerine, Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars, And all the oils and essences so keen That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars-- Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile, The master pharmacist of joy and pain Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile And laughter that dissolves in tears again.
O brave apothecary! You who knew What dark and acid doses life prefers And yet with friendly face resolved to brew These sparkling potions for your customers-- In each prescription your Physician writ You poured your rich compassion and your wit!
FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET (1816)
"On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."
I knew a scientist, an engineer, Student of tensile strengths and calculus, A man who loved a cantilever truss And always wore a pencil on his ear. My friend believed that poets all were queer, And literary folk ridiculous; But one night, when it chanced that three of us Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.
Lo, a new planet swam into his ken! His eager mind reached for it and took hold. Ten years are by: I see him now and then, And at alumni dinners, if cajoled, He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:-- _Much have I travelled in the realms of gold._
TWO O'CLOCK
Night after night goes by: and clocks still chime And stars are changing patterns in the dark, And watches tick, and over-puissant Time Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark, The trains that roar and rattle in the night, The very cats that prowl, all quiet find And leave the darkness empty, silent quite: Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.
So all things end: and what is left at last? Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor, A memory of easy days gone past, A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore-- And in the darkened room I lean to know How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER
Ah very sweet! If news should come to you Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve, That the great Manager had made me leave To travel on some territory new; And that, whatever homeward winds there blew, I could not touch your hand again, nor heave The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....
Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could Remember rightly, and forget aright? Remember just your lad, uncouthly good, Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite? Could you remember him as always kind?
THE WEDDED LOVER
I read in our old journals of the days When our first love was April-sweet and new, How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew Despite the adverse time; and our amaze At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue The heaven arched us in, and all we knew Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.
They said by now the path would be more steep, The sunsets paler and less mild the air; Rightly we heeded not: it was not true. We will not tell the secret--let it keep. I know not how I thought those days so fair These being so much fairer, spent with you.
TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST
When we were parted, sweet, and darkness came, I used to strike a match, and hold the flame Before your picture and would breathless mark The answering glimmer of the tiny spark That brought to life the magic of your eyes, Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.
Holding that mimic torch before your shrine I used to light your eyes and make them mine; Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky, Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply; Summon your lips from far across the sea Bidding them live a twilight hour with me.
Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom, Lo--you were with me in the darkened room.
CHARLES AND MARY
(December 27, 1834.)
Lamb died just before I left town, and Mr. Ryle of the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me.... He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.
--Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
I hear their voices still: the stammering one Struggling with some absurdity of jest; Her quiet words that puzzle and protest Against the latest outrage of his fun. So wise, so simple--has she never guessed That through his laughter, love and terror run? For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed, He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.
Through all those years it was his task to keep Her gentle heart serenely mystified. If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride-- When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead, She innocently looked. "I always said That Charles is really handsome when asleep."
TO A GRANDMOTHER
At six o'clock in the evening, The time for lullabies, My son lay on my mother's lap With sleepy, sleepy eyes! (_O drowsy little manny boy,_ _With sleepy, sleepy eyes!_)
I heard her sing, and rock him, And the creak of the swaying chair, And the old dear cadence of the words Came softly down the stair.
And all the years had vanished, All folly, greed, and stain-- The old, old song, the creaking chair, The dearest arms again! (_O lucky little manny boy,_ _To feel those arms again!_)
DIARISTS
They catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now, Is Actual, amid the fugitive; Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how We snare this flying life, and make it live. So to their little pictures, and they sieve Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough, The afterglow that summer sunsets give, The razor concave of a great ship's bow.
O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth! Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page. No glittering ink can make this written word Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
THE LAST SONNET
Suppose one knew that never more might one Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now These fourteen lines were all he could allow To say his message, be forever done; How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme, Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase The windy trees, the beauty of his days, Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime. How bitter then would be regret and pang For former rhymes he dallied to refine, For every verse that was not crystalline.... And if belike this last one feebly rang, Honor and pride would cast it to the floor Facing the judge with what was done before.
THE SAVAGE
Civilization causes me Alternate fits: disgust and glee.
Buried in piles of glass and stone My private spirit moves alone,
Where every day from eight to six I keep alive by hasty tricks.
But I am simple in my soul; My mind is sullen to control.
At dusk I smell the scent of earth, And I am dumb--too glad for mirth.
I know the savors night can give, And then, and then, I live, I live!
No man is wholly pure and free, For that is not his destiny,
But though I bend, I will not break: And still be savage, for Truth's sake.
God damns the easily convinced (Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH
I stood on the pavement Where I could admire Behind the brown chapel The cream and gold spire.
Above, gilded Lightning Swam high on his ball-- I saw the noon shadow The church of St. Paul.
And was there a meaning? (My fancy would run), Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun!
ADVICE TO A CITY
O city, cage your poets! Hem them in And roof them over from the April sky-- Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din, And drown their voices with your thunder cry.
Forbid their free feet on the windy hills, And harness them to daily ruts of stone-- (In florists' windows lock the daffodils) And never, never let them be alone!
For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd, And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit, And granted silence, thought and solitude They (_absit omen!_) might make Song of it.
So cage them in, and stand about them thick, And keep them busy with their daily bread; And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quick To interrupt them ere the word be said....
For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage, With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth, Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page, The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!
THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY
No Malory of old romance, No Crusoe tale, it seems to me, Can equal in rich circumstance This telephone directory.
No ballad of fair ladies' eyes, No legend of proud knights and dames, Can fill me with such bright surmise As this great book of numbered names!
How many hearts and lives unknown, Rare damsels pining for a squire, Are waiting for the telephone To ring, and call them to the wire.
Some wait to hear a loved voice say The news they will rejoice to know At Rome 2637 J Or Marathon 1450!
And some, perhaps, are stung with fear And answer with reluctant tread: The message they expect to hear Means life or death or daily bread.
A million hearts here wait our call, All naked to our distant speech-- I wish that I could ring them all And have some welcome news for each!
GREEN ESCAPE
At three o'clock in the afternoon On a hot September day, I began to dream of a highland stream And a frostbit russet tree; Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship (White canvas wet with spray) And the swirling green and milk-foam clean Along her canted lee.
I heard the quick staccato click Of the typist's pounding keys, And I had to brood of a wind more rude Than that by a motor fanned-- And I lay inert in a flannel shirt To watch the rhyming seas Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl On a beach of sun-blanched sand.
There is no desk shall tame my lust For hills and windy skies; My secret hope of the sea's blue slope No clerkly task shall dull;
And though I print no echoed hint Of adventures I devise, My eyes still pine for the comely line Of an outbound vessel's hull.
When I elope with an autumn day And make my green escape, I'll leave my pen to tamer men Who have more docile souls; For forest aisles and office files Have a very different shape, And it's hard to woo the ocean blue In a row of pigeon holes!
VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS
(_Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute_ _the name of his favorite suburb_)
The stars are kind to Marathon, How low, how close, they lean! They jostle one another And do their best to please-- Indeed, they are so neighborly That in the twilight green One reaches out to pick them Behind the poplar trees.
The stars are kind to Marathon, And one particular Bright planet (which is Vesper) Most lucid and serene, Is waiting by the railway bridge, The Good Commuter's Star, The Star of Wise Men coming home On time, at 6:15!
THE ICE WAGON
I'd like to split the sky that roofs us down, Break through the crystal lid of upper air, And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven. I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.
I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust, Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles, The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells, And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air Down every alley where the children gasp.
And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons-- Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,-- And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums. In every wagon would be blocks of coldness, Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver, With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty; Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer, And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.
And where my wagons stood there would be puddles, A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness. My friends and I would chop and splinter open The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering, And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers, And some would stagger home with it in baskets, And some would be too gay for aught but sucking, Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles, Gulping as they slipped down unexpected-- Laughing to perceive that secret numbness Amid their small hot persons!
At every stop would be at least one urchin Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses And hold it up against their silky noses-- And they would start, and then decide they liked it.