Part 3

So very small and unfulfilled you sat, Building a little talk to keep you there, Your face and body pointed like a cat, Your legs not reaching down from any chair, Your thoughts not really reaching anywhere;

So dumb and tiny--yet Love guessed your mood, And pressed his phial in its fervent bed, And poured his thrilling philtre in my blood, And all his lustre on your body shed, And hot enamel on the words you said;

Your littleness became a monstrous thing, A rank retort, a hot and waiting vat, Your eyes green-copper like a snake in spring, And lusty-bold your laying off your hat, And fell your purpose like a hungry cat;

The dark fell on us through our narrowed eyes, The heat lashed up around us from the floor, Encrimsoning the lips of our surprise To sway like music, and like burning pour Across the truth that parted us before.

TO LOVE

Love, often your delicate fingers beckon, And always I follow. Oh, if I could stay, and possess your beauty Beckoning always!

CAR-WINDOW

A light is laughing thro' the scattered rain, A color quickens in the meadow; Drops are still, upon the window-pane-- They cast a silver shadow.

LITTLE FISHES

A myriad curious fishes, Tiny and pink and pale, All swimming north together With rhythmical fin and tail--

A mountain surges among them, They dart and startle and float, Mere wiggling minutes of terror, Into that mountain's throat.

INVOCATION

Truth, be more precious to me than the eyes Of happy love; burn hotter in my throat Than passion; and possess me like my pride; More sweet than freedom; more desired than joy; More sacred than the pleasing of a friend.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes a child's voice crying on the street Comes winging like an arrow through the wind To pierce my breast with you, my baby, and My pen is weak, and all my thinking dreams Are mist of yearning for the touch of you.

TO MARIE SUKLOFF--AN ASSASSIN

In your lips moving fervently, Your eyes hot with fire, Life seems immortally young with desire, Life seems impetuous, Hungrily free, Having no faith but its burning to be.

You could dance laughingly, Draw where you move, Hearts, hands and voices pouring you love. Youth be a carnival, Life be the queen, You could go dancing and singing and seen!

Whence came that tenderness Cruel and wild, Arming with murder the hand of a child? Whence came that breaking fire, Nursed and caressed With passion's white fingers for tyranny's breast?

In your soul sacredly, Deeper than fear, Burns there a miracle dreadful to hear? Virgin of murder, Was it God's breath, Begetting a savior, that filled you with Death?

TO AN ACTRESS

You walk as vivid as a sunny storm Across the drinking meadows, through the eyes Of stricken men, with light and fury mingled, Making passionate and making young. You drive the mists, and lift the drooping heads, And in the sultry place of custom raise The naked colors of abounding life, And sound the crimson windy call of liberty.

EYES

My heart is sick because of all the eyes That look upon you drinkingly. They almost touch you with their fever look! O keep your beauty like a mystic gem, Clear-surfaced--give no fibre grain of hold To those prehensile amorous bold eyes! My heart is sick!

O love, let not my heart Corrupt the flower of your liberty-- Go spend your beauty like the summer sky That makes a radius of every glance, And with your morning color light them all!

X RAYS

Your eyes were gem-like in that dim deep chamber Hushed and sombre with imprisoned fire, With yellow ghostly globes of intense aether Potent as the rays of pure desire.

Your voice was startled into vivid wonder, When the winged wild whining mystic wheel Took flight and shot the dark with frosty crashings Like an ice-berg splitting to the keel.

Your flesh was never warmer to my passion Than when, moving in that lumor green, We saw with eyes our fragile bones enamoured Clasping sadly on the pallid screen.

You seemed so virginal and so undreaming Of the burning hunger in my eyes, To peer more fever-deeply in your being Than the very death of passion lies.

The subtle-tuned shy motions of your spirit, Fashioned through the ages for the sun, Were dumb in that green lustre-haunted cavern Where you walked a naked skeleton;

Slim-hipped and fluent and of lovely motion, Living to the tip of every bone, And ah, too exquisitely vivid-moving Ever to lie wanly down alone--

To lie forever down so still and slender, Tracing on the ancient screen of night That naked and pale writing of the wonder Of your beauty breathing in the light.

SONNETS

A PREFACE ABOUT SONNETS

Although so complex and difficult to construct, the sonnet has always seemed to me a natural and almost inevitable form. Whether the reason lies in its intrinsic nature, or in the tradition that surrounds it, is not easy to tell. A sonnet is almost exactly square, and yet it has a division sufficiently off the centre to make its squareness admirable instead of tiresome; and perhaps this simple trait, together with its closely woven structure of rhyme, is what gives it the quiet assurance it has--the tranquil rightness of a thing of nature or natural convenience. I feel towards an excellent sonnet as I imagine an eager horse may feel towards a good measure tightly filled up with golden grain.

This feeling is due partly to a kind of honesty of which the squareness of a sonnet is symbolic. It is a form in which poets can express themselves when they are not rhapsodically excited. And very often they are not so excited, and at such times if they write rapid lyrics they have to whip themselves up with an emotion that they get out of the writing rather than out of the facts. And this makes much lyric poetry seem a little histrionic, whereas in order to create a sonnet at all, a concentration and sustainment of feeling is required that is inevitably equal to its more temperate pretensions.

The quality of being inevitably and honestly square may become a dreadful thing, however. And it makes this form inappropriate for persons who have not at least a certain degree of lyrical taste. In the hands of such persons a sonnet is not a poem, but an enterprise. They get inside that square with a whole lot of materials, colors and sounds and old clothes of ideas, and they push them round, and if they can not make them fill in properly and come up to the edges, they climb out and get some more. And the result is so palpably spreadout an object, always with lumps of imagery here and there, that it can not even be received in the linear sequence that is natural to the eye and ear.

This fault can be avoided by having strongly in mind while composing a sonnet, the virtues not specifically its own--the clarity, the running and pouring in single stream, that are the qualities of song. And to these qualities the strict convention of its rhymes and the traditional relation of the sonnet's parts, ought to give way when there is a conflict between them, for if a poem has not rhapsody, it is the more important that it should have grace. At least that is my opinion, and I offer this preface, in expiatory rather than boastful vein, to those high priests of perfection who guard the sonnet as a kind of lonely reliquary of their god.

A PRAISEFUL COMPLAINT

You love me not as I love, or when I Grow listless of the crimson of your lips, And turn not to your burning finger-tips, You would show fierce and feverish your eye, And hotly my numb wilfulness decry, Holding your virtues over me like whips, And stinging with the visible eclipse Of that sweet poise of life I crucify!

How can you pass so proudly from my face, With all the tendrils of your passion furled, So adequate and animal in grace, As one whose mate is only all the world! I never taste the sweet exceeding thought That you might love me, though I loved you not!

THOSE YOU DINED WITH

They would have made you like a pageant, bold And nightly festive, lustre-lit for them, And round your beauty, like a dusky gem, Have poured the glamour of the pride of gold; And you would lie in life as in her bed The mistress of a pale king, indolent, Though hot her limbs and strong her languishment, And her deep spirit is unvisited.

But I would see you like a gypsy, free As windy morning in the sunny air, Your wild warm self, your vivid self, to be, A miracle of nature's liberty, Giving your gift of being kind and fair, High, gay and careless-handed everywhere!

THE PASSIONS OF A CHILD

The passions of a child attend his dreams. He lives, loves, hopes, remembers, is forlorn For legendary creatures, whom he deems Not too unreal--until one golden morn The gracious, all-awaking sun shines in Upon his tranquil pillow, and his eyes Are touched, and opened greatly, and begin To drink reality with rich surprise.

I loved the impetuous souls of ancient story-- Heroic characters, kings, queens, whose wills Like empires rose, achieved, and fell, in glory. I was a child, until the radiant dawn, Thy beauty, woke me--O thy spirit fills The stature of those heroes, they are gone!

AS THE CRAG EAGLE

As the crag eagle to the zenith's height Wings his pursuit in his exalted hour Of her the tempest-reared, whose airy power Of plume and passion challenges his flight To that wild altitude, where they unite, In mutual tumultuous victory And the swift sting of nature's ecstasy, Their shuddering pinions and their skyward might-- As they, the strong, to the full height of heaven Bear up that joy which to the strong is given, Thus, thus do we, whose stormy spirits quiver In the bold air of utter liberty, Clash equal at our highest, I and thee, Unconquered and unconquering forever!

TO MY FATHER

The eastern hill hath scarce unveiled his head, And the deliberate sky hath but begun To meditate upon a future sun, When thou dost rise from thy impatient bed. Thy morning prayer unto the stars is said. And not unlike a child, the penance done Of sleep, thou goest to thy serious fun, Exuberant--yet with a whisper tread.

And when that lord doth to the world appear, The jovial sun, he leans on his old hill, And levels forth to thee a golden smile-- Thee in his garden, where each warming year Thou toilest in all joy with him, to fill And flood the soil with Summer for a while.

TO EDWARD S. MARTIN

FROM A PROFESSIONAL HOBO

How old, my friend, is that fine-pointed pen Wherewith in smiling quietude you trace The maiden maxims of your writing-place, And on this gripped and mortal-sweating den And battle-pit of hunger now and then Dip out, with nice and intellectual grace, The faultless wisdoms of a nurtured race Of pale-eyed, pink, and perfect gentlemen!

How long have art and wit and poetry, With all their power, been content, like you, To gild the smiling fineness of the few, To filmy-curtain what they dare not see, In multitudinous reality, The rough and bloody soul of what is true!

* * * * *

(In an editorial in _Life_, Mr. Martin had described as "professional hoboes" a number of revolutionary agitators whom he did not like--Pancho Villa, William D. Haywood, Wild Joe O'Carroll--and he did me the honor to include me among them.)

EUROPE--1914

Since Athens died, the life that is a light Has never shone in Europe. Alien moods, The oriental morbid sanctitudes, Have darkened on her like the fear of night. In happy augury we dared to guess That her pure spirit shot one sunny glance Of paganry across the fields of France, Clear startling this dim fog of soulfulness.

But now, with arms and carnage and the cries Of Holy Murder, rolling to the clouds Her bloody-shadowed smoke of sacrifice, The Superstition conquers, and the shrouds Of sick black wonder lay their murky blight Where shone of old the immortal-seeming light.

ISADORA DUNCAN

You bring the fire and terror of the wars Of infidels in thunder-running hordes, With spears like sun-rays, shields, and wheeling swords Flame shape, death shape and shaped like scimitars, With crimson eagles and blue pennantry, And teeth and armor flashing, and white eyes Of battle horses, and the silver cries Of trumpets unto storm and victory!

Who is this naked-footed lovely girl Of summer meadows dancing on the grass? So young and tenderly her footsteps pass, So dreamy-limbed and lightly wild and warm-- The bugles murmur and the banners furl, And they are lost and vanished like a storm!

THE SUN

Now autumn, and that sadness as of love Heroic in immortal solitude; Those veins of flaming passion through the wood; But in the blue and infinite above A shining circle like the light of truth, Self-poising; deathless his desire sublime, Whose motion is the measurement of time, Whose step is morning, and his smile is youth.

No passion burns upon the livid earth Whose stain can tint that circle, or whose cry Can rout the tranquilly receiving sky. All passion, all its crimson stream, from birth To murder, bloom and pestilential blight, All flows beneath the sanction of his light.

THE NET

The net brings up, how long and languidly, A million vivid quiverings of life, Keen-finned and gleaming like a steely knife, All colors, green and silver of the sea, All forms of skill and eagerness to be-- They die and wither of the very breath That sounds your pity of their lavish death While they are leaping, star-like, to be free.

They die and wither, but the aged sea, Insane old salty womb of mystery, Is pregnant with a million million more, Whom she will suckle in her oozy floor, Whom she will vomit on a heedless shore, While onward her immortal currents pour.

A DUNE SONNET

I was so lonely on the dunes to-day; The shadow of a bird passed o'er the sand, And I, a driftwood relic in my hand.... Sea winds are not more lonely when they stray A little fitful and bewildered way In this wan acre, whose dry billows stand So pitilessly still of curve, so bland, And wide, and waiting, infinitely grey.

In hollows I could almost hear them say, The misty breezes--Run, we will not stay In this unreal and spiritual land! Our soul of life is calling from the strand, Whose blue and breathing bosom leapt or lay Or laughed to us in shots of silver spray!

SONGS

SEA-SHORE

The wind blows in along the sea-- Its salty wet caresses Impart to all the ships that be A thrill before it passes.

The tide is never at a stand, A mountain in its motion, Forever homing to the land, And ever to the ocean.

And on its fickle, mighty breast The waters still are moving, With love in every running crest And laughter in the loving--

Light love to touch the prows of ships That slip along so slenderly. I would as lightly touch your lips, And your heart as tenderly,

If you would move with all that move, The flowing and caressing, Who have no firmness in their love, No sorrow in its passing.

RAINY SONG

Down the dripping pathway dancing through the rain, Brown eyes of beauty, laugh to me again!

Eyes full of starlight, moist over fire, Full of young wonder, touch my desire!

O like a brown bird, like a bird's flight, Run through the rain drops lithely and light.

Body like a gypsy, like a wild queen, Slim brown dress to slip through the green--

The little leaves hold you as soft as a child, The little path loves you, the path that runs wild.

Who would not love you, seeing you move, Warm-eyed and beautiful through the green grove?

Let the rain kiss you, trickle through your hair, Laugh if my fingers mingle with it there,

Laugh if my cheek too is misty and drips-- Wetness is tender--laugh on my lips

The happy sweet laughter of love without pain, Young love, the strong love, burning in the rain.

A HYMN TO GOD

IN TIME OF STRESS

Lift, O dark and glorious Wonder, Once again thy gleaming sword, Cleave this killing doubt asunder With one sheer and sacred word!

For my heart is weak and broken, And the struggle runs too high, And there is no burning token In the new immortal sky.

Oh, not curb or courage only Does my hour demand of me, It is thought supreme and lonely And responsible and free!

And I quail before the danger As a bark before the blast, When the beacon star's a stranger In the mountains piling fast,

And there is no light but reason And the compass of the ship. God, a word of thine in season! God, a motion of thy lip!

COMING SPRING

Ice is marching down the river, Gaily out to sea! Sunbeams o'er the snow-hills quiver, Setting torrents free!

Yellow are the water-willows, Yellow clouds are they, Rising where the laden billows Swell along their way!

Arrows of the sun are flying! Winter flees the light, And his chilly horn is sighing All the moisty night!

Lovers of the balmy weather, Lovers of the sun! Drifts and duty melt together-- Get your labors done!

Ice is marching down the river, Gaily out to sea! Sing the healthy-hearted ever, Spring is liberty!

DAISIES

Daisies, daisies, all surprise! Open wide your sunny eyes! See the linnet on the wing; See the crimson feather! See the life in every thing, Sun, and wind, and weather! Shadow of the passer-by, Bare-foot skipping over, Meadow where the heifers lie, Butter-cup, and clover! All is vivid, all is real, All is high surprising! Ye are pure to see and feel; Ye the gift are prizing Men and gods would perish for-- Gods with all their thunder!-- Could they have the thing ye are, Everlasting wonder!

BOBOLINK

Bright little bird with a downward wing, How many birds within you sing?

Two or three at the least it seems, Overflowing golden streams.

If I could warble on a wing so strong, Filling five acres full of song,

I'd never sit on the grey rail fence, I'd never utter a word of sense,

I'd float forever in a light blue sky, Uttering joy to the passers-by!

DIOGENES

A hut, and a tree, And a hill for me, And a piece of a weedy meadow.

I'll ask no thing, Of God or King, But to clear away His shadow.

EARLIER POEMS

EARLIER POEMS

A PREFACE ABOUT THEIR PHILOSOPHY

Most of the friends who read the volume from which these poems are selected, wanted to ask me what I meant by one of the titles, "The Thought of Protagoras." And I meant so much--I meant to convey in that phrase the hue of the philosophic background upon which the colors of my life are drawn--that since I failed, I venture to enlarge its meaning here with a word of confession.

An attitude that might be called affirmative scepticism is native to my mind, and underlies every impulse that I have to portray the universal character of life and truth. We seek among all our experiences for some absolute and steadfast value by which, or toward which, we may guide ourselves, but there is no absolute value except life itself, the having of experiences. And among all our opinions we seek for an objective and eternal truth, but nothing is eternally true except the variety of opinions. Intermittently throughout the whole history of western, and I suppose of eastern thought, this mood has arisen. It was the mood of Protagoras, and of that Protagorean vein in Plato which is the height of ancient wisdom. It arose again, after a period of bright-minded investigation and formulation of "isms," in Sextus Empiricus and the little group of Alexandrian scientists--the last light to go out in the darkness of the reign of saints and theologies. Again, after those ages of sombre and oppressive faith under the roof of the cathedral, it appeared in the great Montaigne. The writings of Montaigne arrive in history with a bold and tranquil flavor of delight in free meditation, as though the too Sunday-serious world had at last made up its mind to escape from church and go fishing. It is a reverent Sabbath holiday in human thought. Almost immediately, however, the insane passion of belief recurs. Descartes' attempt at a surgery of doubt is only the pathetic opening of space for new and enormous growths of the old substance. Spinoza follows him, the God-intoxicated man, and Leibnitz and other monumental believers. And then David Hume quietly prepares, and once more offers to mankind, in his clear, humble and noble enquiry about Human Understanding, the sceptic wisdom, the moral equilibrium, that would save its health and reason. But Kant and Hegel and those mountainous Germans, the giants of soul-vapor, overwhelming again with their rationalizations of primitive egotism, send all the world to the mad-house of metaphysical conviction. And from this we are now again issuing awakened--for the fifth time. And today the awakener is no individual. The awakener is science--empirical science turning its brave eyes upon man, its maker, to reveal the origin and destroy the excessive pretensions of his thoughts. And so once again the sanity of the world has been saved--or so at least it seems to one whose intellectual home is in these ages of sacred doubt.

Thoughts that are abstract logically, are, psychologically, concrete things. General ideas are specific occurrences. They are occurrences in an individual mind, reflecting perhaps a material disturbance in a brain. And these things and occurrences can, in the conception of science, be explained as the result of antecedent causes. They, which are the sovereign instruments of explanation, can themselves become the subject of explanation, and therein lose their impersonality and their universality which was their truth. Such, I think, is the modern counterpart of the thought of Protagoras, summarized for the ancients in his famous saying that "man is the measure of all things."

This thought used to come to my mind strongly in a seminar at Columbia University, where in a shadowy corner of the great library at sunset we gathered to read and study the writing of Spinoza. Our teacher was a scholar of philosophy with the rarest gift of sinking himself emotionally, as well as with intellect, into the metaphysical system of the philosopher he studied. He is not the one I have portrayed in my poem--that is a product of my imagination. But he seemed always so ingenuous to me, in his acceptance of the existence of realities corresponding to the vast abstractions of that philosopher of eternity, that I could not but see continually in my fancy demons of time and the concrete conspiring against him among the alleys of the book-shelves; and there came the thought of death walking straight into that chamber to annihilate the event of the individual idea--the only actual thing denoted for me by his words of portentous and childish-universal import. In my poem I tried to make such a death portray and prove to the imagination the thought of Protagoras.

In another poem, Leif Ericson, I made the same reflection a theme of joy and a kind of pagan sermon of life. The voyage of that wonderful sailor out over the challenging blue, without knowledge and without sanction of ends, is a symbol of the adventure of individual being. It is an example to our hearts, so fond of faith and prudence, so little filled by nature with moral courage and abandon.

AT THE AQUARIUM