Chapter 3

Question and be thou answered, passionate face! For I am worthy, worthy now at last After so long unworth; strong now at last To give myself to beauty and be saved; Now, being man, to give myself to thee, As once the tumult of my boyish heart Companioned thee with rapture through the world, Forth from a land whereof no poet's lip Made mention how the leas were lily-sprent, Into a land God's eyes had looked not on To love the tender bloom upon the hills. To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawn Upon that shell of me the sea has tossed To land, as fit for earth to use again, Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets, Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'er With altered accent, dubious sweep of hand, Their virile, just contempt for one who failed. But they can never cast my earnings up, Who know so well my losses. Even you Who in the mild light of the spirit walk And hold yourselves acquainted with the truth, Be not too swift to judge and cast me out! You shall find other, nobler ways than mine To work your soul's redemption,--glorious noons Of battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign, And nightly refuge 'neath God's aegis-rim; Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance held With the heart's austerities; still governance, And ripening of the blood in the weekday sun To make the full-orbed consecrated fruit At life's end for the Sabbath supper meet. I shall not sit beside you at that feast, For ere a seedling of my golden tree Pushed off its petals to get room to grow, I stripped the boughs to make an April gaud And wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair. But mine is not the failure God deplores; For I of old am beauty's votarist, Long recreant, often foiled and led astray, But resolute at last to seek her there Where most she does abide, and crave with tears That she assoil me of my blemishment. Low looms her singing face to point the way, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood. The stars are for me; the horizon wakes Its pilgrim chanting; and the little sand Grows musical of hope beneath my feet. The waves that leap to meet my swimming breast Gossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way, And when the deep throbs of the rising surge Pulse upward with me, and a rain of wings Blurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reach Still welcome of bright hands across the wave, And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire, Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.

THE BRUTE

Through his might men work their wills. They have boweled out the hills For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought; And they fling him, hour by hour, Limbs of men to give him power; Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devour Children's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought: He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought.

For about the noisy land, Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand, His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of pride O'er the stubborn things that he, Breaks to dust and brings to be. Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly. There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide, When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide.

Quietude and loveliness, Holy sights that heal and bless, They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set; When he splashes through the brae Silver streams are choked with clay, When he snorts the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like hay; He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fret Squalid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate.

They who caught and bound him tight Laughed exultant at his might, Saying, "Now behold, the good time comes for the weariest and the least! We will use this lusty knave: No more need for men to slave; We may rise and look about us and have knowledge ere the grave." But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased, The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!

"On the strong and cunning few Cynic favors I will strew; I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; From the patient and the low I will take the joys they know; They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go. Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies.

"I will burn and dig and hack Till the heavens suffer lack; God shall feel a pleasure fail him, crying to his cherubim, 'Who hath flung yon mud-ball there Where my world went green and fair?' I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare, ''T is the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth dim. Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.'"

So he plotted in his rage: So he deals it, age by age. But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell; Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice, For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice. He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding well He must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell.

All the desert that he made He must treble bless with shade, In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain; All the strongholds that he built For the powers of greed and guilt-- He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt; He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again, And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain.

In a very cunning tether He must lead the tyrant weather; He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race; He must cast out hate and fear, Dry away each fruitless tear, And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear. He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face, On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace.

Then, perhaps, at the last day, They will whistle him away, Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say, "Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed! Let him not be scourged or blamed. Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed! Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown." Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own, 'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne.

THE MENAGERIE

Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut Such capers every day! I 'm just about Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut. Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snout Was twitching when the keeper turned me out.

That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold. Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold, And jabber that it 's rain water they want. (It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)

I 'll foot it home, to try and make believe I 'm sober. After this I stick to beer, And drop the circus when the sane folks leave. A man 's a fool to look at things too near: They look back, and begin to cut up queer.

Beasts do, at any rate; especially Wild devils caged. They have the coolest way Of being something else than what you see: You pass a sleek young zebra nosing hay, A nylghau looking bored and distingue,--

And think you 've seen a donkey and a bird. Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare. The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't stirred; But something 's happened, Heaven knows what or where, To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair.

I 'm not precisely an aeolian lute Hung in the wandering winds of sentiment, But drown me if the ugliest, meanest brute Grunting and fretting in that sultry tent Did n't just floor me with embarrassment!

'T was like a thunder-clap from out the clear, One minute they were circus beasts, some grand, Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer: Rival attractions to the hobo band, The flying jenny, and the peanut stand.

Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine! Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare! Patient, satiric, devilish, divine; A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care, Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair.

Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke,-- Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afar Down ocean caves when behemoth awoke, Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaur Locked with the giant-bat in ghastly war.

And suddenly, as in a flash of light, I saw great Nature working out her plan; Through all her shapes from mastodon to mite Forever groping, testing, passing on To find at last the shape and soul of Man.

Till in the fullness of accomplished time, Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent, Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime, And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent, The stages of her huge experiment;

Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours; Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods; Publishing fretful seasons when her powers Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods.

Here, round about me, were her vagrant births; Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed; Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths; The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid,

On that long road she went to seek mankind; Here were the darkling coverts that she beat To find the Hider she was sent to find; Here the distracted footprints of her feet Whereby her soul's Desire she came to greet.

But why should they, her botch-work, turn about And stare disdain at me, her finished job? Why was the place one vast suspended shout Of laughter? Why did all the daylight throb With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob?

Helpless I stood among those awful cages; The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged! I, I, last product of the toiling ages, Goal of heroic feet that never lagged,-- A little man in trousers, slightly jagged.

Deliver me from such another jury! The Judgment-day will be a picnic to 't. Their satire was more dreadful than their fury, And worst of all was just a kind of brute Disgust, and giving up, and sinking mute.

Survival of the fittest, adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there 's soul in everything that squirms.

And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things, All dream and unaccountable desire; Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings; Spreading through every inch of earth's old mire Mystical hanker after something higher.

Wishes _are_ horses, as I understand. I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes Of feeling faint to gallivant on land Will come to be a scandal to his folks; Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes.

And at the core of every life that crawls Or runs or flies or swims or vegetates-- Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the galls Of shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates, Lighting the love of eagles for their mates;

Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fish That is and is not living--moved and stirred From the beginning a mysterious wish, A vision, a command, a fatal Word: The name of Man was uttered, and they heard.

Upward along the aeons of old war They sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and bill Were fashioned and rejected; wide and far They roamed the twilight jungles of their will; But still they sought him, and desired him still.

Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man, The radiant and the loving, yet to be! I hardly wonder, when they came to scan The upshot of their strenuosity, They gazed with mixed emotions upon _me_.

Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures, Or spot them sideways with your weather eye, Just to keep tab on their expansive features; It is n't pleasant when you 're stepping high To catch a giraffe smiling on the sly.

If nature made you graceful, don't get gay Back-to before the hippopotamus; If meek and godly, find some place to play Besides right where three mad hyenas fuss: You may hear language that we won't discuss.

If you 're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat, Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in, Don't squander love's bright springtime girding at An old chimpanzee with an Irish chin: _There may be hidden meaning in his grin._

THE GOLDEN JOURNEY

All day he drowses by the sail With dreams of her, and all night long The broken waters are at song Of how she lingers, wild and pale, When all the temple lights are dumb, And weaves her spells to make him come.

The wide sea traversed, he will stand With straining eyes, until the shoal Green water from the prow shall roll Upon the yellow strip of sand-- Searching some fern-hid tangled way Into the forest old and grey.

Then he will leap upon the shore, And cast one look up at the sun, Over his loosened locks will run The dawn breeze, and a bird will pour Its rapture out to make life seem Too sweet to leave for such a dream.

But all the swifter will he go Through the pale, scattered asphodels, Down mote-hung dusk of olive dells, To where the ancient basins throw Fleet threads of blue and trembling zones Of gold upon the temple stones.

There noon keeps just a twilight trace; Twixt love and hate, and death and birth, No man may choose; nor sobs nor mirth May enter in that haunted place. All day the fountain sphynx lets drip Slow drops of silence from her lip.

To hold the porch-roof slender girls Of milk-white marble stand arow; Doubt never blurs a single brow, And never the noon's faintness curls From their expectant hush of pride The lips the god has glorified.

But these things he will barely view, Or if he stay to heed them, still But as the lark the lights that spill From out the sun it soars unto, Where, past the splendors and the heats, The sun's heart's self forever beats.

For wide the brazen doors will swing Soon as his sandals touch the pave; The anxious light inside will wave And tremble to a lunar ring About the form that lieth prone Before the dreadful altar-stone.

She will not look or speak or stir, But with drowned lips and cheeks death-white Will lie amid the pool of light, Until, grown faint with thirst of her, He shall bow down his face and sink Breathless beneath the eddying brink.

Then a swift music will begin, And as the brazen doors shut slow, There will be hurrying to and fro, And lights and calls and silver din, While through the star-freaked swirl of air The god's sweet cruel eyes will stare.

HEART'S WILD-FLOWER

To-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire, And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire, And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire.

And though no word shall e'er be said to ease the ghostly sting, And though our hearts, unhoused, unfed, must still go wandering, My sign is set upon her head while stars do meet and sing.

Not such a sign as women wear who make their foreheads tame With life's long tolerance, and bear love's sweetest, humblest name, Nor such as passion eateth bare with its crown of tears and flame.

Nor such a sign as happy friend sets on his friend's dear brow When meadow-pipings break and blend to a key of autumn woe, And the woodland says playtime 's at end, best unclasp hands and go.

But where she strays, through blight or blooth, one fadeless flower she wears, A little gift God gave my youth,--whose petals dim were fears, Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies, and tears.

O heart of mine, with all thy powers of white beatitude, What are the dearest of God's dowers to the children of his blood? How blow the shy, shy wilding flowers in the hollows of his wood?

HARMONICS

This string upon my harp was best beloved: I thought I knew its secrets through and through; Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue 'Neath his white hair, bent over me and moved His fingers up and down, and broke the wire To such a laddered music, rung on rung, As from the patriarch's pillow skyward sprung Crowded with wide-flung wings and feet of fire.

O vibrant heart! so metely tuned and strung That any untaught hand can draw from thee One clear gold note that makes the tired years young-- What of the time when Love had whispered me Where slept thy nodes, and my hand pausefully Gave to the dim harmonics voice and tongue?

ON THE RIVER

The faint stars wake and wonder, Fade and find heart anew; Above us and far under Sphereth the watchful blue.

Silent she sits, outbending, A wild pathetic grace, A beauty strange, heart-rending, Upon her hair and face.

O spirit cries that sever The cricket's level drone! O to give o'er endeavor And let love have its own!

Within the mirrored bushes There wakes a little stir; The white-throat moves, and hushes Her nestlings under her.

Beneath, the lustrous river, The watchful sky o'erhead. God, God, that Thou should'st ever Poison thy children's bread!

THE BRACELET OF GRASS

The opal heart of afternoon Was clouding on to throbs of storm, Ashen within the ardent west The lips of thunder muttered harm, And as a bubble like to break Hung heaven's trembling amethyst, When with the sedge-grass by the lake I braceleted her wrist.

And when the ribbon grass was tied, Sad with the happiness we planned, Palm linked in palm we stood awhile And watched the raindrops dot the sand; Until the anger of the breeze Chid all the lake's bright breathing down, And ravished all the radiancies From her deep eyes of brown.

We gazed from shelter on the storm, And through our hearts swept ghostly pain To see the shards of day sweep past, Broken, and none might mend again. Broken, that none shall ever mend; Loosened, that none shall ever tie. O the wind and the wind, will it never end? O the sweeping past of the ruined sky!

THE DEPARTURE

I

I sat beside the glassy evening sea, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre, And all its strings of laughter and desire Crushed in the rank wet grasses heedlessly; Nor did my dull eyes care to question how The boat close by had spread its saffron sails, Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales, And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow. Neither was wonder in me when I saw Fair women step therein, though they were fair Even to adoration and to awe, And in the gracious fillets of their hair Were blossoms from a garden I had known, Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.

II

One gazed steadfast into the dying west With lips apart to greet the evening star; And one with eyes that caught the strife and jar Of the sea's heart, followed the sunward breast Of a lone gull; from a slow harp one drew Blind music like a laugh or like a wail; And in the uncertain shadow of the sail One wove a crown of berries and of yew. Yet even as I said with dull desire, "All these were mine, and one was mine indeed," The smoky music burst into a fire, And I was left alone in my great need, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre And all its strings crushed in the dripping weed.

FADED PICTURES

Only two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas. All the rest-- The warm green gown, the small hands pressed Light in the lap, the braided hair

That must have made the sweet low brow So earnest, centuries ago, When some one saw it change and glow-- All faded! Just the eyes burn now.

I dare say people pass and pass Before the blistered little frame, And dingy work without a name Stuck in behind its square of glass.

But I, well, I left Raphael Just to come drink these eyes of hers, To think away the stains and blurs And make all new again and well.

Only, for tears my head will bow, Because there on my heart's last wall, Scarce one tint left to tell it all, A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.

A GREY DAY

Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, Rain whitens the dead sea, From headland dim to sullen cape Grey sails creep wearily. I know not how that merchantman Has found the heart; but 't is her plan Seaward her endless course to shape.

Unreal as insects that appall A drunkard's peevish brain, O'er the grey deep the dories crawl, Four-legged, with rowers twain: Midgets and minims of the earth, Across old ocean's vasty girth Toiling--heroic, comical!

I wonder how that merchant's crew Have ever found the will! I wonder what the fishers do To keep them toiling still! I wonder how the heart of man Has patience to live out its span, Or wait until its dreams come true.

THE RIDE BACK

_Before the coming of the dark, he dreamed An old-world faded story: of a knight, Much like in need to him, who was no knight! And of a road, much like the road his soul Groped over, desperate to meet Her soul. Beside the bed Death waited. And he dreamed._

His limbs were heavy from the fight, His mail was dark with dust and blood; On his good horse they bound him tight, And on his breast they bound the rood To help him in the ride that night.

When he crashed through the wood's wet rim, About the dabbled reeds a breeze Went moaning broken words and dim; The haggard shapes of twilight trees Caught with their scrawny hands at him.

Between the doubtful aisles of day Strange folk and lamentable stood To maze and beckon him astray, But through the grey wrath of the wood He held right on his bitter way.

When he came where the trees were thin, The moon sat waiting there to see; On her worn palm she laid her chin, And laughed awhile in sober glee To think how strong this knight had been.

When he rode past the pallid lake, The withered yellow stems of flags Stood breast-high for his horse to break; Lewd as the palsied lips of hags The petals in the moon did shake.

When he came by the mountain wall, The snow upon the heights looked down And said, "The sight is pitiful. The nostrils of his steed are brown With frozen blood; and he will fall."

The iron passes of the hills With question were importunate; And, but the sharp-tongued icy rills Had grown for once compassionate, The spiteful shades had had their wills.

Just when the ache in breast and brain And the frost smiting at his face Had sealed his spirit up with pain, He came out in a better place, And morning lay across the plain.