Chapter 4

He saw the wet snails crawl and cling On fern-stalks where the rime had run, The careless birds went wing and wing, And in the low smile of the sun Life seemed almost a pleasant thing.

Right on the panting charger swung Through the bright depths of quiet grass; The knight's lips moved as if they sung, And through the peace there came to pass The flattery of lute and tongue.

From the mid-flowering of the mead There swelled a sob of minstrelsy, Faint sackbuts and the dreamy reed, And plaintive lips of maids thereby, And songs blown out like thistle seed.

Forth from her maidens came the bride, And as his loosened rein fell slack He muttered, "In their throats they lied Who said that I should ne'er win back To kiss her lips before I died!"

SONG-FLOWER AND POPPY

I

IN NEW YORK

He plays the deuce with my writing time, For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws; He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme, And he leaves me--well, God knows It takes the shine from a tunester's line When a little mate of the deathless Nine Pipes up under your nose!

For listen, there is his voice again, Wistful and clear and piercing sweet. Where did the boy find such a strain To make a dead heart beat? And how in the name of care can he bear To jet such a fountain into the air In this gray gulch of a street?

Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese? Umbria under the Apennine? South, where the terraced lemon-trees Round rich Sorrento shine? Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?-- Where have I heard that aching tune, That boyish throat divine?

Beyond my roofs and chimney pots A rag of sunset crumbles gray; Below, fierce radiance hangs in clots O'er the streams that never stay. Shrill and high, newsboys cry The worst of the city's infamy For one more sordid day.

But my desire has taken sail For lands beyond, soft-horizoned: Down languorous leagues I hold the trail, From Marmalada, steeply throned Above high pastures washed with light, Where dolomite by dolomite Looms sheer and spectral-coned,

To purple vineyards looking south On reaches of the still Tyrrhene; Virgilian headlands, and the mouth Of Tiber, where that ship put in To take the dead men home to God, Whereof Casella told the mode To the great Florentine.

Up stairways blue with flowering weed I climb to hill-hung Bergamo; All day I watch the thunder breed Golden above the springs of Po, Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure, And by Assisi's portals pure I stand, with heart bent low.

O hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall, That flower of passionate wistful song! How it blows like a rose by the iron wall Of the city loud and strong. How it cries "Nay, nay" to the worldling's way, To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea; Time comes, though the time is long."

Beyond my roofs and chimney piles Sunset crumbles, ragged, dire; The roaring street is hung for miles With fierce electric fire. Shrill and high, newsboys cry The gross of the planet's destiny Through one more sullen gyre.

Stolidly the town flings down Its lust by day for its nightly lust; Who does his given stint, 't is known, Shall have his mug and crust.-- Too base of mood, too harsh of blood, Too stout to seize the grosser good, Too hungry after dust!

O hark! how it blooms in the falling dark, That flower of mystical yearning song: Sad as a hermit thrush, as a lark Uplifted, glad, and strong. Heart, we have chosen the better part! Save sacred love and sacred art Nothing is good for long.

II

AT ASSISI

Before St. Francis' burg I wait, Frozen in spirit, faint with dread; His presence stands within the gate, Mild splendor rings his head. Gently he seems to welcome me: Knows he not I am quick, and he Is dead, and priest of the dead?

I turn away from the gray church pile; I dare not enter, thus undone: Here in the roadside grass awhile I will lie and watch for the sun. Too purged of earth's good glee and strife, Too drained of the honied lusts of life, Was the peace these old saints won!

And lo! how the laughing earth says no To the fear that mastered me; To the blood that aches and clamors so How it whispers "Verily." Here by my side, marvelous-dyed, Bold stray-away from the courts of pride, A poppy-bell flaunts free.

St. Francis sleeps upon his hill, And a poppy flower laughs down his creed; Triumphant light her petals spill, His shrines are dim indeed. Men build and plan, but the soul of man, Coming with haughty eyes to scan, Feels richer, wilder need.

How long, old builder Time, wilt bide Till at thy thrilling word Life's crimson pride shall have to bride The spirit's white accord, Within that gate of good estate Which thou must build us soon or late, Hoar workman of the Lord?

HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREE

Nay, move not! Sit just as you are, Under the carved wings of the chair. The hearth-glow sifting through your hair Turns every dim pearl to a star Dawn-drowned in floods of brightening air.

I have been thinking of that night When all the wide hall burst to blaze With spears caught up, thrust fifty ways To find my throat, while I lay white And sick with joy, to think the days

I dragged out in your hateful North-- A slave, constrained at banquet's need To fill the black bull's horns with mead For drunken sea-thieves--were henceforth Cast from me as a poison weed,

While Death thrust roses in my hands! But you, who knew the flowers he had Were no such roses ripe and glad As nod in my far southern lands, But pallid things to make men sad,

Put back the spears with one calm hand, Raised on your knee my wondering head, Wiped off the trickling drops of red From my torn forehead with a strand Of your bright loosened hair, and said:

"Sea-rovers! would you kill a skald? This boy has hearkened Odin sing Unto the clang and winnowing Of raven's wings. His heart is thralled To music, as to some strong king;

"And this great thraldom works disdain Of lesser serving. Once release These bonds he bears, and he may please To give you guerdon sweet as rain To sailors calmed in thirsty seas."

Then, having soothed their rage to rest, You led me to old Skagi's throne, Where yellow gold rims in the stone; And in my arms, against my breast, Thrust his great harp of walrus bone.

How they came crowding, tunes on tunes! How good it was to touch the strings And feel them thrill like happy things That flutter from the gray cocoons On hedge rows, in your gradual springs!

All grew a blur before my sight, As when the stealthy white fog slips At noonday on the staggering ships; I saw one single spot of light, Your white face, with its eager lips--

And so I sang to that. O thou Who liftedst me from out my shame! Wert thou content when Skagi came, Put his own chaplet on my brow, And bent and kissed his own harp-frame?

A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORY

_Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte: Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura; Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."_

_Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo, "Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma. Salsi colui che inannellata pria Disposata m' avea colla sua gemma."_

PURGATORIO, CANTO V.

I

BUONCONTE

Sister, the sun has ceased to shine; By companies of twain and trine Stars gather; from the sea The moon comes momently.

On all the roads that ring our hill The sighing and the hymns are still: It is our time to gain Strength for to-morrow's pain.

Yet still your eyes are wholly bent Upon the way that Virgil went, Following Sordello's sign, With the dark Florentine.

Night now has barred their upward track: There where the mountain-side folds back And in the Vale of Flowers The Princes count their hours

Those three friends sit in the clear starlight With the green-clad angels left and right,-- Soul made by wakeful soul More earnest for the goal.

So let us, sister, though our place Is barren of that Valley's grace, Sit hand in hand, till we Seem rich as those friends be.

II

LA PIA

Brother, 't were sweet your hand to feel In mine; it would a little heal The shame that makes me poor, And dumb at the heart's core.

But where our spirits felt Love's dearth, Down on the green and pleasant earth, Remains the fleshly shell, Love's garment tangible.

So now our hands have naught to say: Heart unto heart some other way Must utter forth its pain, Must glee or comfort gain.

Ah, no! For souls like you and me Some comfort waits, but never glee: Not yours the young men's singing In Heaven, at the bride-bringing;

Not mine, beside God's living waters, Dance of the marriageable daughters, The laughter and the ease Beneath His summer trees.

III

BUONCONTE

In fair Arezzo's halls and bowers My Giovanna speeds her hours Delicately, nor cares To shorten by her prayers

My days upon this mount of ruth: If those who come from earth speak sooth, Though still I call and call, She does not heed at all.

And if aright your words I read At Dante's passing, he you wed Dipped from the drains of Hell The marriage hydromel.

O therefore, while the moon intense Holds yonder dreaming sea suspense, And round the shadowy coasts Gather the wistful ghosts,

Let us sit quiet all the night, And wonder, wonder on the light Worn by those spirits fair Whom Love has not left bare.

IV

LA PIA

Even as theirs, the chance was mine To meet and mate beneath Love's sign, To feel in soul and sense The solemn influence

Which, breathed upon a man or maid, Maketh forever unafraid, Though life with death unite That spirit to affright,--

Which lifts the changed heart high up, As the priest lifts the changed cup, Boldens the feet to pace Before God's proving face.

O just a thought beyond the blue The wings of the dove yearned down and through! Even now I hear and hear How near they were, how near!

I murmur not. Rightly disgraced, The weak hand stretched abroad in haste For gifts barely allowed The tacit, strong, and proud.

But therefore was I so intent To watch where Dante onward went With the Roman spirit pure And the grave troubadour,

Because my mind was busy then With the loves that wait those gentle men: Cunizza one; and one Bice, above the sun;

And for the other, more and less Than woman's near-felt tenderness, A million voices dim Praising him, praising him.

V

BUONCONTE

The waves that wash this mountain's base Were crimson in the sun's low rays, When, singing high and fast, An angel downward passed,

To bid some patient soul arise And make it fair for Paradise; And upward, so attended, That soul its journey wended;

Yet you, who in these lower rings Wait for the coming of such wings, Turned not your eyes to view Whether they came for you,

But watched, but watched great Virgil stayed Greeting Sordello's couchant shade, Which to salute him rose Like lion from its pose;

While humbly by those lords of song Stood he whose living limbs are strong To mount where Mary's bliss Is shed on Beatrice.

On him your gaze was fastened, more Than on those great names Mantua bore; Your eyes hold the distress Still, of that wistfulness.

Yea, fit he seemed much love to rouse! His pilgrim lips and iron brows Grew like a woman's, dim, While you held speech with him;

And troubled came his mortal breath The while I told him of my death; His looks were changed and wan When Virgil led him on.

VI

LA PIA

E'er since Casella came this morn, Newly o'er yonder ocean borne, Bound upward for the choir Who purge themselves in fire,

And from that meinie he was of Stayed backward at my cry of love, To speak awhile with me Of life and Tuscany,

And, parting, told us how e'er day Was done, Dante would come this way, With mortal feet, to find His sweetheart, sky-enshrined,--

E'er since Casella spoke such news My heart has lain in a golden muse, Picturing him and her, What starry ones they were.

And now the moon sheds its compassion O'er the hushed mount, I try to fashion The manner of their meeting, Their few first words of greeting.

O well for them, with clasped hands, Unshamed amid the heavenly bands! They hear no pitying pair Of old-time lovers there

Look down and say in an undertone, "This latest-come, who comes alone, Was still alone on earth, And lonely from his birth."

Nor feel a sudden whisper mar God's weather, "Dost thou see the scar That spirit hideth so? Who dealt her such a blow

"That God can hardly wipe it out?" And answer, "She gave love, no doubt, To one who saw not fit To set much store by it."

THE DAGUERREOTYPE

This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly, Younger than spring, without the faintest trace Of disappointment, weariness, or tean Upon the childlike earnestness and grace Of the waiting face. These close-wound ropes of pearl (Or common beads made precious by their use) Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare And half the glad swell of the breast, for news That now the woman stirs within the girl. And yet, Even so, the loops and globes Of beaten gold And jet Hung, in the stately way of old, From the ears' drooping lobes On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,-- Which, now I look again, is perfect child, Or no--or no--'t is girlhood's very self, Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf So meek, so maiden mild, But startling the close gazer with the sense Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild, And delicate delirious merriments.

As a moth beats sidewise And up and over, and tries To skirt the irresistible lure Of the flame that has him sure, My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, Flutters and makes delay,-- Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair And each hid radiance there, But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light Where soon--ah, now, with cries Of grief and giving-up unto its gain It shrinks no longer nor denies, But dips Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,-- And all is well, for I have seen them plain, The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! Across the blinding gush of these good tears They shine as in the sweet and heavy years When by her bed and chair We children gathered jealously to share The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, Where the sore-stricken body made a clime Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, Holier and more mystical than prayer.

God, how thy ways are strange! That this should be, even this, The patient head Which suffered years ago the dreary change! That these so dewy lips should be the same As those I stooped to kiss And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, A little ere the one who bowed above her, Our father and her very constant lover, Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead. Then I, who could not understand or share His antique nobleness, Being unapt to bear The insults which time flings us for our proof, Fled from the horrible roof Into the alien sunshine merciless, The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day, Raging to front God in his pride of sway And hurl across the lifted swords of fate That ringed Him where He sat My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate Which somehow should undo Him, after all! That this girl face, expectant, virginal, Which gazes out at me Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) To pledge me troth, And in the kingdom where the heart is lord Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep Whose winds the gray Norns keep,-- That this should be indeed The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, Out of the to and fro Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, Stooping from star to star and age to age Sings as he sows! That underneath this breast Nine moons I fed Deep of divine unrest, While over and over in the dark she said, "Blessed! but not as happier children blessed"-- That this should be Even she.... God, how with time and change Thou makest thy footsteps strange! Ah, now I know They play upon me, and it is not so. Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, A little thing to flatter and make weep, To tease until her heart is sore, Then kiss and clear the score; A gypsy run-the-fields, A little liberal daughter of the earth, Good for what hour of truancy and mirth The careless season yields Hither-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap; Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.-- O shrined above the skies, Frown not, clear brow, Darken not, holy eyes! Thou knowest well I know that it is thou! Only to save me from such memories As would unman me quite, Here in this web of strangeness caught And prey to troubled thought Do I devise These foolish shifts and slight; Only to shield me from the afflicting sense Of some waste influence Which from this morning face and lustrous hair Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. In any other guise, With any but this girlish depth of gaze, Your coming had not so unsealed and poured The dusty amphoras where I had stored The drippings of the winepress of my days. I think these eyes foresee, Now in their unawakened virgin time, Their mother's pride in me, And dream even now, unconsciously, Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea You pictured I should climb. Broken premonitions come, Shapes, gestures visionary, Not as once to maiden Mary The manifest angel with fresh lilies came Intelligibly calling her by name; But vanishingly, dumb, Thwarted and bright and wild, As heralding a sin-defiled, Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child, Who yet should be a trump of mighty call Blown in the gates of evil kings To make them fall; Who yet should be a sword of flame before The soul's inviolate door To beat away the clang of hellish wings; Who yet should be a lyre Of high unquenchable desire In the day of little things.-- Look, where the amphoras, The yield of many days, Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self And set upon the shelf In sullen pride The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide-- O mother mine! Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine, Of him you used to praise? Emptied and overthrown The jars lie strown. These, for their flavor duly nursed, Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; These, I thought honied to the very seal, Dry, dry,--a little acid meal, A pinch of mouldy dust, Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; These, rude to look upon, But flasking up the liquor dearest won, Through sacred hours and hard, With watching and with wrestlings and with grief, Even of these, of these in chief, The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard. Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught! What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, The cynic rending of the wings, Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast? O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just! See, I was yours and I am in the dust. Then look not so, as if all things were well! Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of hell Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!

Nothing dismayed? By all I say and all I hint not made Afraid? O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet. Brave eyes and true! See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard The quick, sweet-spoken bird. Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save!

+--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Note: | | | | | | Spacing for contractions has been retained to match the original | | 1901 text. | | | | Both "gray" and "grey" are used in this text, as per the original. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+