Part 22
Nor word nor touch nor sight Of lover, you Shall long through the night but for this: The roll of the full tide to cover you Without question, Without kiss.
_William Rose Benét_
William Rose Benét was born at Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor, February 2, 1886. He was educated at Albany Academy and graduated from Yale in 1907. After various experiences as free-lance writer, publisher’s reader, magazine editor and second lieutenant in the U. S. Air Service, Benét became the Associate Editor of the New York Post’s _Literary Review_ in 1920.
The outstanding feature of Benét’s verse is its extraordinary whimsicality; an oriental imagination riots through his pages. Like the title-poem of his first volume, _Merchants from Cathay_ (1913), all of Benét’s volumes vibrate with a vigorous music; they are full of the sonorous stuff that one rolls out crossing wintry fields or tramping a road alone.
But Benét’s charm is not confined to the lift and swing of rollicking choruses. His _The Falconer of God_ (1914), _The Great White Wall_ (1916) and _The Burglar of the Zodiac_ (1918) contain decorations as bold as they are brilliant; they ring with a strange and spicy music evoked from seemingly casual words; they glow with a half-lurid, half-humorous reflection of the grotesque. There are times when Benét seems to be forcing his ingenuity. The poet frequently lets his fantastic Pegasus run away with him, and what started out to be a gallop among the stars ends in a scraping of shins on the pavement. But he is saved by an acrobatic dexterity even when his energy betrays him.
_Moons of Grandeur_ (1920) represents the fullest development of Benét’s unusual gifts; a combination of Eastern phantasy and Western vigor.
MERCHANTS FROM CATHAY
Their heels slapped their bumping mules; their fat chaps glowed.[Sidenote: _How that They came._] Glory unto Mary, each seemed to wear a crown! Like sunset their robes were on the wide, white road: So we saw those mad merchants come dusting into town!
Two paunchy beasts they rode on and two they drove before. [Sidenote: _Of their Beasts_,] May the Saints all help us, the tiger-stripes they had! And the panniers upon them swelled full of stuffs and ore! The square buzzed and jostled at a sight so mad.
They bawled in their beards, and their turbans they wried. [Sidenote: _And their Boast_,] They stopped by the stalls with curvetting and clatter. As bronze as the bracken their necks and faces dyed— And a stave they sat singing, to tell us of the matter.
_“For your silks, to Sugarmago! For your dyes, to Isfahan! [Sidenote: _With its Burthen_] Weird fruits from the Isle o’ Lamaree. But for magic merchandise, For treasure-trove and spice, Here’s a catch and a carol to the great, grand Chan, The King of all the Kings across the sea!_
_“Here’s a catch and a carol to the great, grand Chan; [Sidenote: _And Chorus._] For we won through the deserts to his sunset barbican; And the mountains of his palace no Titan’s reach may span Where he wields his seignorie!_
“Red-as-blood skins of Panthers, so bright against the sun [Sidenote: _A first Stave Fearsome_,] On the walls of the halls where his pillared state is set They daze with a blaze no man may look upon. And with conduits of beverage those floors run wet.
“His wives stiff with riches, they sit before him there. [Sidenote: _And a second Right hard To stomach_] Bird and beast at his feast make song and clapping cheer. And jugglers and enchanters, all walking on the air, Make fall eclipse and thunder—make moons and suns appear!
“Once the Chan, by his enemies soreprest, and sorely spent, [Sidenote: _And a third, Which is a Laughable Thing._] Lay, so they say, in a thicket ’neath a tree Where the howl of an owl vexed his foes from their intent: Then that fowl for a holy bird of reverence made he!
_“A catch and a carol to the great, grand Chan! [Sidenote: _We gape to Hear them end_,] Pastmasters of disasters, our desert caravan Won through all peril to his sunset barbican, Where he wields his seignorie! And crowns he gave us! We end where we began: A catch and a carol to the great, grand Chan, The King of all the Kings across the sea!_”
Those mad, antic Merchants!... Their stripèd beasts did beat [Sidenote: _And are in Terror_,] The market-square suddenly with hooves of beaten gold! The ground yawned gaping and flamed beneath our feet! They plunged to Pits Abysmal with their wealth untold!
And some say the Chan himself in anger dealt the stroke— [Sidenote: _And dread it is Devil’s Work!_] For sharing of his secrets with silly, common folk: But Holy, Blessed Mary, preserve us as you may Lest once more those mad Merchants come chanting from Cathay!
NIGHT[54]
Let the night keep What the night takes, Sighs buried deep, Ancient heart-aches, Groans of the lover, Tears of the lost; Let day discover not All the night cost!
Let the night keep Love’s burning bliss, Drowned in deep sleep Whisper and kiss, Thoughts like white flowers In hedges of May; Let such deep hours not Fade with the day!
Monarch is night Of all eldest things, Pain and affright, Rapturous wings; Night the crown, night the sword Lifted to smite. Kneel to your overlord, Children of night!
HOW TO CATCH UNICORNS
Its cloven hoofprint on the sand Will lead you—where? Into a phantasmagoric land— Beware!
There all the bright streams run up-hill. The birds on every tree are still. But from stocks and stones, clear voices come That should be dumb.
If you have taken along a net, A noose, a prod, You’ll be waiting in the forest yet ... _Nid—nod!_
In a virgin’s lap the beast slept sound, _They say_ ... but I— I think (Is anyone around?) _That’s just a lie_!
If you have taken a musketoon To flinders ’twill flash ’neath the wizard moon. So I should take browned batter-cake, Hot-buttered inside, like foam to flake.
And I should take an easy heart And a whimsical face, And a tied-up lunch of sandwich and tart, And spread a cloth in the open chase. And then I should pretend to snore ...
And I’d hear a snort and I’d hear a roar, The wind of a mane and a tail, and four Wild hoofs prancing the forest-floor.
And I’d open my eyes on a flashing horn— And see the Unicorn!
Paladins fierce and virgins sweet ... _But he’s never had anything to eat!_ Knights have tramped in their iron-mong’ry ... But nobody thought—that’s all!—_he’s hungry!_
ADDENDUM
_Really_ hungry! Good Lord deliver us, The Unicorn is not _carnivorous_!
_John Hall Wheelock_
John Hall Wheelock was born at Far Rockaway, Long Island, in 1886. He was graduated from Harvard, receiving his B.A. in 1908, and finished his studies at the Universities of Göttingen and Berlin, 1908-10.
Wheelock’s first book is, in many respects, his best. _The Human Fantasy_ (1911) sings with the voice of youth—a youth which is vibrantly, even vociferously, in love with existence. Rhapsodic and obviously influenced by Whitman and Henley, these lines beat bravely; a singing buoyance arrests one upon opening the volume. A headlong ecstasy rises from pages whose refrain is “Splendid it is to live and glorious to die.” _The Beloved Adventure_ (1912) is less powerful but scarcely less passionate. Lyric after lyric moves one by its athletic music and spiritual intensity.
Wheelock’s subsequent volumes are less individualized. _Love and Liberation_ (1913) and _Dust and Light_ (1919) are long dilutions of the earlier strain. The music is still here, but most of the magic has gone. Wheelock has allowed himself to be exploited by his own fluency, and the result is unbelievably monotonous. Yet even vast stretches of two hundred and thirty unvaried love songs cannot bury a dozen or more vivid poems which lie, half-concealed, in a waste of verbiage.
In spite of his lapses and lack of selective taste, Wheelock is often a stirring lyricist. _The Human Fantasy_ is one of the most remarkable “first” books of the period.
SUNDAY EVENING IN THE COMMON
Look—on the topmost branches of the world The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick; Over the huddled rows of stone and brick, A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled Like ghosts, languid and sick.
One breathless moment now the city’s moaning Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim; There is no sound around the whole world’s rim, Save in the distance a small band is droning Some desolate old hymn.
Van Wyck, how often have we been together When this same moment made all mysteries clear; —The infinite stars that brood above us here, And the gray city in the soft June weather, So tawdry and so dear!
BEAUTY
The old, familiar Beauty, Caressed by the world’s dead hands, Beauty, so old and weary, Beloved of a thousand lovers, Worn with a thousand kisses, Surprising—beneficent—holy— Comes to us all in the end.
LOVE AND LIBERATION
Lift your arms to the stars And give an immortal shout; Not all the veils of darkness Can put your beauty out!
You are armed with love, with love, Nor all the powers of Fate Can touch you with a spear, Nor all the hands of hate.
What of good and evil, Hell and Heaven above—, Trample them with love! Ride over them with love!
NIRVANA
Sleep on, I lie at heaven’s high oriels, Over the stars that murmur as they go Lighting your lattice-window far below; And every star some of the glory spells Whereof I know.
I have forgotten you long, long ago, Like the sweet silver singing of thin bells Vanished, or music fading faint and low. Sleep on, I lie at heaven’s high oriels, Who loved you so.
_Joyce Kilmer_
(Alfred) Joyce Kilmer was born at New Brunswick, New Jersey, December 6, 1886. He was graduated from Rutgers College in 1904 and received his A.B. from Columbia in 1906. After leaving Columbia he became, in rapid succession, instructor of Latin at Morristown High School, editor of a journal for horsemen, book salesman, book-reviewer, lexicographer, æsthete, interviewer, socialist and churchman.
After Kilmer became converted to Catholicism, his conception of the church was the Church Militant. “His thought,” writes his biographer, Robert Cortes Holliday, “dwelt continually on warrior-saints.... As he saw it, there was no question as to his duty.” In 1917 Kilmer joined the Officers’ Reserve Training Corps, but he soon resigned from this. In less than three weeks after America entered the world war, he enlisted as a private in the Seventh Regiment, National Guard, New York. Shortly before the regiment left New York for Spartanburg, South Carolina, Kilmer was transferred at his own request to the 165th Infantry. In spite of his avowed militancy, Kilmer was “a poet trying to be a soldier;” he made no effort to glorify war; his one hope was to wring some spiritual satisfaction out of the brutality.
On July 28, 1918, the five-day battle for the mastery of the heights beyond the river Ourcq was begun. Two days later, Sergeant Kilmer was killed in action.
Death came before the poet had developed or even matured his gifts. His first volume, _Summer of Love_ (1911), is wholly imitative; it is full of reflections of a dozen other sources, “a broken bundle of mirrors.” _Trees and Other Poems_ (1914) contains the title-poem by which Kilmer is best known and, though various influences are still strong (one cannot miss the borrowed accents of Patmore, Belloc, Chesterton, Housman and—_vide_ “Martin”—E. A. Robinson), a refreshing candor lights up the lines. _Main Street and Other Poems_ (1917) is less derivative; the simplicity is less self-conscious, the ecstasy more spontaneous.
Besides his own poetry, Kilmer edited a selection of _Verses_ by Hilaire Belloc (1916) and _Dreams and Images_, An Anthology of Catholic poets (1917).
TREES[55]
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
MARTIN[56]
When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.
How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth.
Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin’s life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,— Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.
Because it was old Martin’s lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress. Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success.
_Shaemas O Sheel_
Shaemas O Sheel (Shields) was born September 19, 1886, in New York City. After graduating from high school, he revived the ancient Gaelic form of his family name and identified himself with the cause of Ireland in America.
O Sheel’s two volumes, _The Blossomy Bough_ (1911) and _The Light Feet of Goats_ (1915), owe their chief impetus to the Celtic renascence and to W. B. Yeats in particular. But O Sheel’s poetry, although influenced, is not merely derivative. His ancestry speaks through him with unmistakable accents; he is typically the Irish bard of whom Chesterton has written:
For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad; For all their wars are merry And all their songs are sad.
A recurring if sometimes too determined mysticism and a muffled heroism individualize the best of his work.
THEY WENT FORTH TO BATTLE, BUT THEY ALWAYS FELL
They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields; Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well, And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, They were not weak, as one who vainly wields A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell How on the hard-fought field they always fell.
It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard.
They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their might was not the might of lifted spears; Over the battle-clamor came a spell Of troubling music, and they fought not well. Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; Their names are old sad stories in men’s ears; Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell, Who went to battle forth and always fell.
_Roy Helton_
Roy Helton was born at Washington, D. C., in 1886. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1908. He studied art—and found he was color-blind. He spent two years at inventions—and found he had no business sense. After a few more experiments, he became a schoolmaster in West Philadelphia.
Helton’s first volume, _Youth’s Pilgrimage_ (1915), is a strange, mystical affair, full of vague symbolism with a few purple patches. _Outcasts in Beulah Land_ (1918) is entirely different in theme and treatment. This is a much starker verse; a poetry of city streets, direct and sharp.
IN PASSING
Through the dim window, I could see The little room—a sordid square Of helter-skelter penury: Piano, whatnot, splintered chair....
It is so small a room that I Seem almost at the woman’s side: Galled jade—too fat for vanity, And far too frankly old for pride.
Her greasy apron ’round her waist; The dish cloth by her on the chair; As if in some wild headlong haste, She has come in and settled there.
Grimly she bends her back and tries To stab the keys, with heavy hand; A child’s first finger exercise Before her on the music stand.
_David Morton_
David Morton was born at Elkton, Kentucky, February 21, 1886. He graduated from Vanderbilt University in 1909, engaging in newspaper work immediately thereafter. After ten years of writing for various papers in the South, Morton came to New Jersey, where he now lives, being teacher of English at Morristown High School.
The greater part of Morton’s work is in the sonnet form, a form into which he has carried a new warmth without sacrificing the old dignity. The best of these verses are to be found in his first volume, _Ships in Harbor and Other Poems_.
SYMBOLS[57]
Beautiful words, like butterflies, blow by, With what swift colors on their fragile wings!— Some that are less articulate than a sigh, Some that were names of ancient, lovely things. What delicate careerings of escape, When they would pass beyond the baffled reach, To leave a haunting shadow and a shape, Eluding still the careful traps of speech.
And I who watch and listen, lie in wait, Seeing the cloudy cavalcades blow past, Happy if some bright vagrant, soon or late, May venture near the snares of sound, at last— Most fortunate captor if, from time to time, One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme.
OLD SHIPS
There is a memory stays upon old ships, A weightless cargo in the musty hold,— Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips, Of stormy midnights,—and a tale untold. They have remembered islands in the dawn, And windy capes that tried their slender spars, And tortuous channels where their keels have gone, And calm blue nights of stillness and the stars.
Ah, never think that ships forget a shore, Or bitter seas, or winds that made them wise; There is a dream upon them, evermore; And there be some who say that sunk ships rise To seek familiar harbors in the night, Blowing in mists, their spectral sails like light.
_Orrick Johns_
Orrick Johns was born at St. Louis, Missouri, in 1887. He schooled himself to be an advertising copy writer, his creative work being kept as an avocation.
_Asphalt and Other Poems_ (1917) is a queer mixture. Cheap stanzas crowd against lines of singular beauty; poor dialect verse elbows lyrics that sing without a false note. The same incongruity is evident in _Black Branches_ (1920), where much that is strained and artificial mingles with poetry that is not only spontaneous but searching. At his best, notably in the refreshing “Country Rhymes,” Johns is a true singer, a lyricist of no little stature.
THE INTERPRETER
In the very early morning when the light was low She got all together and she went like snow, Like snow in the springtime on a sunny hill, And we were only frightened and can’t think still.
We can’t think quite that the katydids and frogs And the little crying chickens and the little grunting hogs, And the other living things that she spoke for to us Have nothing more to tell her since it happened thus.
She never is around for any one to touch, But of ecstasy and longing she too knew much ... And always when any one has time to call his own She will come and be beside him as quiet as a stone.
LITTLE THINGS
There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay About the rush of faces in the town by day; But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed ... And the soft March wind and the low March mist Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed ... The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play— These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! And I shan’t stand waiting for love or scorn When the feast is laid for a day new-born Oh, better let the little things I loved when little Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; And better is a temple made of bark and thong Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.
_Margaret Widdemer_