Part 11

Speak ye a true tongue, Or waste ye with words the Soul’s song? A damning evidence is with wasted words; For need I prate to yonder star When hunger fills the world wherein I dwell? Cast I a glance so precious as His Which wakes at every dawn? Speak I a tongue one half so true As sighing winds who sing amid Aeolian harps strung with siren tress? For lo, the sea murmureth a thousand tones, Wrung from its world within, But telleth only of Him, And so His silence keeps.

In the order in which we have chosen to present these poems, they are more and more mystical as we go on. We trust, then, that the reader meeting them for the first time will feel no impertinence in increasing attempts at elucidation from one who has read them often and pondered them much.

There is another and a very interesting phase of these communications in the place Christ holds in them. Patience’s attitude toward the Savior is one of deep and loving reverence.

“Didst thou then,” she says, “with those drops so worth, buy the throbbing at thy memory set aflutter? And is this love of mine so freely thine by that same purchase, or do I love thee for thy love of me? And do I, then, my father’s tilling for love of Him, like thee to shed my blood and tears for reapers in an age to come, because He wills it so? God grant ’tis so!”

Nor does she hesitate to assert His divinity with definiteness. “Think ye,” she cries, “that He who doth send the earth aspin athrough the blue depth o’ Heaven, be not a wonder-god who springeth up where’er He doth set a wish! Yea, then doth He to spring from out the dust a lily; so also doth He to breathe athin (within) the flesh, and come unto the earth, born from out flesh athout the touch o’ man. ’Tis so, and from off the lute o’ me hath song aflowed that be asweeted o’ the blood o’ Him that shed for thee and me.”

And she puts the same assertion of His divine birth into this tribute to the Virgin:

Mary, mother, thou art the Spring That flowereth, though nay man aplanteth thee. Mary, mother, the song of thee That lulled His dreams to come, Sing them athrough the earth and bring The hope of rest unto the day.

Mary, mother, from out the side of Him That thou didst bear, aflowed the crimson tide That doth to stain e’en unto this day— The tide of blood that ebbed the man From out the flesh and left the God to be.

Mary, mother, wilt thou then leave me catch These drops, that I do offer them as drink Unto the brothers of the flesh of me of earth? Mary, mother of the earth’s loved! Mary, bearer of the God! Mary, that I might call thee of a name befitting thee, I seek, I seek, I seek, and none Doth offer it to me save this: Mother! Mother! Mother of the Him; The flesh that died for me.

THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY

“Earth! Earth, the mother of us all! Aye, the mother of us all! How loth, how loth, like to a child we be, to leave and seek ’mid dark!”—PATIENCE WORTH.

If the personality of Patience Worth and the nature and quality of her literary productions are worthy of consideration as evidences of the truth of her claim to a spiritual existence, then in the sufficiency of the proof may be found an answer to the world-old question: Is there a life after death? To what extent the facts that have been presented in this narrative may be accepted as proof, is for the reader to determine. But Patience has not been content to reveal a strange personality and a unique literature; she has had much to say upon this question of immortality. There is more or less spiritual significance in nearly all of her poetry and in some of her prose, and while her references to the after life are usually veiled under figures of speech, they nevertheless give assurances of its existence. She makes it clear, however, that she is not permitted to reveal the nature of that life beyond the veil, but she goes as far apparently as she dares, in the repeated assertion, through metaphor and illustration, of its reality.

“My days,” she cries, “I have scattered like autumn leaves, whirled by raging winds, and they have fallen in various crannies ’long the way. Blown to rest are the sunny spring-kissed mornings of my youth, and with many a sigh did I blow the sobbing eves that melted into tear-washed night. Blow on, thou zephyr of this life, and let me throw the value of each day to thee. Blow, and spend thyself, till, tired, thou wilt croon thyself to sleep. Perchance this casting of my day may cease, and thou wilt turn anew unto thy blowing and reap the casting of the world.

“What then is a sigh? Ah, man may breathe a sorrow. Doth then the dumbness of his brother bar his sighing? Nay—and hark! The sea doth sigh, and yonder starry jasmine stirreth with a tremorous sigh; and morning’s birth is greeted with the sighing of the world. For what? Ah, for that coming that shall fulfill the promise, and change the sighing to a singing, and loose the tongue of him whom God doth know and, fearful lest he tell His hidden mysteries, hath locked his lips.”

And again she asks: “Needest thou see what God himself sealeth thine eyes to make thee know?” Meaning, undoubtedly, that only through the process of death can the soul be brought to an understanding of that other life; and she declares that even if we were shown, we could not comprehend. “If thou should’st see His face on morrow’s break,” she says, “’twould but start a wagging,” a discussion. And she continues: “Ah, ope the tabernacle, but look thou not on high, for when the filmy veil shall fade away—ah, could’st thou but know that He who waits hath looked, aye looked, on thee, and thou hast looked on Him since time began!” This enigmatical utterance is in itself sufficient to start a “wagging,” but Patience evidently feels that the solution is beyond our powers: for she repeatedly asserts that the key to the mystery is within our reach if we could but grasp it. “Fleet as down blown from its moorings, seeking the linnet who dropped her seed, so drift ye,” she says, “ever seeking, when at the root still rests the seed pod.” And again: “Knowest thou that fair land to which the traveler is loath to go, but loath, so loath, to leave? Ah, the mystery of the snail’s shell is far deeper than this.”

Yet she tells us again and again that Nature itself is the proof of another life. “Why live,” she asks, “the paltry span of years allotted thee, in desolation, while all about thee are His promises? Thou art, indeed, like a withered hand that holds a new-blown rose.” The truth, she says, is not to be found in “books of wordy filling,” but in the infant’s smile and in the myriad creations and resurrections that are ever within our cognizance. “I pipe of learning,” she cries, “and fall silent before the fool who singeth his folly lay.”

The natural evidences she points out are visible to all and within the comprehension of the feeblest intelligence, but he whose vision is obscured by book knowledge “is like unto the monk who prays within his cell, unheedful of the timid sunbeam who would light the page his wisdom so befogs.” “Ah!” she exclaims, “the labor set thee to unlearn thine inborn fancies!” meaning, apparently, the suppression of the intuitions of immortality; and in the same line of thought she cries: “Am I then drunkened on the chaff of knowledge supped by mine elderborn? Nay, my forefolk drank not truth, but sent through my veins acoursing, chaff, chaff, naught by chaff.” Plainly, then, Patience has no great respect for learning, and it is the book of Nature rather than the book of words that she would have us read.

I made a song from the dead notes of His birds, And wove a wreath of withered lily buds, And gathered daisies that the sun had scorched, And plucked a rose the riotous wind had torn, And stolen clover flowers, down-trodden by the kine, And fashioned into ropes and tied with yellow reed, An offering unto Him: and lo, the dust Of crumbling blossoms fell to bloom again, And smiled like sickened children, Wistfully, but strong of faith that mother-stalk Would send fresh blossoms in the spring.

So it is she sings, presenting the symbolisms of nature to illustrate the renewal or the continuance of life; or again, she likens life to the seasons (as did Shakespeare and Keats, and many another poet) in this manner:

My youth is promising as spring, And verdant as young weeds, Whose very impudence taketh them Where bloom the garden’s treasures. My midlife, like the summer, who blazeth As a fire of blasting heat, fed by withered Crumbling weeds of my spring. My sunset, like the fall who ripeneth The season’s offerings. And hoar frost Is my winter night, fraught with borrowed warmth, And flowers, and filled with weeds, Which spring e’en ’neath the frozen waste? Ah, is the winter then my season’s close? Or will I pin a faith to hope and look Again for spring, who lives eternal in my soul?

Faith is the keynote of many of her songs, the faith that grows out of that profound love which is the essential principle of the religion she presents. The triumph of faith she expresses in the poem which follows:

O sea! The panting bosom of the Earth; The sighing, singing carol of her heart! I watch thee and I dream a dream Whose fruit doth sicken me. White sails do fleck thy sheen, and yonder moon Doth seem to dip thy depths And sail the silver mirror, high above. Unharbored do I rove. Along the shore behind, The shadow of Tomorrow creepeth on. A seething silvered path doth stretch thy length, To meet the curving cheek of Lady Moon. I dream the flutt’ring waves to fanning wings And fain would follow in their course. But stay! My barque doth plow anew, and set the wings to flight; For though I watch their tremorous mass, my craft But saileth harbor-loosed, and ever stretcheth far Beyond the moon’s own phantom path— And I but dream a dream whose fruit doth sicken me. Ah, Sea! who planted thee, and cast A silver purse, unloosed, upon thy breast? My barque, who then did harbor it, And who unfurled its sail? And yonder moon, from whence her silver coaxed? Methinks my dream doth wax her wroth, Else why the pallor o’er her cast? Dare I to sail, to steer me at the wheel? Shall I then hide my face and cease my murmuring, O’erfearful lest I find the port? Nay, I do know thee, Lord, and fearless sail me on, To harbor then at dawning of new day. I stand unfearful at the prow. At anchor rests my barque. Away, thou phantom Moon, And restless, seething path! My chart I cast unto the sea, For I do know Thee, Lord!

This triumph of faith is also the theme of the weird allegory which follows. It is, perhaps, the most mystical of Patience’s productions.

THE PHANTOM AND THE DREAMER

_Phantom:_ Thick stands the hill in garb of fir, And winter-stripped the branching shrub. Cold gray the sky, and glistered o’er With star-dust pulsing tremorously.

Snow, the lady of the Winter Knight, Hath danced her weary and fallen to her rest. She lieth stretched in purity And dimpled ’neath the trees. A trackless waste doth lie from hill To valley ’neath, and Winter’s Knight Doth sing a wooing lay unto his love.

Cot on cot doth stand deserted, And thro’ the purpled dark they show Like phantoms of a life long passed To nothingness. Hear thou the hollowness Of the sea’s coughing beat against The cliff beneath, and harken ye To the silence of the valley there. Doth chafe ye of thy loneliness? Then sleep and let me put a dream to thee.

See ye the cot— A speck o’ dark adown the hillside, And sheltered o’er with fir-bows, Heavy-laden with the kiss of Lady Snow? Come hither then. Let’s bruise this snowy breast, And fetch us there unto its door. See! Here a twig Hath battled with the wind, and lost. We then may cast it ’mid its brothers Of the bush and plow us on. Look ye to the thick thatch O’er the gable of the roof, Piled higher with a blanketing of snow; And shutters hang agape, to rattle Like the cackle of a crone. The blackness of a pit within, And filled with sounds that tho’ they be But seasoning of the log, doth freeze Thy marrowmeat. I feel the quake And shake thee for thy fear.

Stride thou within and set a flint to brush Within the chimney-place. We then shall rouse The memory of the tenant here— A night, my friend, thee’lt often call to mind. The flame hath sprung and lappeth at the twigs. Thee’lt watch the burning of thy hastiness, And wait thee long Until the embers slip away to smoke. Then strain ye to its weaving And spell to me the reading of its folds.

_Dreamer:_ I see thin, threading lines that writhe them To a shape—a visage ever changeful, Or mine eyes do play me false, For it doth smile to twist it to a leer, And sadden but to laugh in mockery. I see a lad whose face Doth shine illumed, and he doth bear The kiss of wisdom on his brow. I see him travail ’neath a weary load, And close beside him Wisdom follows on. Burdened not is he. Do I see aright? For still the light of wisdom shineth o’er. But stay! What! Do mine eyes then cheat? This twisting smoke-wreath Filleth all too much my sight!

_Phantom:_ Nay, friend, strain thee now anew. The lad! Now canst thou see? Nay, for like to him Thou hast looked thee at the face of Doubt.

_Dreamer:_ Who art thou, shape or phantom, then, That thou canst set my dream to flight? I doubt me that the lad could stand Beneath the load!

_Phantom:_ Nay, thee canst ravel well, my friend. The lad was thee, and Doubt O’ertook with Wisdom on thy way. Come, bury Doubt aneath the ash. We travel us anew. Seest thou, a rimming moon doth show From ’neath the world’s beshadowed side. A night bird chatteth to its mate, And lazily the fir-boughs wave. We track us to the cot whose roof Doth sag—and why thy shambling tread? I bid ye on!

_Dreamer:_ Who art thou—again I that demand— That I shall follow at thy bidding? Who set me then this task?

_Phantom:_ Step thou within! Stand thee on the thresh of this roofless void! Look thou! Dost see the maid Who coyly stretcheth forth her hand To welcome thee? She biddeth thee To sit and sup. I bid thee speak. Awaken thee unto her welcoming.

_Dreamer:_ Enough! This fancy-breeding sickeneth My very soul! A skeleton of murdered trees, Ribbed with pine and shanked of birch! And thee wouldst bid me then Embrace the emptiness. I see naught, and believe but what I see.

_Phantom:_ Look thou again, and strain. What seest thou?

_Dreamer:_ I see a newly kindled fire, And watch its burning glow until The embers die and send their ghosts aloft. But ash remaineth—and I chill! For rising there, a shape Whose visage twisteth drunkenly, And from her garments falls a dust of ash.

_Phantom:_ Doubt! Unburied, friende! We journey on, And mark ye well each plodding footfall Singing like to golden metal with the frost. The night a scroll of white, and lined With blackish script— The lines of His own putting! Read thee there! Thou seest naught, And believe but what ye see! Stark nakedness and waste—but hearken ye! The frost skirt traileth o’er the crusted snow And singeth young leaves’ songs of Spring.

Still art thou blind! But at His touching shall the darkness bud And bloom to rosy morn. And even now, Were I to snap a twig ’twould bleed and die. See ye; ’tis done! Look ye! Ye believe but what ye see: Here within thy very hand Thou holdest Doubt’s undoing. I bid ye look upon the bud Already gathered ’neath the tender bark. The sun’s set and rise hath coaxed it forth. Thee canst see the rogue hath stolen red And put it to its heart. And here Aneath the snow the grass doth love the earth And nestles to her breast. I stand me here, and lo, the Spring hath broke! The dark doth slip away to hide, And flowering, singing, sighing, loving Spring Is here!

_Dreamer:_ Aye, thou art indeed A wonder-worker in the night! A black pall, a freezing blast, An unbroken path—and thou Wouldst have me then to prate o’ Spring, And pluck a bud where dark doth hide the bush! Who cometh from the thicket higher there?

_Phantom:_ ’Tis Doubt to meet thee, friend!

_Dreamer:_ Who art thou? I fain would flee, And yet I fear to leave lest I be lost. I hate thee and thy weary task!

_Phantom:_ Nay, brother, thy lips do spell, But couldst thee read their words aright Thee wouldst meet again with Doubt. Come! We journey on unto the cot Beloved the most by me. I bid thee Let thy heart to warm within thy breast. A thawing melteth frozen Hope. See how, below, the sea hath veiled Her secret held so close, And murmured only to the winds Who woo her ever and anon. The waves do lap them, hungry for the sands. Careful! Lest the sun’s pale rise Should blind thee with its light. A shaft to put it through The darkness of thy soul must needs But be a glimmering to blind. Step ye to the hearthstone then, And set thee there a flame anew. I bid ye read again The folding of the smoke.

_Dreamer:_ ’Tis done, thou fiend! A pretty play for fools, indeed. I swear me that ’tis not For loving of the task I builded it, But for the warming of its glow.

_Phantom:_ In truth ye speak. But read!

_Dreamer:_ I see a hag whose brow Doth wrinkle like a summer sea. For do I look unto the sea At Beauty’s own fair form, It writheth to a twisted shape, And I do doubt me of her loveliness. The haggard visage of the crone I now behold, doth set me doubting Of mine eye, for dimples seem To flutter ’neath the wrinkled cheek.

_Phantom:_ So, then, thee believest But what thine eyes behold! Thee findest then Thy seeing in a sorry plight. I marvel at thy wisdom, lad. Look ye anew. Mayhap thee then Canst coax the crone away.

_Dreamer:_ Enough! The morn hath kissed the night adieu, And even while I prate A redwing crimsoneth the snow in flight. Kindled tinder smoldereth away, And I do strain me to its fold. I glut me of the loveliness I there behold, For from the writhing stream a sprite is born Whose beauteous form bedazzles me, And she doth point me To the golding gray of morn. The sea Is singing, singing her unto my soul. I dreamed she sighed, but waked to hear her sing. I hear thee, Phantom, bidding me on, on! But morn hath stolen dreams away. I strain me to the hills to trace our path, And lo, unbroken is the snow, And cots have melted with the light, And yet, methinks a murmuring doth come From out the echoes of the night, That hid them ’neath the crannies of the hills. Life! Life! I lead thee on! And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!

EPILOGUE.

Thick stands the hill in garb of fir and snow. The Lady of the Winter’s Knight hath danced Her weary, and stretched her in her purity, To cover aching wounds of Winter’s overloving woo.

* * * * *

“And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!” plainly meaning an active doubt that searches for the truth and finds it. But she personifies Doubt in another and more forbidding form in this:

Like to a thief who wrappeth him Within the night-tide’s robe, So standeth the specter o’ the Earth; Yea, he doth robe him o’ the Earth’s fair store. Yea, he decketh in the star-hung purple o’ the eve, And reacheth from out the night unto the morn, And wringeth from her waking all her gold, And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust, And morn’s gold but heat’s glow, and ne’er The golden blush of His own metal store.

Yea, he strideth then Upon the flower-hung couches of the field, And traileth him thereon his robe, And lo, the flowers do die of thirst And parch of scoarching of his breath. Yea, and ’mid the musics of the earth he strideth him, And full-songed throats are mute. Yea, music dieth of his luring glance. And e’en the love of earth he seeketh out And turneth it unto a folly-play. Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost Upon the love sprite’s wing Doth flutter, as a dust, and drop, and leave But bruised and broken bearers for His store.

Yea, and ’mid man’s day he ever strideth him And layeth low man’s reasoning. His robes Are hung of all the earth’s most loved. From off the flowers their fresh; from off the day The fairness of her hours. For dark, and hid Beneath his cloak, he steppeth ever, And doth hiss his name to thee— Doubt.