Part 3

Oh! All things are long passed away and far. A light is shining but the distant star From which it still comes to me has been dead A thousand years ... In the dim phantom boat That glided past some ghastly thing was said. A clock just struck within some house remote. Which house?--I long to still my beating heart. Beneath the sky's vast dome I long to pray ... Of all the stars there must be far away A single star which still exists apart. And I believe that I should know the one Which has alone endured and which alone Like a white City that all space commands At the ray's end in the high heaven stands.

SYMBOLS

From infinite longings finite deeds rise As fountains spring toward far-off glowing skies, But rushing swiftly upward weakly bend And trembling from their lack of power descend-- So through the falling torrent of our fears Our joyous force leaps like these dancing tears.

NEW POEMS

EARLY APOLLO

As when at times there breaks through branches bare A morning vibrant with the breath of spring, About this poet-head a splendour rare Transforms it almost to a mortal thing.

There is as yet no shadow in his glance, Too cool his temples for the laurel's glow; But later o'er those marble brows, perchance, A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow,

And single petals one by one will fall O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall, --The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile As though a song were rising there the while.

THE TOMB OF A YOUNG GIRL

We still remember! The same as of yore All that has happened once again must be. As grows a lemon-tree upon the shore-- It was like that--your light, small breasts you bore, And his blood's current coursed like the wild sea.

That god-- who was the wanderer, the slim Despoiler of fair women; he--the wise,-- But sweet and glowing as your thoughts of him Who cast a shadow over your young limb While bending like your arched brows o'er your eyes.

THE POET

You Hour! From me you ever take your flight, Your swift wings wound me as they whir along; Without you void would be my day and night, Without you I'll not capture my great song.

I have no earthly spot where I can live, I have no love, I have no household fane, And all the things to which myself I give Impoverish me with richness they attain.

THE PANTHER

His weary glance, from passing by the bars, Has grown into a dazed and vacant stare; It seems to him there are a thousand bars And out beyond those bars the empty air.

The pad of his strong feet, that ceaseless sound Of supple tread behind the iron bands, Is like a dance of strength circling around, While in the circle, stunned, a great will stands.

But there are times the pupils of his eyes Dilate, the strong limbs stand alert, apart, Tense with the flood of visions that arise Only to sink and die within his heart.

GROWING BLIND

Among all the others there sat a guest Who sipped her tea as if one apart, And she held her cup not quite like the rest; Once she smiled so it pierced one's heart.

When the group of people arose at last And laughed and talked in a merry tone, As lingeringly through the rooms they passed I saw that she followed alone.

Tense and still like one who to sing must rise Before a throng on a festal night She lifted her head, and her bright glad eyes Were like pools which reflected light.

She followed on slowly after the last As though some object must be passed by, And yet as if were it once but passed She would no longer walk but fly.

THE SPANISH DANCER

As a lit match first flickers in the hands Before it flames, and darts out from all sides Bright, twitching tongues, so, ringed by growing bands Of spectators--she, quivering, glowing stands Poised tensely for the dance--then forward glides

And suddenly becomes a flaming torch. Her bright hair flames, her burning glances scorch, And with a daring art at her command Her whole robe blazes like a fire-brand From which is stretched each naked arm, awake, Gleaming and rattling like a frightened snake.

And then, as though the fire fainter grows, She gathers up the flame--again it glows, As with proud gesture and imperious air She flings it to the earth; and it lies there Furiously flickering and crackling still-- Then haughtily victorious, but with sweet Swift smile of greeting, she puts forth her will And stamps the flames out with her small firm feet.

OFFERING

My body glows in every vein and blooms To fullest flower since I first knew thee, My walk unconscious pride and power assumes; Who art thou then--thou who awaitest me?

When from the past I draw myself the while I lose old traits as leaves of autumn fall; I only know the radiance of thy smile, Like the soft gleam of stars, transforming all.

Through childhood's years I wandered unaware Of shimmering visions my thoughts now arrests To offer thee, as on an altar fair That's lighted by the bright flame of thy hair And wreathéd by the blossoms of thy breasts.

LOVE SONG

When my soul touches yours a great chord sings! How shall I tune it then to other things? O! That some spot in darkness could be found That does not vibrate whene'er your depths sound. But everything that touches you and me Welds us as played strings sound one melody. Where is the instrument whence the sounds flow? And whose the master-hand that holds the bow? O! Sweet song--

ARCHAIC TORSO OF APOLLO

We cannot fathom his mysterious head, Through the veiled eyes no flickering ray is sent: But from his torso gleaming light is shed As from a candelabrum; inward bent His glance there glows and lingers. Otherwise The round breast would not blind you with its grace, Nor could the soft-curved circle of the thighs Steal to the arc whence issues a new race. Nor could this stark and stunted stone display Vibrance beneath the shoulders heavy bar, Nor shine like fur upon a beast of prey, Nor break forth from its lines like a great star-- There is no spot that does not bind you fast And transport you back, back to a far past.

THE BOOK OF HOURS

_The Book of A Monk's Life_

I live my life in circles that grow wide And endlessly unroll, I may not reach the last, but on I glide Strong pinioned toward my goal.

About the old tower, dark against the sky, The beat of my wings hums, I circle about God, sweep far and high On through milleniums.

Am I a bird that skims the clouds along, Or am I a wild storm, or a great song?

Many have painted her. But there was one Who drew his radiant colours from the sun. Mysteriously glowing through a background dim When he was suffering she came to him, And all the heavy pain within his heart Rose in his hands and stole into his art. His canvas is the beautiful bright veil Through which her sorrow shines. There where the Texture o'er her sad lips is closely drawn A trembling smile softly begins to dawn ... Though angels with seven candles light the place You cannot read the secret of her face.

In cassocks clad I have had many brothers In southern cloisters where the laurel grows, They paint Madonnas like fair human mothers And I dream of young Titians and of others In which the God with shining radiance glows.

But though my vigil constantly I keep My God is dark--like woven texture flowing, A hundred drinking roots, all intertwined; I only know that from His warmth I'm growing. More I know not: my roots lie hidden deep My branches only are swayed by the wind.

Thou Anxious One! And dost thou then not hear Against thee all my surging senses sing? About thy face in circles drawing near My thought floats like a fluttering white wing.

Dost thou not see, before thee stands my soul In silence wrapt my Springtime's prayer to pray? But when thy glance rests on me then my whole Being quickens and blooms like trees in May.

When thou art dreaming then I am thy Dream, But when thou art awake I am thy Will Potent with splendour, radiant and sublime, Expanding like far space star-lit and still Into the distant mystic realm of Time.

I love my life's dark hours In which my senses quicken and grow deep, While, as from faint incense of faded flowers Or letters old, I magically steep Myself in days gone by: again I give Myself unto the past:--again I live.

Out of my dark hours wisdom dawns apace, Infinite Life unrolls its boundless space ...

Then I am shaken as a sweeping storm Shakes a ripe tree that grows above a grave 'Round whose cold clay the roots twine fast and warm-- And Youth's fair visions that glowed bright and brave, Dreams that were closely cherished and for long, Are lost once more in sadness and in song.

_The Book of Pilgrimage_

By day Thou are the Legend and the Dream That like a whisper floats about all men, The deep and brooding stillnesses which seem, After the hour has struck, to close again.

And when the day with drowsy gesture bends And sinks to sleep beneath the evening skies, As from each roof a tower of smoke ascends-- So does Thy Realm, my God, around me rise.

All those who seek Thee tempt Thee, And those who find would bind Thee To gesture and to form.

But I would comprehend Thee As the wide Earth unfolds Thee. Thou growest with my maturity, Thou Art in calm and storm.

I ask of Thee no vanity To evidence and prove Thee. Thou Wert in eons old.

Perform no miracles for me, But justify Thy laws to me Which, as the years pass by me. All soundlessly unfold.

In a house was one who arose from the feast And went forth to wander in distant lands, Because there was somewhere far off in the East A spot which he sought where a great Church stands. And ever his children, when breaking their bread, Thought of him and rose up and blessed him as dead.

In another house was the one who had died, Who still sat at table and drank from the glass And ever within the walls did abide-- For out of the house he could no more pass. And his children set forth to seek for the spot Where stands the great Church which he forgot.

Extinguish my eyes, I still can see you, Close my ears, I can hear your footsteps fall, And without feet I still can follow you, And without voice I still can to you call. Break off my arms, and I can embrace you, Enfold you with my heart as with a hand. Hold my heart, my brain will take fire of you As flax ignites from a lit fire-brand-- And flame will sweep in a swift rushing flood Through all the singing currents of my blood.

In the deep nights I dig for you, O Treasure! To seek you over the wide world I roam, For all abundance is but meager measure Of your bright beauty which is yet to come.

Over the road to you the leaves are blowing, Few follow it, the way is long and steep. You dwell in solitude--Oh, does your glowing Heart in some far off valley lie asleep?

My bloody hands, with digging bruised, I've lifted, Spread like a tree I stretch them in the air To find you before day to night has drifted; I reach out into space to seek you there ...

Then, as though with a swift impatient gesture, Flashing from distant stars on sweeping wing, You come, and over earth a magic vesture Steals gently as the rain falls in the spring.

_The Book of Poverty and Death_

Her mouth is like the mouth of a fine bust That cannot utter sound, nor breathe, nor kiss, But that had once from Life received all this Which shaped its subtle curves, and ever must From fullness of past knowledge dwell alone, A thing apart, a parable in stone.

Alone Thou wanderest through space, Profound One with the hidden face; Thou art Poverty's great rose, The eternal metamorphose Of gold into the light of sun.

Thou art the mystic homeless One; Into the world Thou never came, Too mighty Thou, too great to name; Voice of the storm, Song that the wild wind sings, Thou Harp that shatters those who play Thy strings!

A watcher of Thy spaces make me, Make me a listener at Thy stone, Give to me vision and then wake me Upon Thy oceans all alone. Thy rivers' courses let me follow Where they leap the crags in their flight And where at dusk in caverns hollow They croon to music of the night. Send me far into Thy barren land Where the snow clouds the wild wind drives, Where monasteries like gray shrouds stand-- August symbols of unlived lives. There pilgrims climb slowly one by one, And behind them a blind man goes: With him I will walk till day is done Up the pathway that no one knows ...