Part 2
What vital power was yours! You never tired, or needed sleep, or had a pain, Or refused a delight. I loved the things now You had always loved, a winning horse, A roulette wheel, a contest of skill In games or sports ... long talks on the corner With men who have lived and tell you Things with a rich flavor of old wisdom or humor; A woman, a glass of whisky at a table Where the fatigue of life falls, and our reserves That wait for happiness come up in smiles, Laughter, gentle confidences. Here you were A man with youth, and I a youth was a man, Exulting in your braveries and delight in life. How you knocked that scamp over at Harry Varnell's When he tried to take your chips! And how I, Who had thought the devil in cards as a boy, Loved to play with you now and watch you play; And watch the subtle mathematics of your mind Prophecy, divine the plays. Who was it In your ancestry that you harked back to And reproduced with such various gifts Of flesh and spirit, Anglo-Saxon, Celt?-- You with such rapid wit and powerful skill For catching illogic and whipping Error's Fangéd head from the body?...
I was really ahead of you At this stage, with more self-consciousness Of what man is, and what life is at last, And how the spirit works, and by what laws, With what inevitable force. But still I was Behind you in that strength which in our youth, If ever we have it, squeezes all the nectar From the grapes. It seemed you'd never lose This power and sense of joy, but yet at times I saw another phase of you....
There was the day We rode together north of the old town, Past the old farm houses that I knew-- Past maple groves, and fields of corn in the shock, And fields of wheat with the fall green. It was October, but the clouds were summer's, Lazily floating in a sky of June; And a few crows flying here and there, And a quail's call, and around us a great silence That held at its core old memories Of pioneers, and dead days, forgotten things! I'll never forget how you looked that day. Your hair Was turning silver now, but still your eyes Burned as of old, and the rich olive glow In your cheeks shone, with not a line or wrinkle!-- You seemed to me perfection--a youth, a man! And now you talked of the world with the old wit, And now of the soul--how such a man went down Through folly or wrong done by him, and how Man's death cannot end all, There must be life hereafter!...
As you were that day, as you looked and spoke, As the earth was, I hear as the soul of it all Godard's _Dawn_, Dvorák's _Humoresque_, The Morris Dances, Mendelssohn's _Barcarole_, And old Scotch songs, _When the Kye Come Hame_, And _The Moon Had Climbed the Highest Hill_, The Musseta Waltz and Rudolph's Narrative; Your great brow seemed Beethoven's And the lust of life in your face Cellini's, And your riotous fancy like Dumas. I was nearer you now than ever before, And finding each other thus I see to-day How the human soul seeks the human soul And finds the one it seeks at last. For you know you can open a window That looks upon embowered darkness, When the flowers sleep and the trees are still At Midnight, and no light burns in the room; And you can hide your butterfly Somewhere in the room, but soon you will see A host of butterfly mates Fluttering through the window to join Your butterfly hid in the room. It is somehow thus with souls....
This day then I understood it all: Your vital democracy and love of men And tolerance of life; and how the excess of these Had wrought your sorrows in the days When we were so poor, and the small of mind Spoke of your sins and your connivance With sinful men. You had lived it down, Had triumphed over them, and you had grown. Prosperous in the world and had passed Into an easy mastery of life and beyond the thought Of further conquests for things. As the Brahmins say, no more you worshiped matter, Or scarcely ghosts, or even the gods With singleness of heart. This day you worshiped Eternal Peace Or Eternal Flame, with scarce a laugh or jest To hide your worship; and I understood, Seeing so many facets to you, why it was Blind Condon always smiled to hear your voice, And why it was in a greenroom years ago Booth turned to you, marking your face From all the rest, and said, "There is a man Who might play Hamlet--better still Othello"; And why it was the women loved you; and the priest Could feed his body and soul together drinking A glass of beer and visiting with you....
Then something happened: Your face grew smaller, your brow more narrow, Dull fires burned in your eyes, Your body shriveled, you walked with a cynical shuffle, Your hands mixed the keys of life, You had become a discord. A monstrous hatred consumed you-- You had suffered the greatest wrong of all, I knew and granted the wrong. You had mounted up to sixty years, now breathing hard, And just at the time that honor belonged to you You were dishonored at the hands of a friend. I wept for you, and still I wondered If all I had grown to see in you and find in you And love in you was just a fond illusion-- If after all I had not seen you aright as a boy: Barbaric, hard, suspicious, cruel, redeemed Alone by bubbling animal spirits-- Even these gone now, all of you smoke Laden with stinging gas and lethal vapor.... Then you came forth again like the sun after storm-- The deadly uric acid driven out at last Which had poisoned you and dwarfed your soul-- So much for soul!
The last time I saw you Your face was full of golden light, Something between flame and the richness of flesh. You were yourself again, wholly yourself. And oh, to find you again and resume Our understanding we had worked so long to reach-- You calm and luminant and rich in thought! This time it seemed we said but "yes" or "no"-- That was enough; we smoked together And drank a glass of wine and watched The leaves fall sitting on the porch.... Then life whirled me away like a leaf, And I went about the crowded ways of New York.
And one night Alberta and I took dinner At a place near Fourteenth Street where the music Was like the sun on a breeze-swept lake When every wave is a patine of fire, And I thought of you not at all Looking at Alberta and watching her white teeth Bite off bits of Italian bread, And watching her smile and the wide pupils Of her eyes, electrified by wine And music and the touch of our hands Now and then across the table. We went to her house at last. And through a languorous evening. Where no light was but a single candle, We circled about and about a pending theme Till at last we solved it suddenly in rapture Almost by chance; and when I left She followed me to the hall and leaned above The railing about the stair for the farewell kiss-- And I went into the open air ecstatically, With the stars in the spaces of sky between The towering buildings, and the rush Of wheels and clang of bells, Still with the fragrance of her lips and cheeks And glinting hair about me, delicate And keen in spite of the open air. And just as I entered the brilliant car Something said to me you are dead-- I had not thought of you, was not thinking of you. But I knew it was true, as it was, For the telegram waited me at my room.... I didn't come back. I could not bear to see the breathless breath Over your brow--nor look at your face-- However you fared or where To what victories soever-- Vanquished or seemingly vanquished!
RAIN IN MY HEART
There is a quiet in my heart Like one who rests from days of pain. Outside, the sparrows on the roof Are chirping in the dripping rain.
Rain in my heart; rain on the roof; And memory sleeps beneath the gray And windless sky and brings no dreams Of any well remembered day.
I would not have the heavens fair, Nor golden clouds, nor breezes mild, But days like this, until my heart To loss of you is reconciled.
I would not see you. Every hope To know you as you were has ranged. I, who am altered, would not find The face I loved so greatly changed.
THE LOOP
From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea Beyond the river walled in by red buildings, O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings, Roped to the wharf till spring shall set them free. Great floes make known how swift the river's current. Out of the north sky blows a cutting wind. Smoke from the stacks and engines in a torrent Whirls downward, by the eddying breezes thinned. Enskyed are sign boards advertising soap, Tobacco, coal, transcontinental trains. A tug is whistling, straining at a rope, Fixed to a dredge with derricks, scoops and cranes. Down in the loop the blue-gray air enshrouds, As with a cyclops' cape, the man-made hills And towers of granite where the city crowds. Above the din a copper's whistle shrills. There is a smell of coffee and of spices. We near the market place of trade's devices. Blue smoke from out a roasting room is pouring. A rooster crows, geese cackle, men are bawling. Whips crack, trucks creak, it is the place of storing, And drawing out and loading up and hauling Fruit, vegetables and fowls and steaks and hams, Oysters and lobsters, fish and crabs and clams. And near at hand are restaurants and bars, Hotels with rooms at fifty cents a day, Beer tunnels, pool rooms, places where cigars And cigarettes their window signs display; Mixed in with letterings of printed tags, Twine, boxes, cartels, sacks and leather bags, Wigs, telescopes, eyeglasses, ladies' tresses, Or those who manicure or fashion dresses, Or sell us putters, tennis balls or brassies, Make shoes, pull teeth, or fit the eye with glasses.
And now the rows of windows showing laces, Silks, draperies and furs and costly vases, Watches and mirrors, silver cups and mugs, Emeralds, diamonds, Indian, Persian rugs, Hats, velvets, silver buckles, ostrich-plumes, Drugs, violet water, powder and perfumes. Here is a monstrous winking eye--beneath A showcase by an entrance full of teeth. Here rubber coats, umbrellas, mackintoshes, Hoods, rubber boots and arctics and galoshes. Here is half a block of overcoats, In this bleak time of snow and slender throats. Then windows of fine linen, snakewood canes, Scarfs, opera hats, in use where fashion reigns. As when the hive swarms, so the crowded street Roars to the shuffling of innumerable feet. Skyscrapers soar above them; they go by As bees crawl, little scales upon the skin Of a great dragon winding out and in. Above them hangs a tangled tree of signs, Suspended or uplifted like dædalian Hieroglyphics when the saturnalian Night commences, and their racing lines Run fire of blue and yellow in a puzzle, Bewildering to the eyes of those who guzzle, And gourmandize and stroll and seek the bubble Of happiness to put away their trouble.
Around the loop the elevated crawls, And giant shadows sink against the walls Where ten to twenty stories strive to hold The pale refraction of the sunset's gold. Slop underfoot, we pass beneath the loop. The crowd is uglier, poorer; there are smells As from the depths of unsuspected hells, And from a groggery where beer and soup Are sold for five cents to the thieves and bums. Here now are huge cartoons in red and blue Of obese women and of skeleton men, Egyptian dancers, twined with monstrous snakes, Before the door a turbaned lithe Hindoo, A bagpipe shrilling, underneath a den Of opium, whence a man with hand that shakes, Rolling a cigarette, so palely comes. The clang of car bells and the beat of drums. Draft horses clamping with their steel-shod hoofs. The buildings have grown small and black and worn; The sky is more beholden; o'er the roofs A flock of pigeons soars; with dresses torn And yellow faces, labor women pass Some Chinese gabbling; and there, buying fruit, Stands a fair girl who is a late recruit To those poor women slain each year by lust. 'Tis evening now and trade will soon begin. The family entrance beckons for a glass Of hopeful mockery, the piano's din Into the street with sounds of rasping wires Filters, and near a pawner's window shows Pistols, accordions; and, luring buyers, A Jew stands mumbling to the passer-by Of jewelry and watches and old clothes. A limousine gleams quickly--with a cry A legless man fastened upon a board With casters 'neath it by a sudden shove Darts out of danger. And upon the corner A lassie tells a man that God is love, Holding a tambourine with its copper hoard To be augmented by the drunken scorner. A woman with no eyeballs in her sockets Plays "Rock of Ages" on a wheezy organ. A newsboy with cold hands thrust in his pockets Cries, "All about the will of Pierpont Morgan!" The roofline of the street now sinks and dwindles. The windows are begrimed with dust and beer. A child half clothed, with legs as thin as spindles, Carries a basket with some bits of coal. Between lace curtains eyes of yellow leer, The cheeks splotched with white places like the skin Inside an eggshell--destitute of soul. One sees a brass lamp oozing kerosene Upon a stand whereon her elbows lean; Lighted, it soon will welcome negroes in.
The railroad tracks are near. We almost choke From filth whirled from the street and stinging vapors. Great engines vomit gas and heavy smoke Upon a north wind driving tattered papers, Dry dung and dust and refuse down the street. A circumambient roar as of a wheel Whirring far off--a monster's heart whose beat Is full of murmurs, comes as we retreat Towards Twenty-second. And a man with jaw Set like a tiger's, with a dirty beard, Skulks toward the loop, with heavy wrists red-raw Glowing above his pockets where his hands Pushed tensely round his hips the coat tails draw, And show what seems a slender piece of metal In his hip pocket. On these barren strands He waits for midnight for old scores to settle Against his ancient foe society, Who keeps the soup house and who builds the jails. Switchmen and firemen with their dinner pails Go by him homeward, and he wonders if These fellows know a hundred thousand workers Walk up and down the city's highways, stiff From cold and hunger, doomed to poverty, As wretched as the thieves and crooks and shirkers. He scurries to the lake front, loiters past The windows of wax lights with scarlet shades, Where smiling diners back of ambuscades Of silk and velvet hear not winter's blast Blowing across the lake. He has a thought Of Michigan, where once at picking berries He spent a summer--then his eye is caught At Randolph street by written light which tarries, Then like a film runs into sentences. He sees it all as from a black abyss. Taxis with skid chains rattle, limousines Draw up to awnings; for a space he catches A scent of musk or violets, sees the patches On powdered cheeks of furred and jeweled queens. The color round his cruel mouth grows whiter, He thrusts his coarse hands in his pockets tighter: He is a thief, he knows he is a thief, He is a thief found out, and, as he knows, The whole loop is a kingdom held in fief By men who work with laws instead of blows From sling shots, so he curses under breath The money and the invisible hand that owns From year to year, in spite of change and death, The wires for the lights and telephones, The railways on the streets, and overhead The railways, and beneath the winding tunnel Which crooks stole from the city for a runnel To drain her nickels; and the pipes of lead Which carry gas, wrapped round us like a snake, And round the courts, whose grip no court can break. He curses bitterly all those who rise, And rule by just the spirit which he plies Coarsely against the world's great store of wealth; Bankers and usurers and cliques whose stealth Works witchcraft through the market and the press, And hires editors, or owns the stock Controlling papers, playing with finesse The city's thinking, that they may unlock Treasures and powers like burglars in the dark. And thinking thus and cursing, through a flurry Of sudden snow he hastens on to Clark. In a cheap room there is an eye to mark His coming and be glad. His footsteps hurry. She will have money, earned this afternoon Through men who took her from a near saloon Wherein she sits at table to dragoon Roughnecks or simpletons upon a lark. Within a little hall a fierce-eyed youth Rants of the burdens on the people's backs-- He would cure all things with the single tax. A clergyman demands more gospel truth, Speaking to Christians at a weekly dinner. A parlor Marxian, for a beginner Would take the railways. And amid applause Where lawyers dine, a judge says all will be Well if we hand down to posterity Respect for courts and judges and the laws. An anarchist would fight. Upon the whole, Another thinks, to cultivate one's soul Is most important--let the passing show Go where it wills, and where it wills to go.
Outside the stars look down. Stars are content To be so quiet and indifferent.
WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES
When under the icy eaves The swallow heralds the sun, And the dove for its lost mate grieves And the young lambs play and run; When the sea is a plane of glass, And the blustering winds are still, And the strength of the thin snows pass In mists o'er the tawny hill-- The spirit of life awakes In the fresh flags by the lakes.
When the sick man seeks the air, And the graves of the dead grow green, Where the children play unaware Of the faces no longer seen; When all we have felt or can feel, And all we are or have been, And all the heart can hide or reveal, Knocks gently, and enters in:-- The spirit of life awakes, In the fresh flags by the lakes.
IN THE CAR
We paused to say good-by, As we thought for a little while, Alone in the car, in the corner Around the turn of the aisle.
A quiver came in your voice, Your eyes were sorrowful too; 'Twas over--I strode to the doorway, Then turned to wave an adieu.
But you had not come from the corner, And though I had gone so far, I retraced, and faced you coming Into the aisle of the car.
You stopped as one who was caught In an evil mood by surprise.-- I want to forget, I am trying To forget the look in your eyes.
Your face was blank and cold, Like Lot's wife turned to salt. I suddenly trapped and discovered Your soul in a hidden fault.
Your eyes were tearless and wide, And your wide eyes looked on me Like a Mænad musing murder, Or the mask of Melpomene.
And there in a flash of lightning I learned what I never could prove: That your heart contained no sorrow, And your heart contained no love.
And my heart is light and heavy, And this is the reason why: I am glad we parted forever, And sad for the last good-by.
SIMON SURNAMED PETER
Time that has lifted you over them all-- O'er John and o'er Paul; Writ you in capitals, made you the chief Word on the leaf-- How did you, Peter, when ne'er on His breast You leaned and were blest-- And none except Judas and you broke the faith To the day of His death,-- You, Peter, the fisherman, worthy of blame, Arise to this fame?
'Twas you in the garden who fell into sleep And the watch failed to keep, When Jesus was praying and pressed with the weight Of the oncoming fate. 'Twas you in the court of the palace who warmed Your hands as you stormed At the damsel, denying Him thrice, when she cried: "He walked at his side!" You, Peter, a wave, a star among clouds, a reed in the wind, A guide of the blind, Both smiter and flyer, but human alway, I protest, Beyond all the rest.
When at night by the boat on the sea He appeared Did you wait till he neared? You leaped in the water, not dreading the worst In your joy to be first To greet Him and tell Him of all that had passed Since you saw Him the last. You had slept while He watched, but fierce were you, fierce and awake When they sought Him to take, And cursing, no doubt, as you smote off, as one of the least, The ear of the priest. Then Andrew and all of them fled, but you followed Him, hoping for strength To save him at length Till you lied to the damsel, oh penitent Peter, and crept, Into hiding and wept.
Oh well! But he asked all the twelve, "Who am I?" And who made reply? As you leaped in the sea, so you spoke as you smote with the sword; "Thou art Christ, even Lord!" John leaned on His breast, but he asked you, your strength to foresee, "Nay, lovest thou me?" Thrice over, as thrice you denied Him, and chose you to lead His sheep and to feed; And gave you, He said, the keys of the den and the fold To have and to hold. You were a poor jailer, oh Peter, the dreamer, who saw The death of the law In the dream of the vessel that held all the four-footed beasts, Unclean for the priests; And heard in the vision a trumpet that all men are worth The peace of the earth And rapture of heaven hereafter,--oh Peter, what power Was yours in that hour: You warder and jailer and sealer of fates and decrees, To use the big keys With which to reveal and fling wide all the soul and the scheme Of the Galilee dream, When you flashed in a trice, as later you smote with the sword: "Thou art Christ, even Lord!"
We men, Simon Peter, we men also give you the crown O'er Paul and o'er John. We write you in capitals, make you the chief Word on the leaf. We know you as one of our flesh, and 'tis well You are warder of hell, And heaven's gatekeeper forever to bind and to loose-- Keep the keys if you choose. Not rock of you, fire of you make you sublime In the annals of time. You were called by Him, Peter, a rock, but we give you the name Of Peter the Flame. For you struck a spark, as the spark from the shock Of steel upon rock. The rock has his use but the flame gives the light In the way in the night:-- Oh Peter, the dreamer, impetuous, human, divine, Gnarled branch of the vine!
ALL LIFE IN A LIFE
His father had a large family Of girls and boys and he was born and bred In a barn or kind of cattle shed. But he was a hardy youngster and grew to be A boy with eyes that sparkled like a rod Of white hot iron in the blacksmith shop. His face was ruddy like a rising moon, And his hair was black as sheep's wool that is black. And he had rugged arms and legs and a strong back. And he had a voice half flute and half bassoon. And from his toes up to his head's top He was a man, simple but intricate. And most men differ who try to delineate His life and fate.
He never seemed ashamed Of poverty or of his origin. He was a wayward child, Nevertheless though wise and mild, And thoughtful but when angered then he flamed As fire does in a forge. When he was ten years old he ran away To be alone and watch the sea, and the stars At midnight from a mountain gorge.
When he returned his parents scolded him And threatened him with bolts and bars. Then they grew soft for his return and gay And with their love would have enfolded him. But even at ten years old he had a way Of gazing at you with a look austere Which gave his kinfolk fear. He had no childlike love for father or mother, Sister or brother, They were the same to him as any other. He was a little cold, a little queer.