Part 5

Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize About a cottage with roses and a garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking And flicking the ashes, but never says a word Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: "Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister. She knew you had the madness for Arabel. That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked. And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, I shook you at the corner and went back, And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop The cottage and the roses."

They are still discussing the madman's letter.

And memory permeates me like a subtle drug: The memory of my love for Arabel, The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing, The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows, The speculation about her and her sister, And what her illness was; And whether the man I saw one time was leaving Her door or the next door to it, and if her door Whether he saw my Arabel or her sister....

The reader of the letter is telling how the writer Left his wife chasing the lure of women.

And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision: The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered. Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was. Madness or love the terrible struggle must end. She took my hand and said, "You must see my room." We stood in the doorway together and on her dresser Was a silver frame with the photograph of a man-- I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes. "There is his picture," she said, "ask me whatever you will. Take me as mistress or wife, it is yours to decide. But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you, Take me as wife and be the good man you can be. Choose me as mistress--how can I do less for dearest? Or make me your wife--fate makes me your mistress or wife." "I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed, "But how about hate in your heart."

"You are right," I replied.

The company is now discussing the subject of love-- They seem to know little about it.

But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims: "Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness, What has it to do with poetry, tell me?"

"Well, it's life," Arabel. "There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added. Then fell into silence.

JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking, When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock. So we came out and he went home to wife And children, and I started for the club Which I call home; and then just like a flash You came into my mind. I bought a slug And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me To hear your voice at last--it was so drowsy, Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing In nightgown with head leaned against the wall....

Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine-- It showed your understanding, that you know How it is with a man, and how it is with me Who work by day and sometimes drift by night About this hellish city. Though you know That I am fifty-one, can you imagine My feeling with no children growing up? My feeling as of one who sees a play And afterwards sits somewhere at a table And talks with friends about the different parts Over a sandwich and a glass of beer? My feeling with this money which I've made And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working The money dulls the fancy which could use it In splendid dreams or in the art of life. Well, here was I ringing your bell at last At half-past one, and there you stood before me With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed, But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia, For that kiss which you gave me at the door....

Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong, My heart acts queer of late....

I want to say Lest I forget it, if you ever hear From Arabel or Francis what I said To Francis when he told me he intended To marry Arabel, why just remember Our talk this morning and forget I said it-- I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see, That night we met, I being fifty-one And old at what men call the game, looked on With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you Just as I'd see a woman anywhere; And I found you as I'd found others before you, But with this difference so it seemed to me: What had been false with them was real with you, What had been shame with them with you was life, What had been craft with them with you was nature, What had been sin with them to you was good, What had been vice with them to you the honest And uncorrupted innocence of a human Heart so human looking on our souls. What had been coarse to them to you was clean As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow And move and sing along creation's way. You came to me like friendship, what you gave Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self And least of motive. And it is through you That I have risen out of the pit where sneers And laughter, looks and words obscene, Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia, As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds Upon their infinite sailings and the lake Washes beneath us, and we lie and think How this has been forever and will be When we are dust a thousand, thousand years, Yet how life is eternal--just as one Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme The gospel hymns and ritual) that I Cannot blaspheme you, Julia. For what is our communion, yours and mine, If it be not a way of laying hold On that mysterious essence which makes one Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands.... Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right! Pour me a little coffee, if you please.

I'll take from my herbarium certain species To make my points: Now here there is the woman Of life promiscuous, or nearly so. She fixes her design upon a man, Who's married and the riotous game begins. They go along a year or two perhaps. Then psychic chemistry performs its part: They are in love, or he's in love with her. What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman: That which she gave without love at the first She now withdraws in spite of love unless He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men Kill women with a knife or strangle them? Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz, You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say. She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils; She wears black velvet and a salmon sash. And when you dance with her she has a way Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk, Which almost lisps as she caresses you With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says Things with a double meaning, and she smiles To carry out her meaning. Well, you think The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing She lands you up at the appointed place With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes, That have a nervous way of opening And closing slowly like a big wax doll's, From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come; Which meeting is a way of saying to you: The girl is yours if you will marry her, And let her have your money.

Julia, be still; I can't go on while you are laughing so. I know that men are easy, but to see Women as women see them is a gift That comes to men who reach my age in life....

Well, here's another, here's the type of woman Whose power of motherhood conceals the art By which she thrives, through which she reaches also An apotheosis in society. Her dream is children conscious or unconscious. And her strength is the race's, and she draws The urgings of posterity and leans Upon the hopes and ideals of the day. To her a man must sacrifice his life. But women, Julia, of whatever type, Are still but waiting ovules seeking man, And man's life to develop, even to live. And like the praying mantis who's devoured In the embrace, man is devoured by women In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame In man's life where he warms him but to suck The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped, Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates-- Love is not free which should be wholly free For Life's sake.

On Michigan Avenue At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see In rain or shine a certain tailor walk In modish coat and trousers, with a cane. That fellow is the pitifulest man I know. He has no woman, cannot find a woman, Because all women, seeing him, divine What surges through him, and within their hearts Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun Of seeing how denial keeps him walking All up and down the boulevard. He's found No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia. I use him for my point. If we could make Some fine erotometer one could sit And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands Record the waves of longing in the city, And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows Of custom and of fear. Love is not free, Which should be wholly free for Life's sake.

Julia. So much for all these things, and now for you To whom they lead.

You'll find among the marshes The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows, Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find The water lily with white petals and A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches The midges flitting by with rainbow wings, Impales them on its tiny spines, in time Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall Into the water, treasured there like tears Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed Into the verdant vesture of its leaves. The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily Well typify the nature of most women Who must have blood or soul of man to live-- Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed. He read somewhere that primroses will change Under your eyes sometimes to something else, Become another flower and not a primrose, Another species even. So he watched And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed Has somewhere in its vital self the power Of this mutation. What is the origin Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia, Who has mutated: You are not a mother; Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage; Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex; Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who Rejoices in the secret of man's strength And in subduing it.

You are a flower Designed to comfort such poor men as I, And show the world how love can be a thing That asks no more than what it freely gives, And gives all--all some women call the prize For life or honor, riches, power or place. You are a blossom in the primrose bed So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent. You have mutated, Julia, that is it, This flower of you is what I call _The Lover_!

THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death-- But never a face like Harold's who passed in a throe of pain. There were maidens and youths in the bud, and men in the lust of life; And women whom child-birth racked till the crying soul slipped through; Patriarchs withered with age and nuns ascetical white; And one who wasted her virgin wealth in a riot of joy. Brothers and sisters at last in a quiet and purple pall, Fellow voyagers bound to a port on an ash-blue sea, Locked in an utterless grief, in a mystery fearful to dream. All of these I have seen--but the face of Harold the bold Looked with a penitent pallor and stared with a sad surprise.

For now at last he was still who never knew rest in life. And the ardent heat of his blood was cold as the sweat of a stone. Life came in an evil hour and stabbed with a poisoned word The heart of a girl who faintly smiled through her tears. And her little life was tossed as the eddies that whirl in the hollows From the great world-currents that wreck the battle ships at sea. And the face of dead Lillian seemed like a rain-ruined flower.

Or what is writ on the brow of the babe as the mother wails for the day When it leaped in the light of the sun and babbled its pure delight?

But the face of William the Great was fashioned by life and thought; And death made it massive as bronze, and deepened the lines thereof: Some for the will and some for patience, and some for hope-- Hope for the weal of the world wherein he mightily strove-- Yet what did it all bespeak--what but submission and awe, And a trace of pain as one with a sword in his side?

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death But the sorrow thereof is dumb like the cloth that lies on the brow. So what should be said of the faun surprised in the woodland dances, Of Harold the light of heart who fought with fear to the last?

THE CRY

There's a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears. It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears. It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres.

It may be a dæmon of pent and high emprise, That looks on my soul till my soul hides and cries, Loath to rebuke my soul and bid it arise.

It may be myself as I was in another life, Fashioned to lead where strife gives way to strife, Pinioned here in failure by knife thrown after knife.

The child turns o'er in the womb; and perhaps the soul Nurtures a dream too strong for the soul's control, When the dream hath eyes, and senses its destined goal.

Deep in darkness the bulb under mould and clod Feels the sun in the sky and pushes above the sod; Perhaps this cry in my heart is nothing but God!

THE HELPING HAND

Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars. Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars?

Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief. How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief?

Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life. Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife.

Mother, your face is but a face among a million more. You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore.

I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath. You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death.

Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God? Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod.

THE DOOR

This is the room that thou wast ushered in. Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win? Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath? There is no door but death.

Do shadows crouch within the mocking light? Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore, There is no less one door.

Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom, The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom? Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth-- There is no door but death.

There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof Above the rents within the stairless roof. Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor-- Who knocks? Unbolt the door!

SUPPLICATION

_For He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust._--PSALM CIII. 14.

Oh Lord, when all our bones are thrust Beyond the gaze of all but Thine; And these blaspheming tongues are dust Which babbled of Thy name divine, How helpless then to carp or rail Against the canons of Thy word; Wilt Thou, when thus our spirits fail, Have mercy, Lord?

Here from this ebon speck that floats As but a mote within Thine eye, Vain sneers and curses from our throats Rise to the vault of Thy fair sky: Yet when this world of ours is still Of this all-wondering, tortured horde, And none is left for Thee to kill-- Have mercy, Lord!

Thou knowest that our flesh is grass; Ah! let our withered souls remain Like stricken reeds of some morass, Bleached, in Thy will, by ceaseless rain. Have we not had enough of fire, Enough of torment and the sword?-- If these accrue from Thy desire-- Have mercy, Lord!

Dost Thou not see about our feet The tangles of our erring thought? Thou knowest that we run to greet High hopes that vanish into naught. We bleed, we fall, we rise again; How can we be of Thee abhorred? We are Thy breed, we little men-- Have mercy, Lord!

Wilt Thou then slay for that we slay, Wilt Thou deny when we deny? A thousand years are but a day, A little day within Thine eye: We thirst for love, we yearn for life; We lust, wilt Thou the lust record? We, beaten, fall upon the knife-- Have mercy, Lord!

Thou givest us youth that turns to age; And strength that leaves us while we seek. Thou pourest the fire of sacred rage In costly vessels all too weak. Great works we planned in hopes that Thou Fit wisdom therefor wouldst accord; Thou wrotest failure on our brow-- Have mercy, Lord!

Could we but know, as Thou dost know-- Hold the whole scheme at once in mind! Yet, dost Thou watch our anxious woe Who piece with palsied hands and blind The fragments of our little plan, To thrive and earn Thy blest reward, And make and keep the world of man-- Have mercy, Lord!

Thou settest the sun within his place To light the world, the world is Thine, Put in our hands and through Thy grace To be subdued and made divine. Whether we serve Thee ill or well, Thou knowest our frame, nor canst afford To leave Thy own for long in hell-- Have mercy, Lord!

THE CONVERSATION

_The Human Voice_

You knew then, starting let us say with ether, You would become electrons, out of whirling Would rise to atoms; then as an atom resting Till through Yourself in other atoms moving And by the fine affinity of power Atom with atom massed, You would go on Over the crest of visible forms transformed, Would be a molecule, a little system Wherein the atoms move like suns and planets With satellites, electrons. So as worlds build From star-dust, as electron to electron, The same attraction drawing, molecules Would wed and pass over the crest again Of visible forms, lying content as crystals, Or colloids--ready now to use the gleam Of life. As 'twere I see You with a match, As one in darkness lights a candle, and one Sees not his friend's form in the shadowed room Until the candle's lighted? Even his form Is darkened by the new-made light, he stands So near it! Well, I add to all I've asked Whether You knew the cell born to the glint Of that same lighted candle would not rest Even as electrons rest not--but would surge Over the crest of visible forms, become Beneath our feet things hidden from the eye However aided,--as above our heads Beyond the Milky Way great systems whirl Beyond the telescope,--become bacilli, Amoeba, starfish, swimming things, on land The serpent, and then birds, and beasts of prey The tiger (You in the tiger) on and on Surging above the crest of visible forms until The ape came--oh what ages they are to us-- But still creation flies on wings of light-- Then to the man who roamed the frozen fields Neither man nor ape,--we found his jaw, You know, At Heidelberg, in a sand-pit. On and on Till Babylon was builded, and arose Jerusalem and Memphis, Athens, Rome, Venice and Florence, Paris, London, Berlin, New York, Chicago--did You know, I ask, All this would come of You in ether moving?

_A Voice_

I knew.

_The Human Voice_

You knew that man was born to be destroyed, That as an atom perfect, whole, at ease, Drawn to some other atom, is broken, changed And rises o'er the crest of visible things To something else--that man must pass as well Through equal transformation. And You knew The unutterable things of man's life: From the first You saw his wracked Deucalion-soul that looks Backward on life that rises, where he rose Out of the stones. You saw him looking forward Over the purple mists that hide the gulf. Ere the green cell rose, even in the green cell You saw the sequences of thought--You saw That one would say, "All's matter" and another, "All's mind," and man's mind which reflects the image, Could not envision it. That even worship Of what you are would be confused by cries From India or Palestine. That love Which sees itself beginning in the seeds, Which fly and seek each other, maims The soul at the last in loss of child or friend Father or mother. And You knew that sex, Ranging from plants through beasts and up to us Had ties of filth--And out of them would rise Diverse philosophies to tear the world. You knew, when the green cell arose, that even The You which formed it moving on would bring Races and breeds, madmen, tyrants, slaves, The idiot child, the murderer, the insane-- All springing from the action of one law. You knew the enmity that lies between The lives of micro-beings and our own. You knew How man would rise to vision of himself: Immortal only in the race's life. And past the atom and the first glint of life, Saw him with soul enraptured, yet o'ershadowed Amid self-consciousness!

_A Voice_

I knew. But this your fault: You see me as apart, Over, removed, at enmity with You. You are in Me, and of Me, even at one With Me. But there's your soul--your soul may be The germinal cell of vaster evolution. Why try to tell you? If I gave a cell Voice to inquire, and it should ask you this: "After me what, a stalk, a flower, life That swims or crawls?" And if I gave to you Wisdom to say: "You shall become a reed By the water's edge"--how could the cell foresee What the reed is, bending beneath the wind When the lake ripples and the skies are blue As larkspur? Therefore I, who moved in darkness Becoming light in suns and light in souls And mind with thought--for what is thought but light Sprung from the clash of ether?--I am with you. And if beyond this stable state that stands For your life here (as cells are whole and balanced Till the inner urge bring union, then a breaking And building up to higher life), there is No memory of this world nor of your thought, Nor sense of life on this world lived and borne; Or whether you remember, know yourself As one who lived here, suffered here, aspired-- What does it matter?--you cannot be lost, As I am lost not. Therefore be at peace. And from the laws whose orbits cross and run To seeming tangles, find the law through which Your soul shall be perfected till it draw,-- As the green cell the sunlight draws and turns Its chemical effulgence into life-- My inner splendor. All the rest is mine In infinite time. For if I should unroll The parchment of the future, it were vain-- You could not read it.

TERMINUS

Terminus shows the ways and says, "All things must have an end." Oh, bitter thought we hid away When first you were my friend.

We hid it in the darkest place Our hearts had place to hide, And took the sweet as from a spring Whose waters would abide.