Part 6

For neither life nor the wide world Has greater store than this:-- The thought that runs through hands and eyes And fills the silences.

There is a void the agéd world Throws over the spent heart; When Life has given all she has, And Terminus says depart.

When we must sit with folded hands, And see with inward eye A void rise like an arctic breath To hollow the morrow's sky.

To-morrow is, and trembling leaves, And 'wildered winds from Thrace Look for you where your face has bloomed, And where may bloom your face.

Beyond the city, over the hill, Under the anguished moon, The winds and my dreams seek after you By meadow, water and dune.

All things must have an end, we know; But oh, the dreaded end; Whether in life, whether in death, To lose the cherished friend.

To lose in life the cherished friend, While the myrtle tree is green; To live and have the cherished friend With only the world between.

With only the wide, wide world between, Where memory has mortmain. Life pours more wine in the heart of man Than the heart of man can contain.

Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, Thirsting for blood of the vine, Life waits till the heart has lived too much And then pours in new wine!

MADELINE

I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed, Fed by the same miraculous power,

That moved the rivulet of your life, And made your heart begin to beat. Now all day your steps are a-patter. Oh, what swift and musical feet!

You sleep. I wait to see you wake, With wonder-eyes and hands that reach. I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather Too fast on your budding lips for speech.

Your sunny hair is cut as if 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock. How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning The flaring skirt of the little frock!

You build and play and search and pry, And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys. Why do you never tire of playing, Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise?

You will not sleep? You are tired of the house? You are just as naughty as you can be. Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, And play with Marcia under the tree!

MARCIA

Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color Your cheeks of olive incarnadines.

A serious wisdom burns and glows Steadily in your dark-eyed look. Already a wit and a little stoic-- Perhaps you are going to write a book,

Or paint a picture, or sing or act The part of Katherine or Juliet. I believe you were born with the gift of knowing When to remember and when to forget.

And when to stifle and kill a grief, And clutch your heart when it beats in vain. The heart that has most strength for feeling Must have the strength to conquer the pain.

You understand? It seems that you do-- Though you cannot utter a word to me. Marcia, Marcia, look at Madeline Building a doll-house under the tree!

THE ALTAR

My heart is an altar whereon Many sacrificial fires have been kindled In praise of spring and Aphrodite.

My heart is an altar of chalcedony, Crowned with a tablet of bronze, Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire, And scented with the aromatic bitterness Of dead incense.

Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayer Over the ashes which lie scattered around the altar; For the April rain has wept over them, And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold.

What though there are remnants here Of faded coronals, And bits of silver string Torn from forgotten harps? Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst. Let us take it and pour the sea from it, And while the savor of dead lips is washed away, Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth. Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring.

Bring from the re-kindled woodland Flames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper, There where the woodman burns the fallen tree, And scented smoke arises On azure wings between the branches, Budding with adolescent life. With these let us light the altar, That a scarlet flame may lean Against the silver sea.

For thou art fire also, And air, and water, and the resurgent earth, For thou art woman, thou art love. Thou art April of the Arcadian moon, Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds, Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys. Thy face is the apple tree in bloom; Thine eyes the glimpses of green water When the tree's blossoms shake As soft winds fan them. Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist-- Thou art spring.

The fire on the altar burns brightly, And the sea sparkles in the sun. Let us murmur a Doric prayer For the gift of love, For the gift of life, Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee!

SOUL'S DESIRE

Her soul is like a wolf that stands Where sunlight falls between the trees Of a sparse forest's leafless edge, When Spring's first magic moveth these.

Her soul is like a little brook, Thin edged with ice against the leaves, Where the wolf drinks and is alone, And where the woodbine interweaves.

A bank late covered by the snow, But lighted by the frozen North; Her soul is like a little plot That one white blossom bringeth forth.

Her soul is slim, like silver slips, And straight, like flags beside a stream. Her soul is like a shape that moves And changes in a wonder dream.

Who would pursue her clasps a cloud, And taketh sorrow for his zeal. Memory shall sing him many songs While bound upon the torture wheel.

Her soul is like a wolf that glides By moonlight o'er a phantom ridge; Her face is like a light that runs Beneath the shadow of a bridge.

Her voice is like a woodland cry Heard in a summer's desolate hour. Her eyes are dim; her lips are faint, And tinctured like the cuckoo flower.

Her little breasts are like the buds Of tulips in a place forlorn. Her soul is like a mandrake bloom Standing against the crimson moon.

Her dream is like the fenny snake's, That warms him in the noonday's fire. She hath no thought, nor any hope, Save of herself and her desire.

She is not life; she is not death; She is not fear, or joy or grief. Her soul is like a quiet sea Beneath a ruin-haunted reef.

She is the shape the sailor sees, That slips the rock without a sound. She is the soul that comes and goes And leaves no mark, yet makes a wound.

She is the soul that hunts and flies; She is a world-wide mist of care. She is the restlessness of life, Its rapture and despair.

BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE

It was a hermit on Whitsunday That came to the Table Round. "King Arthur, wit ye by what Knight May the Holy Grail be found?"

"By never a Knight that liveth now; By none that feasteth here." King Arthur marvelled when he said, "He shall be got this year."

Then uprose brave Sir Launcelot And there did mount his steed, And hastened to a pleasant town That stood in knightly need.

Where many people him acclaimed, He passed the Corbin pounte, And there he saw a fairer tower Than ever was his wont.

And in that tower for many years A dolorous lady lay, Whom Queen Northgalis had bewitched, And also Queen le Fay.

And Launcelot loosed her from those pains, And there a dragon slew. Then came King Pelles out and said, "Your name, brave Knight and true?"

"My name is Pelles, wit ye well, And King of the far country; And I, Sir Knight, am cousin nigh To Joseph of Armathie."

"I am Sir Launcelot du Lake." And then they clung them fast; And yede into the castle hall To take the king's repast.

Anon there cometh in a dove By the window's open fold, And in her mouth was a rich censer, That shone like Ophir gold.

And therewithal was such savor As bloweth over sea From a land of many colored flowers And trees of spicery.

And therewithal was meat and drink, And a damsel passing fair, Betwixt her hands of tulip-white, A golden cup did bear.

"O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this marvel mean?" "That is," said Pelles, "richest thing That any man hath seen."

"O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this sight avail?" "Now wit ye well," said King Pelles, "That was the Holy Grail."

Then by this sign King Pelles knew Elaine his fair daughter Should lie with Launcelot that night, And Launcelot with her.

And that this twain should get a child Before the night should fail, Who would be named Sir Galahad, And find the Holy Grail.

Then cometh one hight Dame Brisen With Pelles to confer, "Now, wit ye well, Sir Launcelot Loveth but Guinevere."

"But if ye keep him well in hand, The while I work my charms, The maid Elaine, ere spring of morn, Shall lie within his arms."

Dame Brisen was the subtlest witch That was that time in life; She was as if Beelzebub Had taken her to wife.

Then did she cause one known of face To Launcelot to bring, As if it came from Guinevere, Her wonted signet ring.

"By Holy Rood, thou comest true, For well I know thy face. Where is my lady?" asked the Knight, "There in the Castle Case?"

"'Tis five leagues scarcely from this hall," Up spoke that man of guile. "I go this hour," said Launcelot, "Though it were fifty mile."

Then sped Dame Brisen to the king And whispered, "An we thrive, Elaine must reach the Castle Case Ere Launcelot arrive."

Elaine stole forth with twenty knights And a goodly company. Sir Launcelot rode fast behind, Queen Guinevere to see.

Anon he reached the castle door. Oh! fond and well deceived. And there it seemed the queen's own train Sir Launcelot received.

"Where is the queen?" quoth Launcelot, "For I am sore bestead," "Have not such haste," said Dame Brisen, "The queen is now in bed."

"Then lead me thither," saith he, "And cease this jape of thine." "Now sit thee down," said Dame Brisen, "And have a cup of wine."

"For wit ye not that many eyes Upon you here have stared; Now have a cup of wine until All things may be prepared."

Elaine lay in a fair chamber, 'Twixt linen sweet and clene. Dame Brisen all the windows stopped, That no day might be seen.

Dame Brisen fetched a cup of wine And Launcelot drank thereof. "No more of flagons," saith he, "For I am mad for love."

Dame Brisen took Sir Launcelot Where lay the maid Elaine. Sir Launcelot entered the bed chamber The queen's love for to gain.

Sir Launcelot kissed the maid Elaine, And her cheeks and brows did burn; And then they lay in other's arms Until the morn's underne.

Anon Sir Launcelot arose And toward the window groped, And then he saw the maid Elaine When he the window oped.

"Ah, traitoress," saith Launcelot, And then he gat his sword, "That I should live so long and now Become a knight abhorred."

"False traitoress," saith Launcelot, And then he shook the steel. Elaine skipped naked from the bed And 'fore the knight did kneel.

"I am King Pelles own daughter And thou art Launcelot, The greatest knight of all the world. This hour we have begot."

"Oh, traitoress Brisen," cried the knight, "Oh, charmed cup of wine; That I this treasonous thing should do For treasures such as thine."

"Have mercy," saith maid Elaine, "Thy child is in my womb." Thereat the morning's silvern light Flooded the bridal room.

That light it was a benison; It seemed a holy boon, As when behind a wrack of cloud Shineth the summer moon.

And in the eyes of maid Elaine Looked forth so sweet a faith, Sir Launcelot took his glittering sword, And thrust it in the sheath.

"So God me help, I spare thy life, But I am wretch and thrall, If any let my sword to make Dame Brisen's head to fall."

"So have thy will of her," she said, "But do to me but good; For thou hast had my fairest flower, Which is my maidenhood."

"And we have done the will of God, And the will of God is best." Sir Launcelot lifted the maid Elaine And hid her on his breast.

Anon there cometh in a dove, By the window's open fold, And in her mouth was a rich censer That shone like beaten gold.

And therewithal was such savor, As bloweth over sea, From a land of many colored flowers, And trees of spicery.

And therewithal was meat and drink, And a damsel passing fair, Betwixt her hands of silver white A golden cup did bear.

"O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this marvel mean?" "That is," she said, "the richest thing That any man hath seen."

"O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this sight avail?" "Now wit ye well," said maid Elaine, "This is the Holy Grail."

And then a nimbus light hung o'er Her brow so fair and meek; And turned to orient pearls the tears That glistered down her cheek.

And a sound of music passing sweet Went in and out again. Sir Launcelot made the sign of the cross, And knelt to maid Elaine.

"Name him whatever name thou wilt, But be his sword and mail Thrice tempered 'gainst a wayward world, That lost the Holy Grail."

Sir Launcelot sadly took his leave And rode against the morn. And when the time was fully come Sir Galahad was born.

Also he was from Jesu Christ, Our Lord, the eighth degree; Likewise the greatest knight this world May ever hope to see.

THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT

Sir Launcelot had fled to France For the peace of Guinevere, And many a noble knight was slain, And Arthur lay on his bier.

Sir Launcelot took ship from France And sailed across the sea. He rode seven days through fair England Till he came to Almesbury.

Then spake Sir Bors to Launcelot: The old time is at end; You have no more in England's realm In east nor west a friend.

You have no friend in all England Sith Mordred's war hath been, And Queen Guinevere became a nun To heal her soul of sin.

Sir Launcelot answered never a word But rode to the west countree Until through the forest he saw a light That shone from a nunnery.

Sir Launcelot entered the cloister, And the queen fell down in a swoon. Oh blessed Jesu, saith the queen, For thy mother's love, a boon.

Go hence, Sir Launcelot, saith the queen, And let me win God's grace. My heavy heart serves me no more To look upon thy face.

Through you was wrought King Arthur's death, Through you great war and wrake. Leave me alone, let me bleed, Pass by for Jesu's sake.

Then fare you well, saith Launcelot, Sweet Madam, fare you well. And sythen you have left the world No more in the world I dwell.

Then up rose sad Sir Launcelot And rode by wold and mere Until he came to a hermitage Where bode Sir Bedivere.

And there he put a habit on And there did pray and fast. And when Sir Bedivere told him all His heart for sorrow brast.

How that Sir Mordred, traitorous knight Betrayed his King and sire; And how King Arthur wounded, died Broken in heart's desire.

And so Sir Launcelot penance made, And worked at servile toil; And prayed the Bishop of Canterbury His sins for to assoil.

His shield went clattering on the wall To a dolorous wail of wind; His casque was rust, his mantle dust With spider webs entwined.

His listless horses left alone Went cropping where they would, To see the noblest knight of the world Upon his sorrow brood.

Anon a Vision came in his sleep, And thrice the Vision saith: Go thou to Almesbury for thy sin, Where lieth the queen in death.

Sir Launcelot cometh to Almesbury And knelt by the dead queen's bier; Oh none may know, moaned Launcelot, What sorrow lieth here.

What love, what honor, what defeat What hope of the Holy Grail. The moon looked through the latticed glass On the queen's face cold and pale.

Sir Launcelot kissed the ceréd cloth, And none could stay his woe, Her hair lay back from the oval brow, And her nose was clear as snow.

They wrapped her body in cloth of Raines, They put her in webs of lead. They coffined her in white marble, And sang a mass for the dead.

Sir Launcelot and seven knights Bore torches around the bier. They scattered myrrh and frankincense On the corpse of Guinevere.

They put her in earth by King Arthur To the chant of a doleful tune. They heaped the earth on Guinevere And Launcelot fell in a swoon.

Sir Launcelot went to the hermitage Some Grace of God to find; But never he ate, and never he drank And there he sickened and dwined.

Sir Launcelot lay in a painful bed, And spake with a dreary steven; Sir Bishop, I pray you shrive my soul And make it clean for heaven.

The Bishop houseled Sir Launcelot, The Bishop kept watch and ward. Bury me, saith Sir Launcelot, In the earth of Joyous Guard.

Three candles burned the whole night through Till the red dawn looked in the room. And the white, white soul of Launcelot Strove with a black, black doom.

I see the old witch Dame Brisen, And Elaine so straight and tall-- Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The shadows dance on the wall.

I see long hands of dead women, They clutch for my soul eftsoon; Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, 'Tis the drifting light of the moon.

I see three angels, saith he, Before a silver urn. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The candles do but burn.

I see a cloth of red samite O'er the holy vessels spread. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The great dawn groweth red.

I see all the torches of the world Shine in the room so clear. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The white dawn draweth near.

Sweet lady, I behold the face Of thy dear son, our Lord, Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The sun shines on your sword.

Sir Galahad outstretcheth hands And taketh me ere I fail-- Sir Launcelot's body lay in death As his soul found the Holy Grail.

They laid his body in the quire Upon a purple pall. He was the meekest, gentlest knight That ever ate in hall.

He was the kingliest, goodliest knight That ever England roved, The truest lover of sinful man That ever woman loved.

I pray you all, fair gentlemen, Pray for his soul and mine. He lived to lose the heart he loved And drink but bitter wine.

He wrought a woe he knew not of, He failed his fondest quest, Now sing a psalter, read a prayer May all souls find their rest. Amen.

IN MICHIGAN

You wrote: "Come over to Saugatuck And be with me on the warm sand, And under cool beeches and aromatic cedars." And just then no one could do a thing in the city For the lure of far places, and something that tugged At one's heart because of a June sky, And stretches of blue water, And a warm wind blowing from the south. What could I do but take a boat And go to meet you?

And when to-day is not enough, But you must live to-morrow also; And when the present stands in the way Of something to come, And there is but one you would see, All the interval of waiting is a wall. And so it was I walked the landward deck With flapping coat and hat pulled down; And I sat on the leeward deck and looked At the streaming smoke of the funnels, And the far waste of rhythmical water, And at the gulls flying by our side.

There was music on board and dancing, But I could not take part. For above all there was the bluest sky, And around us the urge of magical distances. And just because you were in the violins, And in everything, and were wholly the world Of sense and sight, It was too much. One could not live it And make it all his own-- It was too much. And I wondered where the rest could be going, Or what they thought of water and sky Without knowing you.

But at four o'clock there was a rim, A circled edge of rainbow color Which suspired, widened and narrowed under your gaze: It was the phantasy of straining eyes, Or land--and it was land. It was distant trees. And then it was dunes, bluffs of yellow sand. We began to wonder how far it was-- Five miles, or ten miles-- Surely only five miles!-- But at last whatever it was we swung to the end. We rounded the lighthouse pier, Almost before we knew. We slowed our speed in a dizzy river of black, We drifted softly to dock.

I took the ferry, I crossed the river, I ran almost through the little batch Of fishermen's shacks. I climbed the winding road of the hill, And dove in a shadowy quiet Of paths of moss and dancing leaves, And straight stretched limbs of giant pines On patches of sky. I ran to the top of the bluff Where the lodge-house stood. And there the sunlit lake burst on me And wine-like air. And below me was the beach Where the serried lines of hurrying water Came up like rank on rank of men And fell with a shout on the rocks! I plunged, I stumbled, I ran Down the hill, For I thought I saw you, And it was you, you were there! And I shall never forget your cry, Nor how you raised your arms and cried, And laughed when you saw me. And there we were with the lake And the sun with his ruddy search-light blaze Stretching back to lost Chicago. The sun, the lake, the beach, and ourselves Were all that was left of Time, All else was lost.

You were making a camp. You had bent from the bank a cedar bough And tied it down. And over it flung a quilt of many colors, And under it spread on the voluptuous silt Gray blankets and canvas pillows. I saw it all in a glance. And there in dread of eyes we stood Scanning the bluff and the beach, Lest in the briefest touch of lips We might be seen.

For there were eyes, or we thought There were eyes, on the porch of the lodge, And eyes along the forest's rim on the hill, And eyes on the shore. But a minute past there was no sun, Only a star that shone like a match which lights To a blue intenseness amid the glow of a hearth. And we sat on the sand as dusk came down In a communion of silence and low words. Till you said at last: "We'll sup at the lodge, Then say good night to me and leave As if to stay overnight in the village. But instead make a long detour through the wood And come to the shore through that ravine, Be here at the tent at midnight."

And so I did. I stole through echoless ways, Where no twigs broke and where I heard My heart beat like a watch under a pillow. And the whippoorwills were singing. And the sound of the surf below me Was the sound of silver-poplar leaves In a wind that makes no pause.... I hurried down the steep ravine, And a bat flew up at my feet from the brush And crossed the moon. To my left was the lighthouse, And black and deep purples far away, And all was still. Till I stood breathless by the tent And heard your whispered welcome, And felt your kiss.

Lovers lay at mid-night On roofs of Memphis and Athens And looked at tropical stars As large as golden beetles. Nothing is new, save this, And this is always new. And there in your tent With the balm of the mid-night breeze Sweeping over us, We looked at one great star Through a flap of your many-colored tent, And the eternal quality of rapture And mystery and vision flowed through us.