Chapter 3

Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, Unseparated atoms, and I must Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, There are none, ever. As a monk who prays The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust Each tasteless particle aside, and just Begin again the task which never stays. And I have known a glory of great suns, When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand Threw down the cup, and did not understand.

Stupidity

Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch I broke and bruised your rose. I hardly could suppose It were a thing so fragile that my clutch Could kill it, thus.

It stood so proudly up upon its stem, I knew no thought of fear, And coming very near Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, Tearing it down.

Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, The crimson petals, all Outspread about my fall. They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone Of memory.

And with my words I carve a little jar To keep their scented dust, Which, opening, you must Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far More grieved than you.

Irony

An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again. Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease.

Happiness

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation. Days of passive somnolence, At its wildest, indolence. Hours of empty quietness, No delight, and no distress.

Happiness to me is wine, Effervescent, superfine. Full of tang and fiery pleasure, Far too hot to leave me leisure For a single thought beyond it. Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it Means to give one's soul to gain Life's quintessence. Even pain Pricks to livelier living, then Wakes the nerves to laugh again, Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. Although we must die to-morrow, Losing every thought but this; Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

The Last Quarter of the Moon

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, A spatter of rust on its polished steel! The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel. Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees, The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. Like dogs unleashed After a beast, They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guests Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. I have not quailed, I was all unmailed And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into the silver day As waking out of her swoon she comes. I hear the drums Of millenniums Beating the mornings I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair, The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home? I hear no answer. I am afraid!

I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing death This fight for a God, or this devil's game.

A Tale of Starvation

There once was a man whom the gods didn't love, And a disagreeable man was he. He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, And he cursed eternally.

He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, And he blasted the winds in the sky. He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, And he raved at the birds as they fly.

His oaths were many, and his range was wide, He swore in fancy ways; But his meaning was plain: that no created thing Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, And windows toward the hill there were none, And on the other side they were white-washed thick, To keep out every spark of the sun.

When he went to market he walked all the way Blaspheming at the path he trod. He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, By all the names he knew of God.

For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, And his hopes had curdled in his breast. His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over For the chinking money-bags she liked best.

The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, The deer had trampled on his corn, His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, And his sheep had died unshorn.

His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose, And his old horse perished of a colic. In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes By little, glutton mice on a frolic.

So he slowly lost all he ever had, And the blood in his body dried. Shrunken and mean he still lived on, And cursed that future which had lied.

One day he was digging, a spade or two, As his aching back could lift, When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, And to get it out he made great shift.

So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, And the veins in his forehead stood taut. At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, He gathered up what he had sought.

A dim old vase of crusted glass, Prismed while it lay buried deep. Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, At the touch of the sun began to leap.

It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; Flashing like an opal-stone, Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, Where at first there had seemed to be none.

It had handles on each side to bear it up, And a belly for the gurgling wine. Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, And its lip was curled and fine.

The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare And the colours started up through the crust, And he who had cursed at the yellow sun Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.

And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, And the sun shone without his sneer.

Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, But it was only grey in the gloom. So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, And he went outside with a broom.

And he washed his windows just to let the sun Lie upon his new-found vase; And when evening came, he moved it down And put it on a table near the place

Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. The old man forgot to swear, Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, Dancing in the kitchen there.

He forgot to revile the sun next morning When he found his vase afire in its light. And he carried it out of the house that day, And kept it close beside him until night.

And so it happened from day to day. The old man fed his life On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. And his soul forgot its former strife.

And the village-folk came and begged to see The flagon which was dug from the ground. And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy At showing what he had found.

One day the master of the village school Passed him as he stooped at toil, Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

"My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, "That's a valuable thing you have there, But it might get broken out of doors, It should meet with the utmost care.

What are you doing with it out here?" "Why, Sir," said the poor old man, "I like to have it about, do you see? To be with it all I can."

"You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, "Mark my words and see!" And he walked away, while the old man looked At his treasure despondingly.

Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! He had toiled for it, and now he cared. Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, Which his own hard work had bared.

He would carry it round with him everywhere, As it gave him joy to do. A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! Who would dare to say so? Who?

Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, And he bent to his hoe again.... A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, And he lurched with a cry of pain.

For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs. He did not curse, he had no words.

He gathered the fragments, one by one, And his fingers were cut and torn. Then he made a hole in the very place Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.

He covered the hole, and he patted it down, Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows That no beam of light should cross the floor.

He sat down in front of the empty hearth, And he neither ate nor drank. In three days they found him, dead and cold, And they said: "What a queer old crank!"

The Foreigner

Have at you, you Devils! My back's to this tree, For you're nothing so nice That the hind-side of me Would escape your assault. Come on now, all three!

Here's a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point, And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint. A spatter of blood, man! That's just to anoint

And make supple your limbs. 'Tis a pity the silk Of your waistcoat is stained. Why! Your heart's full of milk, And so full, it spills over! I'm not of your ilk.

You said so, and laughed At my old-fashioned hose, At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose. To carve it to pattern I think you propose.

Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my sword Are proving themselves In quite perfect accord. I grieve to have spotted Your shirt. On my word!

And hullo! You Bully! That blade's not a stick To slash right and left, And my skull is too thick To be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword. Now a lick

Down the side of your face. What a pretty, red line! Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour. Don't whine That a stranger has marked you. * * * * * The tree's there, You Swine!

Did you think to get in At the back, while your friends Made a little diversion In front? So it ends, With your sword clattering down On the ground. 'Tis amends

I make for your courteous Reception of me, A foreigner, landed From over the sea. Your welcome was fervent I think you'll agree.

My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare!

So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men's can.

I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots

Of a mouldering tree! Here's at you, once more. You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door, And jeer at my ways, But you're pinked to the core.

And before I have done, I will prick my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white skin Shall be printed with me. For I've come here to win!

Absence

My cup is empty to-night, Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the wind from the open window. Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms. They sway in the moon's radiance And tap against the wall. But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty.

When you come, it brims Red and trembling with blood, Heart's blood for your drinking; To fill your mouth with love And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

A Gift

See! I give myself to you, Beloved! My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead.

The Bungler

You glow in my heart Like the flames of uncounted candles. But when I go to warm my hands, My clumsiness overturns the light, And then I stumble Against the tables and chairs.

Fool's Money Bags

Outside the long window, With his head on the stone sill, The dog is lying, Gazing at his Beloved. His eyes are wet and urgent, And his body is taut and shaking. It is cold on the terrace; A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glass And is content.

The Beloved is writing a letter. Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing. Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy?

Miscast I

I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, So sharp that the air would turn its edge Were it to be twisted in flight. Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, And the mark of them lies, in and out, Worm-like, With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. My brain is curved like a scimitar, And sighs at its cutting Like a sickle mowing grass.

But of what use is all this to me! I, who am set to crack stones In a country lane!

Miscast II

My heart is like a cleft pomegranate Bleeding crimson seeds And dripping them on the ground. My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, And its seeds are bursting from it.

But how is this other than a torment to me! I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, In a dark closet!

Anticipation

I have been temperate always, But I am like to be very drunk With your coming. There have been times I feared to walk down the street Lest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighbours As they go by. I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisy With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

Vintage

I will mix me a drink of stars,-- Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars. I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.

It will lap and scratch As I swallow it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly. His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh, Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

The rain gullies the garden paths And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit, Filmed over with moisture. It seems as though the rain, Dripping from it, Should be tinged with colour. I desire the berries, But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. Probably, too, they are bitter.

Obligation

Hold your apron wide That I may pour my gifts into it, So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them From falling to the ground.

I would pour them upon you And cover you, For greatly do I feel this need Of giving you something, Even these poor things.

Dearest of my Heart!

The Taxi

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

The Giver of Stars

Hold your soul open for my welcoming. Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame, And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world, And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

The Temple

Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew And vanished in the sunshine. How it came We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew Together into fire. But we knew The winds would slap and quench it in their game. And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks To treasure it, and placed them round about. With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.

Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success

Beneath this sod lie the remains Of one who died of growing pains.

In Answer to a Request

You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? For your sake, I would go and seek the year, Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! My shadow stretches forward, and the ground Is dark in front because the light's behind. It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, In watching it and walking I have found More than enough to occupy my mind.

I cannot turn, the light would make me blind.

POPPY SEED

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck

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A yellow band of light upon the street Pours from an open door, and makes a wide Pathway of bright gold across a sheet Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, The clip of tankards on a table top, And stir of booted heels. Against the patch Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop.

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This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. Within his cellar men can have to drink The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart A cap as ever in his wantonness Winter set glittering on top of an old yew.

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Tall candles stand upon the table, where Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. The centre of the board is piled with pipes, Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.

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"For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, From that small barrel in the very roots Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke His best tobacco for a grand climax. Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!"

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Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." The host set down a jar; then to a vat Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew Into the silver night. At once there flung Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them:

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"Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? My master sent me to inquire where Such men do mostly be, but every door Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. I pray you tell me where I may now find One versed in law, the matter will not wait." "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power.

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Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout Within the tavern jeered at his employ. Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, Flooded the open spaces, and took flight Before tall, serried houses in platoon, Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night.

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Before a door which fronted a canal The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. The water lapped the stones in musical And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, And through the open door Max went toward Another door, whence sound of voices came. He entered a large room where candelabra burned.

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An aged man in quilted dressing gown Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent Your messenger to seek throughout the town A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, But I am at your service, and my name Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged Am I, and count myself much privileged. I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame Is better known on distant oceans than on land.

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