Scene II.

The time and place and scene just as before. From left to right there enters on the scene Quite simultaneously a man and woman. Each reads a book while walking, so absorbed That they well-nigh collide with one another. He begs her pardon which, of course, she grants. He asks her if they have not met before, Her face seems so familiar, and she says: Perhaps he saw her somewhere at a lecture. And so they start to talk about their books, About their lectures and about their books. They seat themselves upon a rock and talk, And talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. The insects are abuzzing and the leaves-- The foliage of the bushes and the trees Are whispering, are gossiping in whispers. And from behind the softly swaying bushes Escape the sounds of kisses and of sighs, The kisses and the sighs of youthful lovers. And all the time the woman and the man Sit arguing, discussing and discussing Psychology, sociology and ethics. So different it is behind the bushes. And while some hug and kiss and others argue, A sudden gloom spreads over everything. The azure sky is now a sky of ink, The lightning flashes and the thunder claps, The shower is terrific'ly intense. Both couples find an overhanging rock, A scanty shelter 'gainst a raging storm. A blinding lightning flash, a thunder clap, All four lie dead. Is there a moral? Guess!

THE TEMPLE

Round, full and fertile is her abdomen, Even as Mother Earth. O! tree of life bearing the fruit of love, O! precious shell a precious pearl enclosing, O! wondrous instrument whereon love plays A fiery rhapsody, The echo whereof is a human life. O! blessed mother of the child of man.

Ye fools, detach your gaze from godless heavens, God is right here if you would worship God, The mystery of life and love is God, And every pregnant woman is God's temple.

SHELLEY

Lucifer! dripping with celestial splendour, All aglow with cosmic rebellion, Thundering forth pious blasphemies, Chanting sacrilegious hymns, Thy voice is like unto the trumpet sounds Of the Archangels of the Apocalypse Calling the dead to life. Meteor fallen from the bosom of infinitude Into the common clay, Strange visitant from another orb, Permeated with the music of the spheres, Replete and radiant with rarest gems, Perplexing, exciting, soothing, betwitching. Lucifer! Prometheus! Dionysos! Shelley!

THE SCULPTOR AND THE CLAY

The sculptor, man, in woman mostly sees The clay of which to model gods of love. Some, cunning little cupids only are, The little rascal gods of light flirtation, Who like the fire-flies on a summer night Are luminous a moment--and that's all.

While others are the serious gods of love, Majestic and intense as life itself, Mysterious and perplexing as the Sphinx, Relentless as the furies or as death, As maddening as poison of the snake, As soothing as is balm upon a wound, And sweet as that which passeth understanding. As sweet as that and sometimes just as bitter.

Such are the statues man, the sculptor, moulds Of woman--clay.

CONTEMPT

I spit upon the laws that thieves have made To give the crooked strength to rob the weak.

I spit upon a country full of wealth Where millions live in squalor and in want.

I spit upon a flag that waves above A nation made of masters and of slaves.

I spit upon religions that defend A hell on earth, and preach a life to come.

I spit upon all morals that contend That joy of life is not life's highest end.

I spit upon the education that Makes pygmies out of what might have been men.

Upon this whole damned system do I spit, And while I spit--I weep.

WILLIAM MORRIS

Dreamer of dreams--dreamer of golden dreams, Explorer of the rainbow-lands of yore, Columbus of Arcadian Continents, Poetic founder of Utopian states.

Dreamer of dreams? Dreamer of only dreams? A master worker with the mind and hand Who made the beautiful and useful wed, An alchemist who turned all work to art.

Dreamer of dreams? Maker of wondrous things? A knight in mortal combat for a cause, A sower of emancipation's seed, A master builder of a better world.

DON JUAN'S SONG

From maids yet in their spring-time teens To full blown thirty summer queens, I love them all!

From golden blondes and deep brunettes To Titian-locked one ne'er forgets-- I love them all!

From fairies frail or plump or slender To women built with queenly splendor, I love them all!

From damsels pale and melancholy To matrons gay and widows jolly, I love them all!

From maidens unsophisticated To syrens well initiated, I love them all! I love them all!

EASTER ON FIFTH AVENUE

Capital best qualifies the weather That Easter Sunday donned for the occasion And the parade was also capital, It was indeed a capital parade.

The gorgeous gowns, the stunning Easter hats Were capital and those hand-made complexions Down to the escorts groomed with perfect style Down to the sermons that the preachers preached In fashionable churches were most capital.

Indeed the sight I saw that Easter morn Along Fifth Avenue was capital, Upon the sidewalks silently and slow The grand cort├Ęge of capital marched on.

And whilst I was enjoying this grand sight There rose before my mind another sight: I saw the street between the sidewalks filled In compact mass with wan and worn spectators Who were in silence viewing the parade, It was a mob of children, men and women Whose pallid faces and whose piteous rags Gave to the spectacle a capital contrast, 'Twas Easter, Easter, lo! The Christ has risen! Upon the whole the show was capital.

CONTEMPLATION

I went into a house of many lofts, And in each loft I saw a thousand men, And women, too, and children, too, I saw. And all around arose a deaf'ning roar-- The roaring of machines o'er which were bent The toilers toiling at their tiresome task. And as I stood and gazed upon this scene I wondered why it was--I wondered why....

I went into a house of gilded halls, And in each hall there shone a thousand lights, And many men and women also shone. Delightful music mingled with perfume. Around luxurious tables, diners sat Enjoying luscious viands, mellow wines. And as I stood and gazed upon this scene, I thought of toilers and I understood.

CONFIDENCES

I have to go to work to win my bread, When oft upon my way the Muse of song, Espying me from far approaches me And takes me by the hand as tenderly As would a sister take her little brother. She whispers words as sparkling as champagne, As warm as blood, as pure as morning dew, And so enchants me that I cannot help But yield unto the tempting muse of song. She takes me from the world's drear, dusty road And leads me into that mysterious park Where lies the limpid lake of inspiration. The flowers of life and death grow in this park-- Of love and hate, the flowers of joy and pain, Of smiles and sighs, of laughter and of tears, The blooms of hope and those of disillusion. All, all these flowers grow in this wondrous park. I drink some water from the Muse's palm, The water of the lake of inspiration. And then in silence do I wend my way Through rows of silent and mysterious flowers, Inhaling all the odors of the flowers, The sweet and bitter odors of the flowers. And like the bee, I also make some honey, Alas! my honey is not always sweet. Perhaps because the flowers of life are bitter. Then I am harshly driven from this Eden By the compulsion of a god I hate, And I must go to work to win my bread. The honey of the poet has no market. Tempt me no more, dear Muse, or else I'll starve.

IN THE LIBRARY

As she sat facing me the other day Reading a book, while I was writing verses, Or rather trying to, for I could not Detach my gaze from her bewitching visage, Nor could my mind in rhythmic furrows flow, Pursuing thoughts to her all unrelated, When like the heaving billows that are yielding To the attracting powers of the moon, My every thought by her has been attracted. I thus bethought me: "Wherefore write I poems, When here, before me, breathes a living poem, Compared to whom, all poems are as dust Besides a sweetly smelling, blooming flower." So I lay down my pen and gazed at her.

BYRON

The thought of Byron wakens in my mind The vision of a solitary tree Titanic and contorted on a cliff That overhangs a wild abysmal sea. Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles, Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock, Much like the miser's fingers on his gold. Within its arteries the sap of life, The procreative juice in torrents flows, And gushes forth luxurious vegetation. The foliage-covered head is always raised In bold defiance of the elements. Undaunted by the tempest's fiendish rage, Calm under the concerted stare of stars, The fickle lover of a fickle moon. On balmy days or peaceful summer eves The rendezvous of master-singer birds. Perennial, rich, melodious and sad, Passionate and desolate and wild And beautiful and always beautiful.

CHIAROSCURO

I met a plum-hued Venus late one night, Live specimen of pure Egyptian art. The regal amplitude of tropic zones, Their rich luxuriance breathed on her face And radiated from her clothed form.

Her eyes shone with that lustful brilliancy Of eyes of jungle prowlers who at night A-sniffling and a-growling hunt for mates.

Her mellow, soft and sing-song voice was whisp'ring Enticing promises of untold joys To taste of in this paradise of jet.

Alas! the curse of value, price and profit Indelibly was branded on her brow, The brow that ages past was of a savage. Oh! thou hast conquered glorious Christian progress.

DESPONDENCY

I sadly watch the hours go by, The hours, the days, the months, the years, And what's called life shall soon go by, And helpless and with fruitless rage I watch the hours of life go by.

And I must curse when I would bless, And I who am all love, must hate, And I who have been born to sing Must spend myself in moans and tears.

And must I perish on this rock A cruel God has bound me to? Will not some Hercules ere come And make me free?

IN MEMORIAM

Within the mansion of my memory There is a sumptuous chapel, where at times I kneel in deep devotion at the shrines Of all the blessed women I have loved. I burn for them the incense of my thoughts; Before their sacred images I lay The flowers of my purest sentiments, And on their altars piously I light The pallid candles of my vain regrets.

I oft hold retrospective rendezvous Within the chapel of the loves of yore.

SPRING SONG

I too shall sing thy glory, Spring, Oh, season in thyself a song; In every tongue thy name doth ring With music we remember long. Fruehling! Primavera! Spring! Thy name to whisper is to sing.

Why should I seek sweet melody And softly sounding words to say All that the spring-time means to me? Why should I make an effort, pray, When Fruehling! primavera! spring! To whisper only is to sing.

TO A FRIEND

You sigh because you are not loved. You only think you are not loved. I also sighed as you now sigh, Because I thought I was not loved. But I was loved--how I was loved! She lay awake at night and dreamed Of me, who thought I was not loved. Some loves like blooms that blush unseen, Remain unknown and unconfessed, And we oftimes are best beloved When loved with love in silence shrined. So be not sad, dear friend, nor sigh, But feel assured there is a heart In this wide world that beats for you.

I SAW THREE NUNS

I saw three nuns go by the other day: Three upright coffins slowly gliding by.

Funereal, black and chilling to behold, The ghastly shadows of a defunct past. The worms of ignorance and superstition Give to these dead, the semblances of life. The past has not yet buried all its dead.

I saw three nuns go by the other day: Three upright coffins slowly gliding by.

A WOMAN LOVES ME

A woman loves me! 'Tis not of her I sing whose womb has been The primal cradle of my tender self; I mean not mother-love.

A woman loves me! 'Tis not of her I sing who also sprang From that same source whence also I have sprung; I mean not sister-love.

A woman loves me! I sing of her who "from the mobs of life" Has chosen me as him to whom alone She will unlock her body and her soul To welcome all my love.

ELIZABETH GURLEY FLYNN

(The Workers' Jeanne d'Arc)

She too a vision had and voices heard: She heard the groans of slaving, starving workers: She had a vision of their liberation.

She also mounted steed and armor donned. The soap-box or the platform is her steed. Her coat of mail defiance of the powers.

She too to victory an army leads. Her army is the risen proletariat, In arms against their pitiless exploiters.

She too is hated by the church and state. They'd burn her at the stake if they but dared, Condemned for witchcraft or some other crime.

She too shall live an ever-shining glory, In human history, in human hearts-- An even brighter glory than Jeanne d'Arc.

The Maid of Orleans routed but the English, And to a worthless king restored a throne, To sway a sceptre o'er a land of serfs.

Lead by Elizabeth we'll rout the masters And to the workers of the world restore The earth itself and all its joys and riches.

Let all men rally round her blood-red banner Which bears the motto of the revolution: "Death to all masters! Freedom to all slaves!"

JEALOUSY

As you peruse those heavy, dusty volumes With tense attention hour after hour, Whilst totally indifferent to me,-- To me, who sees in you the book of books, To whom the very cover of this book, Your outward aspect, is more interesting Than the contents of all books ever printed.

Is it a wonder I would like to build A mammoth pile of all the books there are And let the raging fire consume them all?

MISERS

I know of misers meaner than are those Who lay awake at night to guard their treasure, Which is in their possession only dust, A sordid, useless heap of gilded dust That might have given peace and bread to many.

The misers whom I mean are fair to see, Delightful to converse with and to kiss; They fascinate us with their wondrous eyes As serpents fascinate the little birds. They draw us closer to them, ever closer, Then suddenly like serpents they coil up And put beyond our grasp their queenly treasures, Alas! in their possession to remain, But useless, vain and perishable things That might have given ecstasy to many.

SWINBURNE

Algernon Swinburne, is there not in thee Something akin to bells that ring at sea? In their sound so clear There is little cheer, When their knell I hear I recoil with fear. Though thy voice be clear as the day's light, It is pregnant with mystery, death, and night.

OUR LADY OF INFINITE MERCY

I often think of a mysterious woman-- There must be somewhere a mysterious woman, Mysterious and most marvelous of beauty, Most beautiful,--miraculously kind, Indeed a kindness passing understanding, So great a kindness that it seemeth madness. It seemeth madness, for she sallies forth At dead of night into the dismal streets, Into the dismal and deserted streets, Monotously criss-crossing the city, The monstrous, lightless, heartless, sleeping city, Where prowling as the vermin shunning light, Or derelicts adrift on dreary seas, She seeks the disinherited of joy She seeks the stunted, the disfigured children, The starved, diseased and the discouraged children Of stepmother society, seeks them out, Whom everybody shuns and no one loves. She seeks them out and gives herself to them, This queenly woman, marvelous of beauty, Entirely gives herself to those of whom The thought alone makes shudder with disgust. She gives herself even as the twilight enters A fetid, vermin-ridden, mildewed dungeon, A whiff of heaven in a life of hell. Oh, have you, have you ever seen that woman, That beautiful, that kind, mysterious woman? She is our Lady of Infinite Mercy. Blessed be our Lady of Infinite Mercy!

A PAGAN'S PRAYER

I sought the shrine of Eros and I prayed:-- O God omnipotent, O God supreme, O God of love who art the God of Gods, Behold thy worshipper upon his knees Prostrated in the dust. Let not my supplications rise in vain From depths iniquitous to heights sublime. O grant me my request, good God of love. Unlock for me thy secret treasure house And make me master of the arts of love. My heart conceives great symphonies of love That my poor body cannot execute. I am a Beethoven, I am a Wagner, My orchestration needs a thousand pieces, But am restricted to a shepherd's reed. Reveal to me the secrets of the ancients, Instruct me in the art of love long lost; That love of time when Gods and humans mingled. In love I am a God, in love expression I am alas! a frail, a weakling human. O Eros! Eros! Eros! God of love, Give me the power to love as Gods can love.

NIETZSCHE

A sombre silhouette Against a sun-rise sky In solemn solitude, The wanderer goes by.

The shadow that he casts Upon the plains below Strikes terror to the hearts Of those that do not know.

O messenger sublime Who hailest from that land Where joy and beauty reign; If they could understand!...

If they could understand The message that you bring, They'd strew your path with palms; Hosannahs would they sing.

Strength superceding faith, Joy superceding fear: The Super-Christ has come; The Superman is near....

TO A NEGRO BELLE

You make me dream of distant tropic climes, Luxurious vegetation; nights serene By burning passion made tempestuous, The witching scent of rare exotic flowers That sooth and render sweetly languorous, Of music soft and weird, whose savage rhythm Compels each fibre of the frame to dance.

I see you as the princess of an isle Whose jungles are replete with beasts of prey, And whose vast forests ever are alive With cries and frolickings of birds and apes; Whose villages of bamboo huts are full Of dusky-hued and happy naked people.

Your simple hearted subjects pay you homage; Prostrated in the dust, they weirdly chant Thy praises, even as in my own way, I sing your praises, sweet, exotic princess. Oh, let me enter your enchanted realm, And make of me your happy, humble slave.

WALT WHITMAN

Mountain-like he towers, a Matterhorn Midst many minor peaks; And like a mountain, mighty, vast and wild; A finger pointing into boundless space, A head raised high above the shifting clouds, A heart that beats in unison with all, An eye that first beholds the rising sun And is the last to see her parting glory, A clarion-call to freedom, A gesture of revolt, A world-encircling brotherhood embrace, An exaltation of the lowly, A vindication of the truth, A glorification of the human body, A declaration of the right of all To live, to love, to dare and to do, A hymn to life, a rhapsody of joy!

LIFE-LUST

My mouth--the mouth of my whole being waters For all the fruit upon the lap of Life; The luscious fruit of Life, (delicious fruit, All running over with the juice of joy.)

Life seems a banquet and my gourmand senses Would gorge themselves with all good things thereof. My taste, my touch, my smell, my sight, my hearing Would drink the seasoned vintages of Life, And relish all Life's rarest fruits and viands.

Content to go whene'er the feast is over Content, the feast was not prepared in vain.

ON A TALK OF SPINOZA

Durant spoke of Spinoza yesterday And I sat list'ning, feeling, meditating. And now and ever afterwards will feel And live and think more deeply than before, For having heard Durant speak of Spinoza.

Spinoza! what a mighty, mighty name! All Alexanders, Caesars and Napoleons-- Mere specks of dust upon a polished lense, Compared to that poor polisher of lenses.

He polished lenses for myopic eyes, The world's myopic eyes hath need of them-- And long will need them,--poor myopic world. My own sight seems improved since I have heard Durant speak of Spinoza yesterday.

THE REVOLT OF THE RAGGED

We who have but rags to wear, Let us go out on strike And face the robber-master class In all our naked might.

Do they not hold that man is made In the image of his God? So we refuse to desecrate The image of their God.

No longer will we soil our limbs, These beautiful, these wondrous limbs With filthy, fetid rags.

Where is the beast so wild, The reptile or the worm so base in kind, Would not disdain the rags "creation's kings" Disgrace their bodies with?

Oh be not shocked at our forced nakedness, Ye masters who refuse to clothe your slaves. Do you not steal the wool that we have shorn, The cloth we weave, the garments that we made? You stole our clothes, behold us naked now.

Let us arise and from our bodies tear The fetid uniform that brands us slaves. In countless masses let us rally forth And through each pore of our free body shout Our right to life, to liberty, and joy.

I'VE SEEN A PRINCESS

I've read of princesses in fairy tales And I have sometimes dreamed of princesses But not until to-day have I beheld, Beheld or ever spoken to a princess. Yes, I have seen and spoken to a princess In body and in mind; in thought and gesture, Indeed, in every way a perfect princess.

Since I am not some mighty potentate In whom it would not seem as sheer presumption To lay his heart and domains at her feet, Would I at least could be a humble page Forever in attendance on his princess, To serve her and to worship her in silence, And be allowed as wages for his hire To breathe within the shadow of her charms.

But though my princess be reality, My hopes, my aspirations, my desires, Alas, are dreams, mere dreams, alas, mere dreams.

THE GREAT DISCARD

I see a mighty junk-heap rising high, Old bibles, crosses, crescents, six-point stars And other symbols, idol's fetiches-- The bloody tools of greed and superstition, That have tormented man for centuries, Disfiguring his body and his mind. I see the flags of all the various nations, In whose defense men slaughtered one another Upon this junk-heap also; and the books Wherein the laws are writ, that give to man The power over man; And all the institutions that have helped To make of man an abject slave or tyrant, These, too, are on this junk-heap.

THE SCULPTOR'S RHAPSODY

I am a God! I am drunk with the joy of creating. At my touch form comes out of chaos. With a handful of clay I build monuments, Vaster than the pyramids, More mysterious than the Sphinx, As startling as the Colossus of Rhodes. My statues are austere as ancient cathedrals, Their silhouette effaces the sky, Their shadows engulf entire cities. I am a God! I am drunk with the joy of creating.

ATAVISM

O, have you ever heard the gutter's call? E'er felt the strange attraction of the sewer? Or ceded to the urge from underneath, To wallow in the mire, to plunge, to sink Into the frightful abyss of perdition? Were you e'er tempted from some siren's lips, To cull the bliss, you know, is venomous? Or did you feel the satanic desire, To soil and mutilate the sacred image Of that ideal you worshiped all your life? It is the atavistic voice that's waking, The dormant beast in you. Beware! Beware!

TO ONE WHO COULD NOT LOVE

I

You told me that you love the water, The cascades' roaring, rushing water, The rivers' gently flowing water, The pools' mysterious silent water, The erring brooklets' whisp'ring water, The oceans' moaning, hissing water, The oceans' seething, sighing water, It's thundering, caressing water. My love for you is also as the water, The roaring, rushing, silent, whisp'ring water. The thundering, the seething, sighing water.

Oh, love me, for my love is like the water, Did you not tell me that you love the water?

II

I've been a profligate till now, Have squandered of the treasures of my heart In reckless fashion. Henceforth my beloved, Each precious scrap of love, Each feeling, thought or passion, Is yours alone. My very life is yours.

III

You sometime make me dream of fair Granada, Of olden days of Moorish reign and glory; At other times you make me feel the gloom Of Christian Spain, sepulchral and morose.

You are as the Alhambra when you smile, Gold-tinted, graceful, radiating joy. But when you frown or are indifferent, Then like to the Escurial you are, Depressing, full of sombreness and chill.

IV

I strolled through lonely by-paths in the park, It was the hour, it was the mystic hour, When 'tis no longer day, nor yet is night. When o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush, And everything is peaceful and serene. And thus I strolled along and thought of her-- And then I sat upon a rustic bench And thought of her,--and only thought of her. And o'ver all nature hung a solemn hush; And I was sad, and it was growing dark. And as I sat there on the rustic bench Close by to me I heard two voices speak. They spoke Italian. Softly did they speak, And there was sadness in their voices too. One spoke of Beatrice as angel might Have spoken of the queen of all the heavens; The other spoke of Laura as a bard Would speak of her who might have been the queen,-- The queen of every kingdom of the earth. I turned my head and seated by my side I saw the sad, illustrious Tuscan bards, The requiem of whose unrequited love Reverberates throughout eternity. I did not rise and go, but kept my place. Is not my love as great as was their love? And is not she as beautiful, as cold, As hopelessly indifferent and cold, As ever Beatrice and Laura were? And so I also spoke about my love, Then we were silent sitting side by side. Upon that rustic bench in Central Park, Along a lonesome by-path in the park. It was the hour, it was that mystic hour When 'tis no longer day nor yet is night; And o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush, And everything is peaceful and serene. Then they both went away so quietly That I was unaware that they had gone Until I turned my head and saw them not.

V

My heart is like a man condemned to death, Who in the corner of his gloomy cell Hugs one last spark of hope.

Bright as a diamond in the dark of night, And as a diamond difficult to crush, Is this last spark of hope.

VI

Since Orpheus with the magic of his music, Could charm the wildest beast, why could not I Enthrall you with the music of my love? Is not love's music magical enough, Or is your heart stone deaf? Even if so! I will perform a miracle and cause Your heart to hear love's music.

VII

And even if you loved me not, If you but knew the pain I feel When you but breathe a word that's harsh, When you betray the faintest frown; And when you mock me for my love, Or chide me for the least caress, If you but knew the pain I feel.

Aye, even if you loved me not, You ne'er would frown at me or mock My love for you, or harshly speak, Or bid me not to kiss your hand; Instead you'd treat me as a child, You'd treat me as a child that's sick, And patiently you would submit To my caress; you would allow My feverish hands to stroke your hair, My quivering lips to kiss your brow, My famished eyes to feast on you, And my delirious heart to spin: To spin a spider's web of love, To make your heart its captive fly.

Aye, even if you loved me not, If you but knew the pain I feel, Whene'er I think you love me not, You'd treat me as a little child; You'd tell me love's sweet fairy tale, I will believe love's fairy tale. Please tell me love's sweet fairy tale, Aye, even if you love me not.

VIII

The sun is warm and bright, All nature sings; The song of love and life is in the air, The flowing waters and the rolling hills, The grass we tread upon, the birds that fly, The humming insects, aye, all men, all beasts, All things are happy in the sun's caress.

But in my heart, in my unhappy heart, The icy blast of winter still persists, And desolation reigns. Your frown obliterates the sun for me, And your indifference is worse than death. And in my heart, in my unhappy heart, Dire desolation reigns.

IX

This is the tale of an unhappy sculptor, A shaft of marble radiantly white, Whose adamantine substance would not yield To the impassioned efforts of the sculptor. The chisel struck the irresponsive rock Again, again, again, but all in vain Until at last discouraged and exhausted He sinks down at the foot of this cold stone.

That might have been a living Galathea, But is alas the tombstone of Pygmalion.

X

It was a sepulchre I have been wooing: Fair to behold was she and seeming warm, But deep within as cold as death itself, And to love's fervent pleadings irresponsive; Aye, even as the tomb. Deaf to the voice of poetry and love, Alas! she's doubly deaf. It was a sepulchre I have been wooing.

The October issue of THE GLEBE will present "The Azure Adder," a one-act comedy by Charles Demuth.

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Transcriber's Notes

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected.