Part 1

THE GLEBE

VOLUME 2 NUMBER 2

SEPTEMBER 1914

SUBSCRIPTION Three Dollars Yearly THIS ISSUE 50 CENTS

POEMS

George Cronyn

The only editorial policy of THE GLEBE is that embodied in its declaration of absolute freedom of expression, which makes for a range broad enough to include every temperament from the most radical to the most conservative, the only requisite being that the work should have unmistakable merit. Each issue will be devoted exclusively to one individual, thereby giving him an opportunity to present his work in sufficient bulk to make it possible for the reader to obtain a much more comprehensive grasp of his personality than is afforded him in the restricted spaces allotted by the other magazines. Published monthly, THE GLEBE will issue twelve books per year, chosen on their merits alone, since the subscription list does away with the need of catering to the popular demand that confronts every publisher. Thus, THE GLEBE can promise the best work of American and foreign authors, known and unknown.

The price of each issue of THE GLEBE will be fifty cents and the yearly subscription three dollars.

Editor ALFRED KREYMBORG

Published by ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI 96 FIFTH AVENUE New York City

POEMS

POEMS

GEORGE W. CRONYN

NEW YORK ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI 96 FIFTH AVENUE 1914

Copyright, 1914 By Albert and Charles Boni

To touch the sleeping lids of Beauty Drawing thru finger-tips her dream--a birth Of hell and heaven for a nobler earth; This is the poet's duty.

To sleep with stars, to dream a flower, From passing shadows pluck profound relation, With a divine wonder at its emanation; This is the poet's power.

DIONYSUS ELEUTHERIOS

THE PRAYER

Like a cat beside a pool More than half afraid of it, Fishing gingerly I sit Here beside this pool of wit-- Dumb as any fool! Chirrups humor in the grass; Winds of tickling laughter pass, And the world grows wise forsooth, Lets gleam amused tooth Seeing in this water-glass Jests that swim the depths of truth, And like fins of fishes shiver It to fretful quirk and quiver. Ripples break and bubbles rise Catching smiles from out the skies In their globed eyes. Surely, surely there was never Such a pleasant river! Only I am out of tune Like an icicle in June, Or a monster from the moon.

Dionysus, hear my prayer! Spreading arms to the mute air, I entreat thee, fashion me One with this gay company, One in mirth and one in song Dartling their minds among. Loosener of lips and heart, Draw my sullen mouth apart. Give a gleam to guide me by As a phare in a night-sky-- Grace of tongue and warmth of eye; Give me of thy fire and dew; Give me flash of mimic art-- Spice of Godhead in this brew To pierce my fellows thru and thru.

Oh, thou vintal Deity, Loose my limbs that they may fly With this reckless revelry! Sick of sober ways am I; In this tumult I alone Am a satyr turned to stone; Satyr--satyr--not a man! Gifts I ask not of Apollo-- Wine is good and grief is hollow; I would follow after Pan; I would follow, follow, follow After Pan! Or if he wander ways too quiet, Shepherd ways of warmth and ease, Let me taste a wilder riot In thy mysteries-- Let me quaff it, laugh it, cry it! Give me, give me, give me these-- Fleet foot after those that flee, Hot veins amorous to seize Maenads maddened by the wine, Wound with hair and wreathed with vine, Maenads stained with purple lees-- Give me, give me, give me these. Only this I ask of thee Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele!

THE ANSWER

Lo! the God of purple pleasure Heard and hearkened to his prayer, Reft the swathed bands that bound him, From his cloak of Self unwound him, Filled him with supernal seizure That his humor's jewelled treasure Leaped and sparkled in the air-- Till the night was bright around him. Never such a jestful fit Dreamt he in his wildest wishes! Never from the pool of wit Had he drawn such shining fishes! Humid flame glowed in each eye And his face had changed its vesture, And his arms moved with strange gesture Apt in every mimicry. With the spell of Fire and Dew He pierced his fellows thru and thru. Surely Dithyrambus pressed him!

Surely the Great God possessed him! And the mystic sisters too, Oeno, Spermo, and Elais, (Who knoweth what their way is?) Surely they caressed him! He whose tongue of old was frozen-- As he quaffs, with this potation Deep and deeper inspiration Seems to grow a Prophet--chosen, For he speaks by divination! Never were such fancies woven From the carded thoughts of mortal. Some are mazed, and some deride him, "Lo, his wits have gone astray, What a fool he is!" they say. Others whisper (those beside him) "He hath crossed another portal-- He is one whose foot is cloven. Do ye hear wild creatures beat Lifted hoof and naked feet On the quiet woodland sod? Do ye mark what mood that strain is? Hints it not the Shepherd God With his pipings shrill and sweet-- Snubnose, Sweetwine, old Silenus, All his creatures shy and fleet?"

Deeper, deeper, Fire and Dew Drains he of the Wine-God's brew Craving furthest essence--thus Heareth now another voice Terrible and new, Luring--appalling, "Iachus! Iachus! Iachus! Wine! Wine! Wine! Rejoice!" Thru the forest calling. And the sky is red and golden And the red, red stars are falling, Falling to the earth in showers. And the fresh blood-scents embolden Gold and sable leopards, sleeping, To come crawling, writhing, leaping, Over gold and purple flowers. And the autumn sun is swollen With the sweetness he has stolen From the wine, and he is wine, wine-red. Come ye now with wreathed head, Come ye now With ivy bound on your white brow, And forgotten, forgotten be the hours!

Forgotten and forgotten! Ah the night has fled away, And the wine is spilt, and the stars are gray, For the old cold dawn abashes All the torches turned to ashes, But the feasters--where are they? Fled, the sound of pipes at last; Fled, the panting, goat-shank'd clan, And the maenad rout have passed, And the echoes caught and cast Died where they began. Never, never, never A more sombre river From such springs of laughter ran! And the lucid pool of wit-- What a scum has clouded it! Past each stately Parian column Day comes, gaunt and pale and shrunken And her step is very solemn. On the veined marble sunken, Reft of breath of Deity, Prone there, lies the Priest--the Chosen, Huddled, bestial, bleared and drunken-- Like a body that is frozen (That such things should be!) Shape of shapeless mockery He had tasted all one can; He had heard the pipes of Pan; He had followed in thy van Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele-- Satyr?--not a satyr he--a man!

THE TRAIL BY NIGHT

No human foot-print here before my own! And it is strange to come so far--alone-- So far into this frozen forest world Of moonlight and of shadow and deep snow, And things I do not know, That strike the civil vestments from my soul-- As if all law-born years were backward hurled Toward some dim and other pole-- Some brute primordial reign Whose voice was terror and whose life was pain.

On--up the trail I go; Beneath my feet cold streams of moonlight glow, And in the silver-sifted dark strange, naked fancies grow, While the vast pines in vista, round by round, Move with an unearthly sound, And every tree with its white hair is crowned.

On--up--I go, And as thru ancient Gothic arches seen I glimpse the valley far below That glistens with a fine fantastic sheen.

On--up--I pass, Nor reck the night-wrought spells about me thrown, Heedless--sucked dry of thought or will Save to peer curious into this magician's glass, And see the forest dreams thru forest moonlight blown. On--up I plunge--until Bending, discern before me, with a thrill The signs where some wild beast has gone.

Who knows but that within the silence here The cedar shadows gloom about a deer, That stands with body lithe and slim Struck to a statue by surprise? Who knows but that, upon some snowy limb A lynx, lean-bellied, pricks his tufted ear And watches me with evil, amber eyes?

* * * * *

Surely beyond the stars my man-world lies-- For close to me unhallowed mountains rise And fill my heart with fear!

SONG IN WINTER

Burning stars in a frosty sky, Thread-bare winds from the hollow west, "Give us a garment of beauty!" they cry, "For the waters of truth our throats are dry, And phantoms of chaos uncover the bones of our breast, Leaving us little rest."

Bitter stars in a frozen sky, Tattered winds from the lonely west, Haggard beggars of hours that die-- (Begging the gift of a golden lie!) Is it with you as with us, no rest, no rest-- Is it with you no rest?

The lacy chequer of aerial boughs That winter weaves with delicate wizardry.

* * * * *

Far away--who knows how far?-- Against the flaming calm of winter twilight, I hear the voice of speed--muffled and hoarse, Sounding across the hills.

* * * * *

Locomotive, locomotive, Over the hills at night, Running on your far-away groove With the husky pant of things that move And cannot turn to left or right, Of things that toil and things that pass In the murk of smoke and the stench of gas, Serf of the monstrous city, What pity--oh what pity For the dearth of your delight, Locomotive, locomotive, Over the hills at night!

CLOUDS

Whence do you come, oh silken shapes, Across the silver sky? We come from where the wind blows And the young stars die.

Why do you move so fast, so fast Across the white moon's breast? The cruel wind is at our heels And we may not rest.

Are you not weary, fleeing shapes, That never cease to flee? The forkéd trees' chained shadows are Less weary than we.

Whither do you go, O shadow-shapes Across the ghastly sky? We go to where the wind blows And the old stars die.

My head is circl'd with fire-- And I think of the failing of one's desire-- And I hear outside the pitiful dropping of rain; Which is the greater pain?

I yearn for the birth of the brain-- Be it child of blood and pain, (I pray to endure the pain)-- My heart--lo! my heart is afire With hue as of purple or Tyre-- With hope of Promethean fire-- And oh God! God! God! the desire For what only the Gods attain!

In the white moonlight stand With every finger on a star, and feel Infinity as an engulfing wave.

JOY

The cañons are covered with snow, But the sky doth over them lean With eyes that are warm and keen As if he could never know The gray despair of the snow; And snow and sky join hands together To dance a dance of wonderful weather!

A VOICE

A woman spoke to me in the street-- I do not remember how or why-- But a breath blew over the winter sky And spring came in with silver feet!

ANOTHER

A creature plucked at me in the street But well I knew the reason why The red stars sickened in the sky And Hell gaped open at my feet!

IMPRESSIONS

This is the Gate of the Gray City--wrought With piled roofs and steeples dimly seen Thru the gray dusk--pale, wistful flakes of fire Kindled about its lower fringe--vast murk-- A snuffling monster with an evil eye That surly pants to work some will unknown, Blowing white breaths--a semaphore With lifted arm--a form that swings a light In arcs, against infinitude of gray, Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan; Of things inanimate--the curves of rails In rhythmical convergence gathered up-- (And gathering up what burdens from afar!) Monotony--monotony--despair! This is the Gate of the Gray City.

Whatever our immitigable end, The earth's our home and prison thru whose windows Our wistful scrutinizing minds traverse The sky's dissolving continents, exult In melancholy mountains or, shackled, Envy the inconstant sea that seems An uncontaminated god, alone, complete In mighty passion and the scorn of time.

* * * * *

I love the skyward-spiring tree For its supreme unconsciousness of me.

So let us seek the lands that the Gods love, The soil unsown, the isles of sumptuous store; Where fallow fields yield yearly fee of grain, And vines unpruned produce perennial bloom, And olive slips engender faithfully, And dark figs deck their trees; the cavernous oaks Bleed honey'd drops, and from high hills descend The nimble waters with melodious feet.

PRELUDE TO A PHANTASY

I will tell thee of Far-Away, of Far-Away, of Far-Away, I will tell thee of Far-Away The home of wandering dreams; For they come out of Far-Away To show us how to love and play, And when they've wandered for a day Must return, it seems.

There's more than gold in Far-Away, in Far-Away, in Far-Away, There's more than gold in Far-Away, There's more than jewelled gleams. There's more than smiles in Far-Away, And coronals of laughter gay; There's crystal tears that bloom alway Beside forgotten streams.

We'll gather gold from Far-Away, from Far-Away, from Far-Away, We'll gather gold from Far-Away, We'll steal the jewelled gleams. We'll hunt for smiles from Far-Away; Following laughter by the way, But we must for another day Leave the tears it seems.

We'll find the road to Far-Away, to Far-Away, to Far-Away, We'll know the road to Far-Away By the feet of dreams; For they come out of Far-Away To love a little and to play, And when they've wandered for a day Must return it seems.

RUNNING WATER

Oh you who stand by the river in a gown of willow-green, I will make you an eager song of my heart to-night; I will find me a feather of a singing bird that has seen And touched the blue targe of the sky in its flight. I will make me a quill of it, and dip in my heart and write!

I would not make you a threnody of sorrow that has been, For you are no more than an eager child who demand Magical tales of me, of lacquered Arabian sheen; I will speak very softly then with your hand In mine, a rose petal, the things that you understand.

On the waxen and beautiful tablet that is your heart With a singing quill and the stain of my heart I will write; I will write with the simplest words and the simplest art All the splendors that glow so by night-- Of the Genie and the Bottle, and carpets of orient flight.

And you who are more than a princess in your gown of yellow-green With your bird-like and trembling heart will understand All the luxurious sorrows and loves that have been Written on parchment at a king's demand-- And the simple words of them will flutter like birds in your hand.

EPITHALAMION

The pale dawn went down unto the sea, Past the gray ships in the offing. The salt wind found her blowing hair And closed his wings and nested there, And the salt sea hungered for her rare Sweet body and forgot his scoffing.

The pale dawn went down unto the sea When all the world was sleeping; She lifted veils and veils of air Until her eager limbs were bare, And the salt sea shook his manéd hair, And the curl'd waves came to her, leaping.

MARSH-LANDS

Sure in this spongy and luxuriant retreat-- This lovely lyric little marsh Which nothing hath of fierce or harsh, Unhappy fancies to evoke, Where all life is most delicately attuned to sweet Melodious living, here we'll meet Naiads dainty and discreet With other watery folk And watch the twinkle of their iridescent feet.

Upon a reed's high silver point Which early dews anoint, The Red-wing lights and poises, swaying, With throaty and delicious whistle playing Pan-music in the mellow morning light. It is like running water's flow A bit unearthly, and celestial quite-- A golden tremolo; And satin robes of air half veil him from our sight.

The gay marsh-marigold Delights its small sun to unfold; And many a bulbous goblin thing, Ugly and grave, Into the dull mud burrowing Draws from some secret treasure-cave And to the sunlight heaves Green breadth--great leaves To build a vessel floating on an inland wave.

We'll be as busy as the clouds, with naught to do, And we will wonder at the curious striping, In saffron glimpses, of more distant pools Which the wind cools With deep reflected blue. And we will listen now to Hyla's piping-- A thin small sprite That one may never see Calling to the sky his clear delight Filled with insatiate and unbounded ecstasy.

SPRING FANCY

There is an orchard, old and rare, (I cannot tell you where!) With green doors opening to the sun; And the sky-children gather there To watch the blossoms, one by one, Falling wistfully thru the air From the trees' dishevelled hair.

The sky-children shake their wings With flutterings and gurglings-- And love the light and kiss the sun, Nor heed the blossoms that have blown From the fruit-wives' ancient hair Earthward thru the glowing air, Wistfully--one by one.

SONG

A Flicker, a Robin, a Song-sparrow Have come from Arcady. The Flicker was an imp that shouted in a tree; The Robin was a winged laugh that Spring set free; The Song-sparrow was a liquid arrow That pierced to the heart of me.

PLAYING

Three little girls and one little boy Out in the first warm sunshine; The wind blows in and the wind blows out Voices cool as moonshine.

Six tin cans and a pile of dirt And the air smiles like a mother-- The wind blows in and the wind blows out As they play with each other.

Sparrows on the fence and clothes on the line And somewhere someone's laughter-- The wind blows in and the wind blows out And it could not blow much softer!

Three little girls and one little boy Out in the first warm weather-- The wind blows in and the wind blows out While they play together.

SONG

Hi! hi! hi! On this green morning My soul is as taut as a greenwood-bow, Feeling the sap in it mounting so, Needs but a jog to loose without warning An arrow into the infinite sky-- Hi! hi! hi! On this green morning!

A BUST BY RODIN, KNOWN AS CERES

With rhythmic feet and garments flowing free Draw near, draw near, bring largesse in full hand; Move as to music of the saraband Stately, before this Woman-deity.

Woman's--these billows of thick hair that roll Down the billowing breasts of her, and close Shadows of pain and mirth in firm repose-- This delicate mask drawn tight across a soul!

A Goddess--Ultima Thule in her eye; For the sad wisdom of its steady gaze, Fixed on far, wintry fields and frozen ways, Goes out to larger things than you or I:

The Titan-sap makes gods of the spring hours, And Earth renews its children and its flowers!

THE FLOWER'S WAY

I have stood long in the night Under a star; I have stood still with shadowy head And arrowy leaves outspread Under its trembling light Where green things are.

I have crept close to the grass Where the beetles dart, And the humming-bird and the dragon-fly Were visions in the sky, And the mendicant bees that pass Rifled my heart.

I have lain long in the day Under the sun, With my burning face in the arms of the wind, And my petals unconfin'd And my virginal robes a-sway-- Thus joy is won!

THE TREE'S WAY

The high trees are honest folk; They do not stand so much aloof Up under heaven's roof, Altho they are earth's fairest cloak. Their lives are very calm and slow; They wait for coming things to come, They wait, they rest, they ponder some Purpose forgotten long ago Like quiet folk; And sometimes I am moved to stroke Hand-greeting as I pass them near, And often I am sure I hear An answer from these stately folk!

CHILDREN

What a garden of surprise Out beyond my window lies! Fancy, when the night is there Gentle trees with drooping hair Rocking, rocking cradle-wise Little stars with yellow eyes!

VERSES TO A LITTLE CHILD

(From Hofmannsthal)

Your feet have been fashioned as roses To seek the lands of the rainbow-- The rainbow-kingdoms are open. There, haunting the taciturn tree-tops Millennial prophecies linger, The inexhaustible waters Abide there forever and aye. Beside the immeasurable forest From wooden bowl brimming will you then Apportion your milk with a hop-toad? So festive a banqueting almost Entices the stars to their fall! By borders of measureless waters Soon you will discover a playmate, A dolphin engaging and kind. He'll leap to dry-land at your bidding, And if he shall fail you sometimes The tender, innumerable zephyrs Will still your tempestuous sobbing. You'll find in the rainbow-kingdom The ancient exalted traditions Forever and ever unchanged. The sun with mysterious power Has fashioned your feet as the roses To enter his measureless kingdom.

NIGHT-FLOWERS

This night hath no disease; It knows not wrecks nor wars Nor deaths of human minds. The feet of the sweet winds Break all the river's peace Into marmoreal bars. The tops of moonlit trees Have blossomed with white stars, And perfumes that one finds In old Arabian jars Had never blooms like these!

THE NIGHT

Sorrows confide their secrets; joys lead lives Of lonely splendor. Mankind tells all things To me, knowing I will not ever speak.

DISILLUSION

The night was like a jewell'd crown-- (Could jewels be so soft a thing!) For stars and wind were in the town And by the highways entering, Plucked there as on a viol string, Until--somewhere--a woman's scream-- Sharply shattered the dream!

Silence within The upper twilight of a temple lies Asleep, with pendant plumes--a dreaming god-- And dreams the pageantry of things--and dreams The gifts that he has given with his hands-- The gifts that he has taken with his hands-- And dreams his own eternity.

* * * * *

I am one that loves The stars of labyrinthine night whom the shrill dawn Devours, the quietude of ultimate slopes Thoughtful of twilight, peering moons that shed Unrisen glamours thru the umbrageous wood With gnome and goblin rife, and the light spray Of gray spring rains enveloping the hills.

SONG

Would I were a bird To nest in a cover Of leaves that hover 'Twixt earth and heaven Where no sound is heard-- Only the uneven Brush of winds that slumber With no thought to cumber; Would I were a bird!

Would I were a wave To rise for a moment From the ocean's foment, To puff my lips asunder Blowing bubbles brave, To dream and to wonder Of the depths below me And the winds that blow me-- Would I were a wave!