Part 7

THE DESPLAINES FOREST

The sun has sunk below the level plain, And yet above the forest’s leafy gloom The glory of the evening lightens still. Smooth as a mirror is the river’s face With Heaven’s light, and all its radiant clouds And shadows which against the river’s shore Already are as night. From some retreat Obscure and lonely, evening’s saddest bird Whistles, and beyond the water comes The musical reply, and silence reigns-- Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs, And undistinguished sounds of faint portent That night has come. There is a rustic bridge Which spans the stream, from which we look below At Heaven above, till revery reclaims The mind from hurried thought and merges it Into the universal mind which broods O’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreads The restless flame of being, and the soul Beholds its source and destiny and feels Not sorrowful to sink into the breast Of that large life whereof it is a part. What are we? But the question is not solved Here in the presence of intensest thought, Where nature stills the clamor of the world, And leaves us in communion with ourselves. Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed day What take we that shall mitigate the pangs That each soul is alone, and that all friends Gentle and wise and good can never soothe The ache of that sub-consciousness which is Something unfathomed and unmedicined? Yet this it is which keeps us in the path Of some ambition cherished or pursued; The still, small voice that is not quieted By disregard, but ever speaks to us Its mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks A closer harmony with that great scheme Which is the music of the universe.

So as the cherubim of Heaven defend The realms of the unknown with flaming swords, Thence are we driven to the world which is Ours to be known through Art, who beckons us To excellence, and in her rarer moods Casts shadowy glances of serener lands, Where all the serious gods, removed from stress And interruption, build, as we conceive, In fellowship that knows not that reserve Which clouds the hearts of those who wish to live As they, in that large realm of perfect mind.

THE GARDEN

I do not like my garden, but I love The trees I planted and the flowers thereof. How does one choose his garden? O with eyes O’er which a passion or illusion lies. Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawn You knew before somewhere. Or you are drawn By an old urn, a little gate, a roof Which soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof. One buys a garden gladly. Even the worst Seems tolerable or beautiful at first. Their very faults give loving labor scope: One can correct, adorn; ’tis sweet to hope For beauty to emerge out of your toil, To build the walks and fertilize the soil. Before I knew my garden or awoke To its banality I set an oak At one end for a life-long husbandry, A white syringa and a lilac tree, Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall, Which was my neighbor’s, held in several Title and beyond my right to mend-- One cannot with an ancient time contend. Some houses shadowed me. I did not dream The sun would never look o’er them and gleam, Save at the earliest hour. So all the day One half my garden under twilight lay. Another soul had overlooked the shade: I found the boundaries of a bed he made For tulips. Well, I had a fresher trust And spent my heart upon this sterile dust. What thing will grow where never the sun shines? Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines. What years to learn the soil! Why even weeds Look green and fresh. But if one concedes Salvia will flourish not, nor palest phlox One might have hope left for a row of box.

Why is it that some silent places thrill With elfin comradeship, and others fill The heart with sickening loneliness? My breast Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest Casting my eyes about my garden where I still must live, breathing its lifeless air. Why should I have a garden anyway? I have so many friends who pass the day In streets or squares, or little barren courts, I fancy there are gardens of all sorts, Far worse than mine. And who has this delight: There’s my syringa with its blooms of white! It flourishes in my garden! In this brief Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf What if I like my garden not but love The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof, And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess, Amid the white syringa’s loveliness?

THE TAVERN

(_For my daughter Madeline_)

Nothing disturbed my night of sleep, I wonder that I ever woke It was so heavy, was so deep I scarce had heard the thunder-stroke. So what was drinking, feasting, talking By guests who came and guests who went, Or those who spent the time in walking The halls and rooms in argument About the Tavern? Some declared No better Tavern could be built. And others called it a deception, Its purest gold but thinnest gilt, A cruel cheat considering No other Tavern gave reception To folks who might be wayfaring Anywhere in the whole wide land.

I woke a stranger to it all, But quickly grew to understand The ways and customs which prevailed: Those who won favor, those who failed; What feasting rooms had echoed laughter; What kisses stolen in what hall; What corners where the old had cried; What stairways where the breathless bride Paused for a moment just to toss Among the bridesmaids her bouquet; What rooms where men in work or play Approved or cursed for gain or loss The Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.

Then when I woke, as I have said, Save a few children there was none Who was not older far than I. Many were trembling gray of head; The strong walked forth in rain or sun And seemed all danger to defy. All welcomed me and called me fair, And told me strange events which passed Around the Tavern while I slept. Soon there were changes. Scarce aware Of their departure many stept Out of the door and seemed to cast Their fortunes elsewhere, but as fast New guests came in to take the places Of those who left. And through the day I lost the old, remembering faces Freshly arrived. When it was noon I knew what things were opportune, I had become one of the crowd In all their ways initiate: Knew what their love was, what their hate, Myself stole kisses in the hall, And saw the old who sat and cried In corners, saw the rosy bride Pause for a moment just to toss Among the bridesmaids her bouquet, Where I stood best man to the groom. Was myself of the noisy room, Where men in work or men in play Approve or curse the gain or loss.

Toward afternoon I seemed to feel More people knew me than I knew. Then it was good to meet with you. I saw you as you left the stair. And who were you? I do not dare To praise your brow, or paint your hair, Your eyes how gray, or were they blue? A pain strikes through me if I let The full strength of my love have sway. I only know I can forget All others who had gone away Remembering our happy day Together in the house and yard. It was to you all fair and new. You listened with such rapt regard To all the stories of the guests, And what had been their interests. And was the Tavern just the same As it had been before you came, You asked me, and I answered, yes, No change, my dear, not even the name.

No change, except the people change, And change they do, I must confess. In truth a few alone remain Of those who lived here when I first Entered the door there, most are strange. And as I rose much earlier Than you arose, you may suppose I shall grow drowsy, yet who knows Before you do, and leave the stir The dancing, feasting, just to creep Back for another night of sleep. I’d like so well to stay awake And watch the dancing for your sake. It may be, though it scarce may be-- No one remained awake for me.

You cannot fail to find the bed When you are sleepy, but no doubt It will be black with the light out. Come dear, that sleep is loveliest Where side by side two lovers rest, That sweetens sleep--it may be best!

O SAEPE MECUM

(_For E. J. S._)

Edward! you knew the city and you knew Where dancing and where music were, And every hall and theatre, And every green purlieu

Of gardens where beneath the vines and trees One might sip beer and be consoled By music mixed with talk, behold The summer’s devotees

About the tables, idling June away. And you knew chicory and cress, With French or Mayonnaise could dress A salad, growing gay

As you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine, Or had a sirloin brought to see If it were ripe, the recipe For broiling it, to dine

Thereon in fitting state, the waiter took And bowed in admiration, then You snapped your silver case again And from the holders shook Such cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke, And blew the perfumed incense forth, Descanting on our life, the worth Of lawyers, noted folk:

Of judges, politicians, governors, Until the dinner came at last. And there amid the rich repast We poor solicitors

Gloried in life, and ruddy faced would laugh At any mishap, any fate That we could fancy might await, And glorying would quaff

Incredible goblets of the quickening juice, With blackest coffee topping all, And afterwards a cordial-- Nothing we could abuse

And nothing hurt us, Edward! It was well We lived, I think, and memories stored: For now I am a little bored With the invariable

And settled round of nights and days wherein I must have sleep to work, and keep Abstemious to work and sleep-- While you long since have been The tangled lion of a woman’s hair Who reads you novels and the news, And mends you, tends you, even brews Your broth and gives you care

In these dyspeptic mornings. As for me The cafés, gardens haunt me yet. I go about as one who can’t forget A dead felicity--

The Bismarck, Rector’s where I enter not-- The music all is changed--and where No faces that we knew are there, And where we are forgot.

MALACHY DEGAN

Malachy, you stand a referee to judge Under a torrent of blue light The naked pugilists who fight, Grim faces with a smudge

Of blood, or on the sliding arms or backs, There on a platform roped, in palls Of smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s, And where the iterant cracks

Of matches struck for lights prick through the hum Of voices over toned by cries Of “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,” “That sounded like a drum.”

When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang! And a hush came over us, as then Bath robes slipped off, the fighting men Out of their corners sprang,

And in between the tangled arms and legs, And clinches which you break, you glide Red-haired, athletic, watchful eyed, And like a lager keg’s Round fulness is your chest, your arms all bare, Coatless, a figure memorable. You should not be forgotten--well And if it be to dare

The censure of a taste American To celebrate your courage, wit, I write you down what here is writ: A referee, a man!

A judge who loved the game and whose decree Had no taint on it, was more pure Than much of our judicature, Of every knavery free.

And what is here to shock or shake such nerves As children’s are, delicate women’s? There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons, And Thorne a moment swerves,

Then topples over, and lies quiet while You count from one slowly to nine. And Thorne lies there without a sign Of life, but with a smile

After a time gets up, and reels across The ring to his own corner, there Flops wobbly in his corner’s chair, And wonders at his loss.

While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shake The master hand, the general’s. Such was our sport at Tattersall’s Before the Puritan rake

Combed through the city. Now the sport is dead, And you are dust these several years. And we who drift to stale careers, And live along and tread

The old deserted ways we loved and knew, Ask sometimes how it was a cough Could seize upon you, take you off-- A lad as strong as you?

MY DOG PONTO

If I say to you “Come, Ponto, want some meat?” You laugh in your dog-way and bark your “Yes.” And if I say “Shall we go walking” or “Stand up, nice Ponto,” then you stand up, or If I say to you “Lie down” you lie down. You know what meat is, what it is to walk. You see the meat perhaps or get an image Of scampering on the street or chasing dogs While sniffing in fresh air, exploring bushes. Upon these levels our minds meet at once, As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts. But if I look into your eye and say: I’ll read to you a chapter on harmonics, Here’s mad Spinoza’s close wrought demonstration Of God as substance, here is Isaac Newton’s Great book on gravitation, here’s a thesis Upon the logos, of the word made man. Or if I say let’s talk about my soul-- Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat-- Which sails out like a spider on its thread Through mathematics, music,--look at you You merely lie there with half open eye, And thump your tail quite feebly just because, And for no other reason save I’m talking, And I’m your master and you’re fond of me, And through affection would no doubt be glad To know what I am saying, as ’twere meat I might be saying. But I know a way To make you howl for things not understood: It makes you howl to hear my new Victrola With a Beethoven record, why is this? Perhaps this is to you a maddening token Of realms that lie above the realms of meat, And torture you because they have suggestions Of things beyond you.

But in any case, Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel “You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.” “And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.” “And mathematics, music, can you eat them,” “For what you cannot eat has no existence.” Deny them as you will these spheres of thought Lie as the steps of mountains over you. They wait for you to gain them, you can find them By rising to them, then how real they are! As real as scampering when I take a walk. But are they all? How do I know what spheres Of life lie all around me and above me, Just waiting not for me, but till I climb And rest awhile and take their meaning in. How do I know what hand plays a Victrola With records greater than Beethoven’s song, Which make me howl as piteously as you? But here again our minds meet on a level: I know no more than you do why I howl; Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why, Though not content with meat, I want to know, And keep as all my own this higher music.

THE GOSPEL OF MARK

How long have you been waiting? Not so long? I’m glad of that. You found the place at once. Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re there You see above this Collis Hortulorum, A good place for two men like us to meet: Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes. That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not care So much about us as some others do. There is a tolerance comes from being rich, An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa. Our faith is not to these a wicked thing, A deadly superstition as some deem it. But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there-- What temples, arches, under the full moon! Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree, And while the soft wind blows out of the sea Let’s finish up our talks. You must know all Wherewith to write the story ere I die Beneath the wrath of Nero. See that light, Faint like a little candle--I passed there. That’s one of our poor men, they make us lamps Wherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens. We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time. We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house. And I was telling them about the night When in Gethsemane you followed Him, Having a cloth around your naked body. And how you laid hold on him, left the cloth And fled. But when you write this you can say “A certain young man,” leaving out your name, You may not wish to have it known ’twas you Who ran away, as I would like to hide How I fell into sleep and failed to watch, And afterwards declared I knew Him not: But as for me omit no thing. The world Will gain for seeing me rise out of weakness To strength, and out of fear to boldness. Time Has wrought his wonders in me, I am rock, Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!

Then don’t forget the first man that he healed. There’s deep significance in this, my son, That first of all he’d take an unclean spirit And cast it out. Then second was my mother Cured of her fever, just as you might say: Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague, Then cool you of the fever of vain life. But don’t forget to write how he would say “Tell no man of this,” say that and no more. Though I may think he said it lest the crowds That followed him would take his strength for healing, And leave no strength for words, let be and write “Tell no man of this” simply. For you see These madmen quieted, these lepers cleaned Had soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps. And with them ends their good. But what he said Remains for generations yet to come, with power To heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes, Of what I’ve told you, even above your life. Make many copies lest one script be lost. I shall not to another tell it all As I have told it you.

But as for me What merit have I that I saw and said “Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees. That is a matter of the eye--behold What is the eye? Is there an Eye Power which Produces eyes, a primal source of seeing, An ocean of beholding, as the ocean Makes rivers, streams and pools, so does this Power Make eyes? You take an egg and keep it warm About a day, then break the shell and look: You’ll find dark spots on either side of what Will be the head in time, these will be eyes In season, but just now they cannot see, Although the Eye Power back of them can see Both what they are and how to make them eyes By giving them its quality and strength. And all the time while these dark spots emerge From yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less, This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a child It stares at flowers and tears them, or again It claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast, Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose. The world around it lies here to be seen, And will be seen from boyhood on to age In different guises, aspects, richnesses According to the man, for every man Sees different from his fellow. What’s an eye? I say not what’s an eye, but what is here For eyes to see? What wonders in that sky Beyond my eye! What living things concealed Beneath my feet in grass or moss or slime, As small to crickets as they are to us! For Nero at the Circus holds a ruby Before his eye to give his eye more sight To see the games and tortures. So I say There was no merit in me when I said “Thou art the Christ.”

Let’s think of eyes this way: The lawyers said there’s nothing in this fellow. His family beheld no wonder in him. Have Mary Magdalene and I invented These words, this story?--who are we to do so,-- A fallen woman and a fisherman! Or did this happen? Did we see these things? Did Mary see him risen and did I? Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk, And were our eyes full grown and did we see? Is this a madman’s world where I can talk, And have you write for centuries to read And play the fool with them? Or do all things Of spirit, as of stars, of spring and growth Proceed in order, under law to ends? No, Mark, my son, this is the truth, so write, Preserve this story taken from my lips. My work is almost done. Rome is the end Of all my labors, I have faith The Eye Will give me other eyes for other worlds!

Why should I not believe this? Not all seasons Are for unfolding. In the winter time You cannot see the miracle of birth, Of germinating seeds, of blossoming. Why not then that one time for seeing Death Go up like mist before the rising sun? And in this single instance of our Lord Arising from the grave, see all men rise, And all men’s souls discovered in his soul, Their quality and essence, strength made clear? And why not I the seer of these things? Why should there be another and not I? And I declare to you that untold millions In centuries untold will live and die By these words which you write, as I have told them. And nation after nation will be moulded, As heated wax is moulded, by these words. And spirits in their inmost power will feel Change and regeneration through them--well, what then? Do you say God is living, that this world, These constellations, move by law, that all This miracle of life and light is held In harmony, and that the soul of man Moves not in order, but that it’s allowed To prove an anarch to itself, sole thing That turns upon itself, sole thing that’s shown The path that leads no whither? is allowed To feed on falsehood? that it’s allowed To wander lawless to its ruin, fooled By what it craves, by what it feels, by eyes That swear the truth of what they see? by words Which you will write from words I have affirmed? And do you say that Life shall prove the foe Of life, and Law of law? Or do you say The child’s eyes see reality which see The poppy blossoms or the mother’s breast, And this Rome and these stars do not exist Because the child’s eyes cannot compass them, And get their image? Shall we trust our vision Mounting to higher things, or only trust Those things which all have seen except the souls Who have not soared, or risen to the gift Of seeing what seemed walking trees grow clear As men or angels? No, it cannot be. Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know, Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport. It is not set apart to be betrayed, Or gulled to its undoing, left to dash Its hopeless head against this rock’s exception, No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it, No law to guide it, though this universe Is under Law, no God to mark its steps, Except the God of worlds and suns and stars, Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars, And them alone, and leaves the soul to pass Unfathered--lets me have a madman’s dream And gives it such reality that I Take fire and light the world, convincing eyes Left foolish to believe. It cannot be....

Go write what I have told you, come what will I’m going to the catacombs to pray.

MARSYAS