Part 8

Pallas Athena in an hour of ease From guarding states and succoring the wise, Pressed wistfully her lips against a flute Made by a Phrygian youth from resonant wood Cut near Sangarius. Upon a bank Made sweet by daisies and anemone She sat with godly wisdom exercised Blowing her breath against the stubborn tube That it might answer and vibrate in song. But while she played, down-looking, she beheld A serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edge Lay coiled among the reeds, as if aware Of the divinity that filled the place. Then Athena saw her image in the cove, Where like a silver mirror, motionless Sangarius lay, and seeing her own face Thus suddenly, was stricken with surprise Of her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lips Pursed and distorted as she strove to curb The resisting instrument. So with a smile, A little laugh, which brought her beauty back, And gilded like a gradual burst of sun The water where the charmed serpent lay Lifting his head up to the living warmth, She threw the flute down, and Olympus way Vanished, from sight.

Marsyas all the while Beneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edge Had drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes, Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheep Upon a near-by hill which to the swale Sloped in luxuriance, upon a reed His idle fancies loosened from the stops. But when Athena passed him, since he heard A roar of wings, as when a flock of quail Up-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to find The forest silent and the music gone. Then straying toward the rushes, he espied The flute upon the golden sands, and took it And tried his lips upon it, where the lips Of Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist, And with a soul, which to the artless breath Of the rude Satyr gave melodious speech. So thinking that the music was his own And that the flute was but a worthless wood Save that it made his genius manifest, And swollen with conceit Marsyas sent A word of challenge to the Delphic god, Apollo of the cithara, for trial Of skill in music, saying who should prove The victor might do with the other what Pleased him to do, and let the Muses judge.

But when Athena heard Apollo laugh, Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dare Which Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadows Of flowered Olympus whispered of the thing In jest and quip, and knowing that her soul Still echoed in the flute, but would anon Fade from it as the perfume from a girdle Tinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand, Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little time Wherein the Satyr may improve his skill.” To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles. But yet Apollo gave assent, though teased By reason of their chatter and the thought Hid in Athena’s word that any respite Granted the Satyr could prosper his success.

Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the day Appointed of Apollo. Near Sangarius And through the woodlands tireless with the flute: Sometimes in imitative harmony Mocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and now The musical winds that blow in early spring Around a peak of dancing asphodel Where the sea warms them, and at other times The little waves that patter on the sands Of old Sangarius rich in numerous flags. And once he strove with music’s alchemy To turn to sound the sunlight of the morn Which fills the senses as illuminate dew Quickens the ovule of the tiger-flower. Again he sang the sorrow of his youth When a wild nymph after one day of bliss Fled him while sleeping. And again he beat The rhythm lying at the root of life Which marks the whirling planets. And Apollo Hearing betimes a note of purest tone Fall like a star, betrayed his wonderment-- Whereat the muses vexed him with their smiles And whisperings to each other. But Apollo Could sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulled With its employment, as Athena’s soul Died from the flute, although the Satyr knew not Each day of waiting doomed him:

Then at last The day dawned for the trial of their skill, And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute-- For all had left it of Athena’s soul. Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the muses To judge assembled, fair, majestical. With arms entwined some close together stood, Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass, But all bore in their eyes the light of mirth Suppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that Euterpe Was mistress of the flute, since it was deemed Fair to the Satyr that the contest be Judged by the flute, gave signal to begin. Whereat Apollo struck the cithara To test the strings, and all the wood was hushed, Awed by the magic of its harmony. But when Marsyas blew upon the flute A fear coursed through him as his wonder rose Whether Apollo had bewitched its soul To such discordance, or its utterance, Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’s Was so unmusical. Yet he dare not fail The contest, so they waged it to the end, While the sweet muses now grown pitiful No longer smiled, but turned their heads away In sorrow for Marsyas, for his shame And for the fate to follow.

So at last With one accord the muses rose and looked With eyes significant upon Apollo, Who angered by the Satyr’s swollen pride And monstrous failure, had become a will Of resolute retribution. But the muses, Because they feel for those who trying lose, Even as a mother for her crippled son Whom the sound-footed distance in the race, Hastened away lest they behold the thing That came to pass. And flinging far the flute Marsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth.

Whereat Apollo seized his wretched form And lifting him up, with strips of laurel bark Bound the poor Satyr to a rugged oak And flayed him alive, and took the Satyr’s skin And hung it in a cave, and turned his blood To water, whence the river Marsyas That from the cave flows onward to this day.

WORLDS BACK OF WORLDS

This was the world: It was a house With a cool hallway end to end Where buckets, pans and dippers hung, And coats that in the breezes swung; And eaves in which ’twas good to browse On books stored in a musty box. Along the walks were lilac boughs, And by the windows hollyhocks. And there were fields down to the hills Which marked the earth’s far boundary; A church-spire at the roadway’s bend, And barns and cribs and twinkling mills, And neighbor friends like Mrs. Gray, And endless days of dream and play. It was a world so guarded, safe, So cherished by a God-watched sky Seeing the summers come and pass, A world so quiet it appeared Like to the mimic world ensphered By witchery of the old field glass Which from an uncle’s drawer I took Upon the distant hills to look. You know not then that worlds not dead Lie back of you and bide their chance To seize your world of ignorance: There was an opening in the ceiling Above the kitchen where the man Sat humming to himself at night Amid the enshadowed candle-light, And played on his accordion Happy, unconscious and alone. There full of mischief would I lie And watch him through the ceiling’s hole, And laugh for thought of elfish tricks, Of whispering words or dropping sticks To fright his well contented soul. Sometimes I think there is an eye Which is not God’s that spies upon us; That other worlds may lie about us Our fathers or our mothers lived, Where Forces lurk and laugh and wait.

Here then was my world’s fair estate-- For so I knew it--could it be Disturbed or wrecked? I never thought That change or loss could come to me, With God above the church’s spire....

But what are all these April dreams? Less tangible the landscape seems; The windmills, barns and houses swim In a sphered ether, wheeling, dim. Red cattle on green meadows pass Across a belt of bluest sky Like objects in the old field glass. The chickens stalk about the yard Like phantom things in my regard And songs and cries and voices sound Like muffled echoes from the ground. Stones and dead sticks crawl and move; And bones that through the winter lay Something of living power betray. I sink in all things dizzily, Made one with nature, all I see, Until I have no way to prove My separate identity. Yet death is what? Why, death is this: Something that comes but is far off. They worry sometimes for my cough. I know they watch me, know they cry, But what can wreck my earth or sky?

The doctor comes now every day And with my father sits and talks, Or stands about the garden walks. One day I hear them: “It appears Sometimes in ten or twenty years As madness or paralysis. Sometimes it passes, leaves a scar And never troubles one again. You say you had this in the war? It’s hit your boy as phthisis, Also I think he’s going blind.” I saw my father trembling wind Some plucked grass round and round his hand. They noticed me, walked further on And left me dreaming where I sat.

Some years since that day now are gone. I have no world now, none but night. My father’s world lay back of mine And wrecked my world so guarded, safe, So cherished by a God-watched sky Which looked on summers rise and pass, So like an image caught and held By witchery of the old field glass.

THE PRINCESS’ SONG

“Blow, blow, thou wind, Blow Conrad’s hat away, Its rolling do not stay, Till I have combed my hair, And tied it up behind.”

Blow, blow, thou wind, Blow Conrad’s love away, My prince will come to-day. Let him but find me fair, And searching find.

The queen my mother grieves For hopes that went astray. Blow thou my grief away, Among the April flags, Among the dancing leaves.

Fill thou their golden wings, And make the great clouds fly Like swans across the sky, Above the mountain crags Where the young eaglet clings.

Blow--yet the mad wind dies Among the flags and ferns. And Conrad still returns, Ere I have bound my hair, Or dried my eyes.

Blow, blow, thou wind-- Blow Conrad’s love away. But since it will not stay, Blow thou afar my care And make me kind.

As even, lad, thou art. Blow, blow, thou wind, but since Vainly I wait the prince Come, Conrad, loose my hair,-- Thou loyal heart!

THE FURIES

I

But you must act. And therein lies the way Of freedom from the Furies. You must burn The substance of your being, if you stay The impetus of life you will not learn The simples of salvation. Go pluck off A serpent from Alecto’s head and laugh Exhilarate with its poison. If you scoff You will perceive. You cannot love the staff You have not scorned. You cannot weigh the act You have not lived, the fear you did not prove. Your soul was made to focus and extract Through action every hatred, every love. Pour out yourself if you would know release From what the Furies do to spoil your peace.

II

Ambition that eludes, love never found High hopes that tempt, or goodness still pursued Have their own Furies, for this mortal ground Breeds serpents from the blood of fortitude And action as it does from listless fear. You have aspired and fallen, curse the past Till madness come! Be quiet, hide or sear The memory of the dream, no less at last The Sisters shall arrive! How do they come? Your life grows round a moral governance And you have served it. You are stricken dumb To see it crumble spite of vigilance. Now when you cannot think, rebuild, repair The Sisters come and wheel your cripple’s chair.

III

You were a fennel stalk that laughed and grew With laughter till the life in you could use The cells no further, then the cold winds blew, And you fell whispering of the April dews. Grown fair or foul the rhythmic force was spent, The summer gone, your little past achieved, Repulsions balanced, though you might lament So much neglected, or too much believed. You were a dry weed when a Great Hand seized And bore you as a carrier of fire. The garden you had grown in had not pleased! Was this, perhaps, the end of your desire? You lit a heap of leaves where children came, The Furies meditating watched the flame!

APOLLO AT PHERÆ

Zeus envied Æsculapius that he healed The sick and brought the dead to life, and fain Would slay him. So the Cyclops brought Zeus lightning With which Zeus smote the healer. Then Apollo Destroyed the Cyclops, grieving for his son. And Clotho laughed to see the thread of fate Slip by Atropos, woven in the cloth Of destiny. For had she cut the thread Shot from the spindle, then a little trace Of scarlet, but no figures of despair Had marked the storied tapestry. So Apollo Was doomed for punishment to tend the flocks Of King Admetus, lord of Pheræ. Next Apollo met a mortal woman, daughter Of an old soldier, servitor of the gods And rich in land.

He, sitting on a rock That overlooked a green Thessalian field Where grazed the flocks, clad in a leopard’s skin, His crook beside him, dreamed of wide Olympus: “This hour the muses dance, the Council sits And there is high debate, or Hera storms For Zeus’ absence; there is life, and I Unknown, alone, a shepherd by this field Of pastoral pathos labor all the day.” And then a step disturbed his revery; And looking up he saw a slender maid White as gardenias, jonquil-haired, with eyes As blue as Peneus when he meets the sea. And an old weakness crept upon the god. For ever in his soul there shone the face Of woman, like the face of Artemis, His virgin sister, delicate and chaste; And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserve Had been Apollo’s madness from his birth. And this Chione, daughter of the soldier, Servitor of the gods and rich in land At once became his passion. So he rose And to Chione spoke, and she, to him. And then anon she saw the unkept curls Sun-bleached, that touched his shoulders, then his breast, Smooth as her own, and then his arms, his hands His shapely knees, his firm and pointed feet, And her eyes closed as stars beneath the dawn And dawn rose in her cheeks. And the god knew Her inmost thought.

So all that day they played, Amid the wind-blown light of Thessaly. He wove her traps for crickets from the grass, And from the willow branches made her flutes; He caught her butterflies, and sang her runes Of living things, and how the earth and sea From Erebus and Love sprang into being; And how the sun, and the bright pageant of the stars Dance joyously to music. And Chione Was dumb for happiness; and the day went by. But with the dusk there came a swooning languor, All was forgotten save the shepherd’s face Held close to hers, and round his moving curls The circled splendor of the sickle moon-- Nor eyes, nor lips, only a golden blur. And rousing she beheld the enshadowed field Flockless and silent, and the shepherd gone. Then through the night Chione weakly walked And found at last her home.

The light of day Brought terror to Chione. Then she sought And found Apollo where he sat before And told him that her father, the old soldier, Was favored of Admetus, and would bring The royal power against him, if he failed The troth of wedlock. And Apollo mused Upon his exile from Olympus’ throne, And Zeus’ wrath against him, that he slew The Cyclops, and upon his shepherd state Tending Admetus’ flocks, and how unknown And weak he stood between these kingly hands Of Zeus and of Admetus. And seeing her fair, More fair in tears, he gave her his consent.

Next day Chione brought the god a robe And sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayed Chione took him to her father’s home The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods, And rich in land, and spoke of him as Acteus A merchant from the city. Then the father Gave thanks to Zeus and at the family board Apollo supped, as one who would become Chione’s husband. So it came to pass. They walked together in the bridal train Behind the perfumed torches.

All the while Zeus smiled to see Apollo’s punishment. And Hera, who with woman’s subtlety, Knew that there shone within Apollo’s soul A face like to the face of Artemis, His virgin sister, delicate and chaste, And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserve Had been Apollo’s madness from his birth, Laughed freely with the muses as she said: “Thus is the masculine spirit ever caught By its own lure, let Zeus himself take heed Lest sometime he be snared.”

So when Olympus Grew dull, the gods for fun looked o’er the ramparts And spied upon Apollo at the board With all Chione’s family; or at night Beside Chione and the little faces Which every year increased. Or on Apollo About his bitter task of shepherding To win the bread for faded Chione And for the children.

Thus the nine years passed. Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses down To bring Apollo back, and to Olympus Humbled and sorrowful he came again, With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair, And a lack-lustre eye, which all the art Of Aphrodite after many days Could scarce remove.

Then Chione told her father That Acteus was not a merchant from the city. “Too late,” she said, “I found he had deceived me And masked his shepherd calling.”

To which her father The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods And rich in land: “Yea, daughter, he deceived you. Now he has run away, abandoned you, May the gods note it and avenge the wrong.”

STEAM SHOVEL CUT

Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood, And the trestle’s at the end. And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills, And south the river’s bend.

It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hill Is flapped by a flying crow. And the steel of the railroad track is cold, And the Cut is piled with snow.

What is that there by the trestle’s end Where the Cut slopes down to the slough? That’s Cora Williams lying there In her cloak of faded blue.

Her skirt is red as a northern spy, And her mittens blackberry black. And under her cotton underskirt There’s a green place on her back.

Her little gray hat is over her brow, And covers a purple bruise. She had white stockings for her feet And the holes were in her shoes.

Where did you meet Croak Carless, girl? And where did you start to booze? They saw you once at Rigdon’s place, And last at Sandy Hughes’.

On the night that Jesus Christ was born You were drinking gin and beer. They saw you sitting on Carless’ knees As the midnight hour drew near.

They saw you two start into the night, And the night was cold and black. And then they found you there by the bridge With the green bruise on your back.

Down through the dark to the Shovel Cut The two of you walked and sang. You were holding hands on the trestle bridge When the bell began to clang.

’Twas back of the curve that the head-light shone So what was the use of eyes? The mad iron thing leaped on you there As you ran on the trestle ties.

It rushed on you like a furious bull That charges a scarlet flag. The engineer looked long at the gauge As the fireman scraped the slag.

Croak Carless jumped and fell on a stone And the world to him was a blank. But the iron thing struck at your back And doubled you down on the bank.

Croak Carless woke from a sleep like death And found you covered with blood. He slinks to the river to wash his hands, He runs to hide in the wood.

He steals through thickets, hides in a barn, He cowers where the corn’s in shock. But the posse catches Croak by noon, And the jailer turns the lock.

Croak Carless’ wife weeps at the bars, Croak weeps in a grated cell. They’ve mortgaged the farm for a lawyer’s fee To save Croak’s soul from hell.

For the Coroner has a bat-like thing In a bottle safe in his room. It looks like a baby devil fish-- It’s Cora Williams’ womb.

A woman’s womb is a thing of doom And winged with a fan-like mesh. And who was the father, they’re asking Croak, Of this bit of jelly flesh?

And the doctors took an oath in the court That a sharp club did the deed. And the judge was a foe of the lawyer man Croak Carless paid to plead.

And Croak had talked too much in jail, And he trembled and testified To a woeful tangle of time and place, And the jury thought he lied.

Croak Carless’ wife sobbed out in court As they twisted him out and in. For they made him swear he drank with the girl, And swear to his carnal sin.

They stood him up on the gallow’s trap And his voice was clear and low: If I killed Cora Williams, men, My soul to hell should go.

They sprang the trap, Croak Carless shot Like a wheat bag toward the floor. And the doctors let his body hang Till his old heart beat no more.

They let him alone to work and sweat For a wife’s and children’s ease. But they hung him up for a little beer With a woman on his knees.

And he might have died in bed in a year, For when they opened him up They found his heart was a played out pump, And leaked like a rusty cup.

And a man can live as the church decrees, Or dance in the way of vice, A woman’s womb is a thing of doom, And life is the current price.

’Tis a vampire bat, or the leather box From which you rattle the dice. ’Tis an altar of doom, is a woman’s womb, And man is the sacrifice.

THE HOUSES