Part 13

“I have forgotten Your dragons great, Merry and mad and friendly and bold. Dim is your proud lost palace-gate. I vaguely know There were heroes of old, Troubles more than the heart could hold, There were wolves in the woods Yet lambs in the fold, Nests in the top of the almond tree ... The evergreen tree ... and the mulberry tree ... Life and hurry and joy forgotten, Years on years I but half-remember ... Man is a torch, then ashes soon, May and June, then dead December, Dead December, then again June. Who shall end my dream’s confusion? Life is a loom, weaving illusion ... I remember, I remember There were ghostly veils and laces ... In the shadowy, bowery places ... With lovers’ ardent faces Bending to one another, Speaking each his part. They infinitely echo In the red cave of my heart. ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart!’ They said to one another. They spoke, I think, of perils past. They spoke, I think, of peace at last. One thing I remember: Spring came on forever, Spring came on forever,” Said the Chinese nightingale.

Amy Lowell

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon— I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun shifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se’nnight.” As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. “Any answer, Madam?” said my footman. “No,” I told him. “See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer.”

And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned pat In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace.

For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

1777

I—THE TRUMPET-VINE ARBOR

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangor of brass beats against the hot sunlight. They bray and blare at the burning sky. Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky. In long streaks of sound, molten metal, The vine declares itself. Clang!—from its red and yellow trumpets. Clang!—from its long, nasal trumpets, Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbor, in a green and gold twilight. It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets; I only know that they are red and open, And that the sun above the arbor shakes with heat. My quill is newly mended, And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. Down the long white paper it makes little lines, Just lines,—up—down—criss-cross. My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. My hand marches to a squeaky tune, It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. My pen and the trumpet-flowers, And Washington’s armies away over the smoke-tree to the southwest. “Yankee Doodle,” my darling! It is you against the British, Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.

What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the housetop, Through father’s spy-glass, The red city, and the blue, bright water, And puffs of smoke which you made. Twenty miles away, Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, But the smoke was white—white! To-day the trumpet-flowers are red—red— And I cannot see you fighting; But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, And Myra sings “Yankee Doodle” at her milking.

The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.

II—THE CITY OF FALLING LEAVES

Leaves fall, Brown leaves, Yellow leaves streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall again. The brown leaves, And the streaked yellow leaves, Loosen on their branches And drift slowly downwards. One, One, two, three, One, two, five. All Venice is a falling of autumn leaves, Brown, And yellow streaked with brown.

“That sonnet, Abate, Beautiful, I am quite exhausted by it. Your phrases turn about my heart, And stifle me to swooning. Open the window, I beg. Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! ’Tis really a shame to stop indoors. Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! See how straight the leaves are falling. Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. Am I well painted to-day, _caro Abate mio_? You will be proud of me at the Ridotto, hey? Proud of being _cavalier servente_ to such a lady?” “Can you doubt it, _bellissima Contessa_? A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, And Venus herself shines less ...” “You bore me, Abate; I vow I must change you! A letter, Achmet? Run and look out of the window, Abate. I will read my letter in peace.”

The little black slave with the yellow satin turban Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. His yellow turban and black skin Are gorgeous—barbaric. The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings Lies on a chair, Beside a black mantle and a black mask. Yellow and black, Gorgeous—barbaric. The lady reads her letter, And the leaves drift slowly Past the long windows. “How silly you look, my dear Abate, With that great brown leaf in your wig. Pluck it off, I beg you, Or I shall die of laughing.”

A yellow wall, Aflare in the sunlight, Chequered with shadows, Shadows of vine-leaves, Shadows of masks. Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, Then passing on, More masks always replacing them. Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind, Pursuing masks with veils and high heels, The sunlight shining under their insteps. One, One, two, One, two, three— There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. Yellow sunlight and black shadows, Yellow and black, Gorgeous—barbaric. Two masks stand together, And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, Marking the wall where they are not. From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, From elbow to sword-hilt, The leaf falls. The shadows mingle, Blur together, Slide along the wall and disappear. Gold of mosaics and candles, And night-blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. Saint Mark’s glitters with flames and reflections. A cloak brushes aside, And the yellow of satin Licks out over the colored inlays of the pavement. Under the gold crucifixes There is a meeting of hands Reaching from black mantles. Sighing embraces, bold investigations, Hide in confessionals, Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. Gorgeous—barbaric In its mail of jewels and gold, Saint Mark’s looks down at the swarm of black masks; And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, Flutter, Fall. Brown, And yellow streaked with brown.

Blue-black the sky over Venice, With a pricking of yellow stars. There is no moon, And the waves push darkly against the prow Of the gondola, Coming from Malamocco And streaming toward Venice. It is black under the gondola hood, But the yellow of a satin dress Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. Yellow compassed about with darkness, Yellow and black, Gorgeous—barbaric. The boatman sings, It is Tasso that he sings; The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. But at Malamocco in front, In Venice behind, Fall the leaves, Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall.

VENUS TRANSIENS

Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she stopped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver?

For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet.

A LADY

You are beautiful and faded, Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth century boudoir. In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice jars. Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blent colors.

My vigor is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust, That its sparkle may amuse you.

CHINOISERIES

REFLECTIONS

When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes. A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface, But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples, And as she drew out her hand, The water-drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.

FALLING SNOW

The snow whispers about me, And my wooden clogs Leave holes behind me in the snow. But no one will pass this way Seeking my footsteps, And when the temple bell rings again They will be covered and gone.

HOAR-FROST

In the cloud-gray mornings I heard the herons flying; And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves. A dried leaf crumbles at a touch, But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky.

SOLITAIRE

When night drifts along the streets of the city, And sifts down between the uneven roofs, My mind begins to peek and peer. It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens, And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples, Amid the broken flutings of white pillars. It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair, And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses. How light and laughing my mind is, When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles, And the city is still!

A GIFT

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

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

RED SLIPPERS

Red slippers in a shop-window; and outside in the street, flaws of gray, windy sleet!

Behind the polished glass the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes of passers-by with dripping color, jamming their crimson reflections against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights upon the tops of umbrellas.

The row of white, sparkling shop-fronts is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain—and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window.

They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared and burnished by red rockets.

Snap, snap, they are cracker sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous block of shops.

They plunge the clangor of billions of vermilion trumpets into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement.

People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window farther down is a big lotus bud of cardboard, whose petals open every few minutes and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, lolling awkwardly in its flower chair.

One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before?

The flaws of gray, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only red slippers.

APOLOGY

Be not angry with me that I bear Your colors everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by.

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow-haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds.

Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town.

Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumèd smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell, impearled.

You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed, To go unguessed.

Percy Mackaye

OLD AGE

Old Age, the irrigator, Digs our bosoms straighter, More workable and deeper still To turn the ever-running mill Of nights and days. He makes a trough To drain our passions off, That used so beautiful to lie Variegated to the sky, On waste moorlands of the heart— Haunts of idleness, and art Still half-dreaming. All their piedness, Rank and wild and shallow wideness, Desultory splendors, he Straightens conscientiously To a practicable sluice Meant for workaday, plain use. All the mists of early dawn, Twilit marshes, being gone With their glamor, and their stench, There is left—a narrow trench.

SONG FROM “MATER”

Long ago, in the young moonlight, I lost my heart to a hero; Strong and tender and stern and right, Darker than night, And terribler than Nero. Heigh, but he was dear, O!

And there, to bind our fellowship, I laughed at him; and a moment after, I laughed again till he bit his lip, For the test of love is laughter.

“Lord and master, look up!” I cried; “I wreathe your brow with a laurel! Gloom and wisdom and right and pride Cast them aside, And kiss, and cure our quarrel. Never mind the moral!”

Alas! with strange and saddened eyes He looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter, To feel the flush of his dark surprise; For the zest of love is laughter.

Long ago, in the old moonlight, I lost my hero and lover; Strong and tender and stern and right, Never shall night Nor day his brow uncover. Ah, my heart, that is over!

Yet still, for joy of the fellowship That bound us both through the years long after, I laugh to think how he bit his lip; For the test of love— And the best of love—is laughter.

Frederic Manning

SACRIFICE

Love suffereth all things, And we, Out of the travail and pain of our striving, Bring unto Thee the perfect prayer: For the lips of no man utter love, Suffering even for love’s sake.

For us no splendid apparel of pageantry— Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners, and trumpets Sounding exultantly. But the mean things of the earth Thou hast chosen, Decked them with suffering; Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness, Strong with the pride of love.

Yea, though our praise of Thee slayeth us, Yet love shall exalt us beside Thee triumphant, Dying that these live; And the earth again be beautiful with orchards, Yellow with wheatfields; And the lips of others praise Thee, though our lips Be stopped with earth, and songless. Yet we shall have brought Thee their praises Brought unto Thee the perfect prayer: For the lips of no man utter love, Suffering even for love’s sake.

O God of sorrows, Whose feet come softly through the dews, Stoop Thou unto us, For we die so Thou livest, Our hearts the cups of Thy vintage: And the lips of no man utter love, Suffering even for love’s sake.

AT EVEN

Hush ye! Hush ye! My babe is sleeping. Hush, ye winds, that are full of sorrow! Hush, ye rains, from your weary weeping! Give him slumber until to-morrow.

Hush ye, yet! In the years hereafter, Surely sorrow is all his reaping; Tears shall be in the place of laughter, Give him peace for a while in sleeping.

Hush ye, hush! he is weak and ailing: Send his mother his share of weeping. Hush ye, winds, from your endless wailing; Hush ye, hush ye, my babe is sleeping!

John Masefield

SHIPS

I cannot tell their wonder nor make known Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone; But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale, Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale, Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf, Follow some Helen for her gift of grief, And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do: You should have seen, man cannot tell to you The beauty of the ships of that my city.

That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity; For one may haunt the pier a score of times, Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes, Yet never see those proud ones swaying home With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam, Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine, Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine, As once, long since, when all the docks were filled With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.

Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to be Each played her sovereign part in making me; Now I return my thanks with heart and lips For the great queenliness of all those ships.

And first the first bright memory, still so clear, An autumn evening in a golden year, When in the last lit moments before dark The _Chepica_, a steel-gray lovely barque, Came to an anchor near us on the flood, Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.