Part 15
Better than granite, Spoon River, Is the memory-picture you keep of me Standing before the pioneer men and women There at Concord Church on Communion day. Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youth Of Galilee who went to the city And was killed by bankers and lawyers; My voice mingling with the June wind That blew over wheat fields from Atterbury; While the white stones in the burying ground Around the Church shimmered in the summer sun. And there, though my own memories Were too great to bear, were you, O pioneers, With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrow For the sons killed in battle and the daughters And little children who vanished in life’s morning, Or at the intolerable hour of noon. But in those moments of tragic silence, When the wine and bread were passed, Came the reconciliation for us— Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood, Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee— To us came the Comforter And the consolation of tongues of flame!
WEBSTER FORD
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo, The sunset hour by the river, when Mickey M’Grew Cried, “There’s a ghost,” and I, “It’s Delphic Apollo”; And the son of the banker derided us, saying, “It’s light By the flags at the water’s edge, you half-witted fools.” And from thence, as the wearisome years rolled on, long after Poor Mickey fell down in the water tower to his death, Down, down, through bellowing darkness, I carried The vision which perished with him like a rocket which falls And quenches its light in earth, and hid it for fear Of the son of the banker, calling on Plutus to save me? Avenged were you for the shame of a fearful heart, Who left me alone till I saw you again in an hour When I seemed to be turned to a tree with trunk and branches Growing indurate, turning to stone, yet burgeoning In laurel leaves, in hosts of lambent laurel, Quivering, fluttering, shrinking, fighting the numbness Creeping into their veins from the dying trunk and branches! ’Tis vain, O youth, to fly the call of Apollo. Fling yourselves in the fire, die with a song of spring, If die you must in the spring. For none shall look On the face of Apollo and live, and choose you must ’Twixt death in the flame and death after years of sorrow, Rooted fast in the earth, feeling the grisly hand, Not so much in the trunk as in the terrible numbness Creeping up to the laurel leaves that never cease To flourish until you fall. O leaves of me Too sere for coronal wreaths, and fit alone For urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themes For hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers— Delphic Apollo!
SILENCE
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask: For the depths Of what use is language? A beast of the field moans a few times When death takes its young. And we are voiceless in the presence of realities— We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, “How did you lose your leg?” And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. It comes back jocosely And he says, “A bear bit it off.” And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed. But if he could describe it all He would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, And the silence of an embittered friendship. There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life. There is the silence of defeat. There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours. There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders. There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth. And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo. And the silence of Jeanne d’Arc Saying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”— Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope. And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead. If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death? Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them.
Alice Meynell
MATERNITY
One wept whose only child was dead New-born, ten years ago. “Weep not; he is in bliss,” they said. She answered, “Even so.
“Ten years ago was born in pain A child not now forlorn. But oh, ten years ago, in vain A mother, a mother was born.”
CHIMES
Brief on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt—oh, hark!— A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing: Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.
Max Michelson
O BROTHER TREE
O brother tree! O brother tree! Tell to me, thy brother, The secret of thy life, The wonder of thy being.
My brother tree, my brother tree, My heart is open to thee— Reveal me all thy secrets.
Beloved tree, beloved tree, I have shattered all my pride. I love thee, brother, as myself. Oh, explain to me thy wonders.
Beloved one, adored one, I will not babble of it among fools— I will tell it only to the unspoiled: Reveal to me thy being.
I have watched thy leaves in sunshine, I have heard them in the storm. My heart drank a droplet of thy holy joy and wonder, One drop from the ocean of thy wonder.
I am thy humble brother—I am thine own. Reveal thy life to me, Reveal thy calm joy to me, Reveal to me thy serene knowledge.
THE BIRD
_From a branch The bird called_:
I hold your heart I wash it And scour it With bits of song Like pebbles; And your doubts And your sorrows Fall—drip, drip, drip— Like dirty water. I pipe to it In little notes Of life clear as a pool, And of death Clearer still; And I swoop with it In the blue And in the nest Of a cloud.
STORM
Storm, Wild one, Take me in your whirl, In your giddy reel, In your shot-like leaps and flights. Hear me call—stop and hear. I know you, blusterer; I know you, wild one— I know your mysterious call.
A HYMN TO NIGHT
Come, mysterious night; Descend and nestle to us.
Descend softly on the houses We built with pride, Without worship. Fold them in your veil, Spill your shadows.
Come over our stores and factories, Hide our pride—our shame— With your nebulous wings.
Come down on our cobbled streets: Unleash your airy hounds. Come to the sleepers, night; Light in them your fires.
LOVE LYRIC
Stir— Shake off sleep. Your eyes are the soul of clear waters— Pigeons In a city street.
Suns now dead Have tucked away of their gold for your hair: My buried mouth still tastes their fires.
A tender god built your breasts— Apples of desire; Their whiteness slakes the throat; Their form soothes like honey.
Wake up! Or the song-bird in my heart Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
· · · · ·
Sleep, my own, Soaring over rivers of fire. Sleep, my own, Wading waters of gold.
Joy is in my heart— It flutters around in my soul. ... Softly— I hear the rosy dreams ...
Edna St. Vincent Millay
GOD’S WORLD
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, world, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all But never knew I this. Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year. My soul is all but out of me—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
ASHES OF LIFE
Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike. Eat I must, and sleep I will—and would that night were here! But ah, to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again, with twilight near!
Love has gone and left me, and I don’t know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through— There’s little use in anything as far as I can see.
Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse. And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There’s this little street and this little house.
THE SHROUD
Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine, O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other.
(I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings.
I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.)
Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine, O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other.
Harold Monro
GREAT CITY
When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a moon-ray. Time was so dead I could not understand The meaning of midday or of midnight, But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling, Silence seemed an everlasting sound.
I sat in my room, And watched sunset, And saw starlight. I heard the tramp of homing men, And the last call of the last child; Then a lone bird twittered, And suddenly, beyond the housetops, I imagined dew in the country, In the hay, on the buttercups; The rising moon, The scent of early night, The songs, the echoes, Dogs barking, Day closing, Gradual slumber, Sweet rest.
When all the lamps were lighted in the town I passed into the street ways and I watched, Wakeful, almost happy, And half the night I wandered in the street.
YOUTH IN ARMS
Happy boy, happy boy, David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand thousand times Slain, but not once killed, Swaggering again today In the old contemptuous way;
Leaning backward from your thigh Up against the tinselled bar— Dust and ashes! is it you? Laughing, boasting, there you are! First we hardly recognized you In your modern avatar.
Soldier, rifle, brown khaki— Is your blood as happy so? Where’s your sling or painted shield, Helmet, pike or bow? Well, you’re going to the wars— That is all you need to know.
Graybeards plotted. They were sad. Death was in their wrinkled eyes. At their tables—with their maps, Plans and calculations—wise They all seemed; for well they knew How ungrudgingly Youth dies.
At their green official baize They debated all the night Plans for your adventurous days Which you followed with delight, Youth in all your wanderings, David of a thousand slings.
THE STRANGE COMPANION
_A Fragment_
That strange companion came on shuffling feet, Passed me, then turned, and touched my arm.
He said (and he was melancholy, And both of us looked fretfully, And slowly we advanced together), He said: “I bring you your inheritance.”
I watched his eyes; they were dim. I doubted him, watched him, doubted him ... But, in a ceremonious way, He said: “You are too grey: Come, you must be merry for a day.”
And I, because my heart was dumb, Because the life in me was numb, Cried: “I will come. I _will_ come.”
So, without another word, We two jaunted on the street. I had heard, often heard, The shuffling of those feet of his, The shuffle of his feet.
And he muttered in my ear Such a wheezy jest As a man may often hear— Not the worst, not the best That a man may hear.
Then he murmured in my face Something that was true. He said: “I have known this long, long while, All there is to know of you.” And the light of the lamp cut a strange smile On his face, and we muttered along the street, Good enough friends, on the usual beat.
We lived together long, long. We were always alone, he and I. We never smiled with each other; We were like brother and brother, Dimly accustomed. Can a man know Why he must live, or where he should go?
He brought me that joke or two, And we roared with laughter, for want of a smile, As every man in the world might do. He who lies all night in bed Is a fool, and midnight will crush his head.
When he threw a glass of wine in my face One night, I hit him, and we parted; But in a short space We came back to each other melancholy-hearted, Told our pain, Swore we would not part again.
One night we turned a table over The body of some slain fool to cover, And all the company clapped their hands; So we spat in their faces, And travelled away to other lands.
I wish for every man he find A strange companion so Completely to his mind With whom he everywhere may go.
Harriet Monroe
THE HOTEL
The long resounding marble corridors, the shining parlors with shining women in them. The French room, with its gilt and garlands under plump little tumbling painted Loves. The Turkish room, with its jumble of many carpets and its stiffly squared un-Turkish chairs. The English room, all heavy crimson and gold, with spreading palms lifted high in round green tubs. The electric lights in twos and threes and hundreds, made into festoons and spirals and arabesques, a maze and magic of bright persistent radiance. The people sitting in corners by twos and threes, and cooing together under the glare. The long rows of silent people in chairs, watching with eyes that see not while the patient band tangles the air with music. The bell-boys marching in with cards, and shouting names over and over into ears that do not heed. The stout and gorgeous dowagers in lacy white and lilac, bedizened with many jewels, with smart little scarlet or azure hats on their gray-streaked hair.
The business men in trim and spotless suits, who walk in and out with eager steps, or sit at the desks and tables, or watch the shining women. The telephone girls forever listening to far voices, with the silver band over their hair and the little black caps obliterating their ears. The telegraph tickers sounding their perpetual chit—chit-chit from the uttermost ends of the earth. The waiters, in black swallow-tails and white aprons, passing here and there with trays of bottles and glasses. The quiet and sumptuous bar-room, with purplish men softly drinking in little alcoves, while the barkeeper, mixing bright liquors, is rapidly plying his bottles. The great bedecked and gilded café, with its glitter of a thousand mirrors, with its little white tables bearing gluttonous dishes whereto bright forks, held by pampered hands, flicker daintily back and forth. The white-tiled, immaculate kitchen, with many little round blue fires, where white-clad cooks are making spiced and flavored dishes. The cool cellars filled with meats and fruits, or layered with sealed and bottled wines mellowing softly in the darkness. The invisible stories of furnaces and machines, burrowing deep into the earth, where grimy workmen are heavily laboring. The many-windowed stories of little homes and shelters and sleeping-places, reaching up into the night like some miraculous, high-piled honey-comb of wax-white cells. The clothes inside of the cells—the stuffs, the silks, the laces; the elaborate delicate disguises that wait in trunks and drawers and closets, or bedrape and conceal human flesh. The people inside of the clothes, the bodies white and young, bodies fat and bulging, bodies wrinkled and wan, all alike veiled by fine fabrics, sheltered by walls and roofs, shut in from the sun and stars.
The soul inside of the bodies—the naked souls; souls weazen and weak, or proud and brave; all imprisoned in flesh, wrapped in woven stuffs, enclosed in thick and painted masonry, shut away with many shadows from the shining truth. God inside of the souls, God veiled and wrapped and imprisoned and shadowed in fold on fold of flesh and fabrics and mockeries; but ever alive, struggling and rising again, seeking the light, freeing the world.
THE TURBINE
_To W. S. M._
Look at her—there she sits upon her throne As ladylike and quiet as a nun! But if you cross her—whew! her thunderbolts Will shake the earth! She’s proud as any queen, The beauty—knows her royal business too, To light the world, and does it night by night When her gay lord, the sun, gives up his job. I am her slave; I wake and watch and run From dark till dawn beside her. All the while She hums there softly, purring with delight Because men bring the riches of the earth To feed her hungry fires. I do her will And dare not disobey, for her right hand Is power, her left is terror, and her anger Is havoc. Look—if I but lay a wire Across the terminals of yonder switch She’ll burst her windings, rip her casings off, And shriek till envious Hell shoots up its flames, Shattering her very throne. And all her people, The laboring, trampling, dreaming crowds out there— Fools and the wise who look to her for light— Will walk in darkness through the liquid night Submerged.
Sometimes I wonder why she stoops To be my friend—oh yes, who talks to me And sings away my loneliness; my friend Though I am trivial and she sublime. Hard-hearted?—No, tender and pitiful, As all the great are. Every arrogant grief She comforts quietly, and all my joys Dance to her measures through the tolerant night. She talks to me, tells me her troubles too, Just as I tell her mine. Perhaps she feels An ache deep down—that agonizing stab Of grit grating her bearings; then her voice Changes its tune, it wails and calls to me To soothe her anguish, and I run, her slave, Probe like a surgeon and relieve the pain.
We have our jokes too, little mockeries That no one else in all the swarming world Would see the point of. She will laugh at me To show her power: maybe her carbon packings Leak steam, and I run madly back and forth To keep the infernal fiends from breaking loose: Suddenly she will throttle them herself And chuckle softly, far above me there, At my alarms.
But there are moments—hush!— When my turn comes; her slave can be her master, Conquering her he serves. For she’s a woman, Gets bored there on her throne, tired of herself, Tingles with power that turns to wantonness. Suddenly something’s wrong—she laughs at me, Bedevils the frail wires with some mad caress That thrills blind space, calls down ten thousand lightnings To ruin her pomp and set her spirit free. Then with this puny hand, swift as her threat, Must I beat back the chaos, hold in leash Destructive furies, rescue her—even her— From the fierce rashness of her truant mood, And make me lord of far and near a moment, Startling the mystery. Last night I did it— Alone here with my hand upon her heart I faced the mounting fiends and whipped them down; And never a wink from the long file of lamps Betrayed her to the world.