Part 16

So there she sits, Mounted on all the ages, at the peak Of time. The first man dreamed of light, and dug The sodden ignorance away, and cursed The darkness; young primeval races dragged Foundation stones, and piled into the void Rage and desire; the Greek mounted and sang Promethean songs and lit a signal fire: The Roman bent his iron will to forge Deep furnaces; slow epochs riveted With hope the secret chambers: till at last We, you and I, this living age of ours, A new-winged Mercury, out of the skies Filch the wild spirit of light, and chain him there To do her will forever.

Look, my friend, Here is a sign! What is this crystal sphere— This little bulb of glass I lightly lift, This iridescent bubble a child might blow Out of its brazen pipe to hold the sun— What strange toy is it? In my hand it lies Cold and inert, its puny artery— That curling cobweb film—ashen and dead. But now—a twist or two—let it but touch The hem, far trailing, of my lady’s robe, And look, the burning life-blood of the stars Leaps to its heart, and glows against the dark, Kindling the world.

Even so I touch her garment, Her servant through the quiet night; and thus I lay my hand upon the Pleiades And feel their throb of fire. Grandly she gives To me unworthy; woman inscrutable, Scatters her splendors through my darkness, leads me Far out into the workshop of the worlds. There I can feel those infinite energies Our little earth just gnaws at through the ether, And see the light our sunshine hides. Out there, Close to the heart of life, I am at peace.

ON THE PORCH

As I lie roofed in, screened in, From the pattering rain, The summer rain— As I lie Snug and dry, And hear the birds complain:

Oh, billow on billow, Oh, roar on roar, Over me wash The seas of war. Over me—down—down— Lunges and plunges The huge gun with its one blind eye, The armored train, And, swooping out of the sky, The aeroplane.

Down—down— The army proudly swinging Under gay flags, The glorious dead heaped up like rags, A church with bronze bells ringing, A city all towers, Gardens of lovers and flowers, The round world swinging In the light of the sun: All broken, undone, All down—under Black surges of thunder ...

Oh, billow on billow Oh, roar on roar, Over me wash The seas of war ...

As I lie roofed in, screened in, From the pattering rain, The summer rain— As I lie Snug and dry, And hear the birds complain.

THE WONDER OF IT

How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be! That the insensate rock dared dream of me, And take to bursting out and burgeoning— Oh, long ago—yo ho!— And wearing green! How stark and strange a thing That life should be!

Oh, mystic mad, a rigadoon of glee, That dust should rise, and leap alive, and flee A-foot, a-wing, and shake the deeps with cries— Oh, far away—yo-hay! What moony masque, what arrogant disguise That life should be!

THE INNER SILENCE

Noises that strive to tear Earth’s mantle soft of air And break upon the stillness where it dwells: The noise of battle and the noise of prayer, The cooing noise of love that softly tells Joy’s brevity, the brazen noise of laughter— All these affront me not, nor echo after Through the long memories. They may not enter the deep chamber where Forever silence is.

Silence more soft than spring hides in the ground Beneath her budding flowers; Silence more rich than ever was the sound Of harps through long warm hours. It’s like a hidden vastness, even as though Great suns might there beat out their measures slow, Nor break the hush mightier than they. There do I dwell eternally, There where no thought may follow me, Nor stillest dreams whose pinions plume the way.

LOVE SONG

I love my life, but not too well To give it to thee like a flower, So it may pleasure thee to dwell Deep in its perfume but an hour. I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well To sing it note by note away, So to thy soul the song may tell The beauty of the desolate day. I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well To cast it like a cloak on thine, Against the storms that sound and swell Between thy lonely heart and mine. I love my life, but not too well.

A FAREWELL

Good-by!—no, do not grieve that it is over, The perfect hour; That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover, Flits from the flower.

Grieve not—it is the law. Love will be flying— Oh, love and all. Glad was the living—blessed be the dying! Let the leaves fall.

LULLABY

My little one, sleep softly Among the toys and flowers. Sleep softly, O my first-born son, Through all the long dark hours. And if you waken far away I shall be wandering too. If far away you run and play My heart must follow you.

Sleep softly, O my baby, And smile down in your sleep. Here are red rose-buds for your bed— Smile, and I will not weep. We made our pledge—you did not fear To go—why then should I? Though long you sleep, I shall be near; So hush—we must not cry.

Sleep softly, dear one, softly— They can not part us now; Forever rest here on my breast, My kiss upon your brow. What though they hide a little grave With dream-flowers false or true? What difference? We will just be brave Together—I and you.

PAIN

She heard the children playing in the sun, And through her window saw the white-stemmed trees Sway like a film of silver in the breeze Under the purple hills; and one by one She noted chairs and cabinets, and spun The pattern of her bed’s pale draperies: Yet all the while she knew that each of these Was a dull lie, in irony begun. For down in hell she lay, whose livid fires Love may not quench, whose pangs death may not quell. The round immensity of earth and sky Shrank to a point that speared her. Loves, desires, Darkened to torturing ministers of hell, Whose mockery of joy deepened the lie.

Little eternities the black hours were, That no beginning knew, that knew no end. Day waned, and night came like a faithless friend, Bringing no joy; till slowly over her A numbness grew, and life became a blur, A silence, an oblivion, a dark blend Of dim lost agonies, whose downward trend Led into time’s eternal sepulchre. And yet, when, after aeons infinite Of dark eclipse she woke—lo, it was day! The pictures hung upon the walls, each one; Under the same rose-patterned coverlet She lay; spring was still young, and still the play Of happy children sounded in the sun.

THE WATER OUZEL

Little brown surf-bather of the mountains! Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters! Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges— Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers? How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty— Tall, white-limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down, over the cliff? Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains? Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timber-line, in bushes that hug the rocks? Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them? Must you batter your wings in the torrent? Must you plunge for life or death through the foam?

THE PINE AT TIMBER-LINE

What has bent you, Warped and twisted you, Torn and crippled you?— What has embittered you, O lonely tree?

You search the rocks for a footing, dragging scrawny roots; You bare your thin breast to the storms, and fling out wild arms behind you; You throw back your witch-like head, with wisps of hair stringing the wind.

You fight with the snows, You rail and shriek at the tempests. Old before your time, you challenge the cold stars.

Be still, be satisfied! Stand straight like your brothers in the valley, The soft green valley of summer down below.

Why front the endless winter of the peak? Why seize the lightning in your riven hands? Why cut the driven wind and shriek aloud?

Why tarry here?

MOUNTAIN SONG

I have not where to lay my head; Upon my breast no child shall lie; For me no marriage feast is spread: I walk alone under the sky.

My staff and scrip I cast away— Light-burdened to the mountain height! Climbing the rocky steep by day, Kindling my fire against the night.

The bitter hail shall flower the peak, The icy wind shall dry my tears. Strong shall I be, who am but weak, When bright Orion spears my fears.

Under the horned moon I shall rise Up-swinging on the scarf of dawn. The sun, searching with level eyes, Shall take my hand and lead me on.

Wide flaming pinions veil the West— Ah, shall I find? and shall I know? My feet are bound upon the Quest— Over the Great Divide I go.

John G. Neihardt

PRAYER FOR PAIN

I do not pray for peace nor ease, Nor truce from sorrow: No suppliant on servile knees Begs here against to-morrow!

Lean flame against lean flame we flash, O Fates that meet me fair; Blue steel against blue steel we clash— Lay on, and I shall dare!

But Thou of deeps the awful Deep, Thou Breather in the clay, Grant this my only prayer—Oh, keep My soul from turning gray!

For until now, whatever wrought Against my sweet desires, My days were smitten harps strung taut, My nights were slumberous lyres.

And howsoe’er the hard blow rang Upon my battered shield, Some lark-like, soaring spirit sang Above my battle-field.

And through my soul of stormy night The zigzag blue flame ran. I asked no odds—I fought my fight— Events against a man.

But now—at last—the gray mist chokes And numbs me. Leave me pain! Oh, let me feel the biting strokes, That I may fight again!

ENVOI

Oh, seek me not within a tomb— Thou shalt not find me in the clay! I pierce a little wall of gloom To mingle with the day!

I brothered with the things that pass, Poor giddy joy and puckered grief; I go to brother with the grass And with the sunning leaf.

Not death can sheathe me in a shroud; A joy-sword whetted keen with pain, I join the armies of the cloud, The lightning and the rain.

Oh, subtle in the sap athrill, Athletic in the glad uplift, A portion of the cosmic will, I pierce the planet-drift.

My God and I shall interknit As rain and ocean, breath and air; And oh, the luring thought of it Is prayer!

Yone Noguchi

THE POET

Out of the deep and the dark, A sparkling mystery, a shape, Something perfect, Comes like the stir of the day: One whose breath is an odor, Whose eyes show the road to stars, The breeze in his face, The glory of heaven on his back. He steps like a vision hung in air, Diffusing the passion of eternity; His abode is the sunlight of morn, The music of eve his speech: In his sight, One shall turn from the dust of the grave, And move upward to the woodland.

I HAVE CAST THE WORLD

I have cast the world, and think me as nothing. Yet I feel cold on snow-falling day, And happy on flower day.

Grace Fallow Norton

ALLEGRA AGONISTES

A gleam of gold in gloom and gray, A call from out a fairer day. O pang at heart and ebbing blood! (Hush, bread and salt should be thy mood, Stern woman of the Brotherhood.)

Clamor of golden tones and tunes, Hunt of faint horns, breath of bassoons; They wound my soul again; I lie Face earthward in fresh agony. Oh, give me joy before I die!

World, world, I could have danced for thee, And I had tales and minstrelsy; Kept fairer, I had been more good. (Hush, bread and salt should be thy mood, Soul of the breadless Brotherhood.)

Some thou hast formed to play thy part, The bold, the cold, the hard of heart. Thy rue upon my lips I toss. Rose was my right. O world, the loss, When Greek limbs writhe upon the cross!

MAKE NO VOWS

I made a vow once, one only. I was young and I was lonely. When I grew strong I said: “This vow Is too narrow for me now. Who am I to be bound by old oaths? I will change them as I change my clothes!”

But that ancient outworn vow Was like fetters upon me now. It was hard to break, hard to break; Hard to shake from me, hard to shake.

I broke it by day, but it closed upon me at night. He is not free who is free only in the sun-light. He is not free who bears fetters in his dreams, Nor he who laughs only by dark dream-fed streams.

Oh, it costs much bright coin of strength to live! Watch, then, where all your strength you give! For I, who would be so wild and wondrous now, Must give, give, to break a burdening bitter vow.

I GIVE THANKS

There’s one that I once loved so much I am no more the same. I give thanks for that transforming touch. I tell you not his name.

He has become a sign to me For flowers and for fire. For song he is a sign to me And for the broken lyre.

And I have known him in a book And never touched his hand. And he is dead—I need not look For him through his green land.

Heaven may not be. I have no faith, But this desire I have— To take my soul on my last breath, To lift it like a wave,

And surge unto his star and say, His friendship had been heaven; And pray, for clouds that closed his day May light at last be given!

And say, he shone at noon so bright I learned to run and rejoice! And beg him for one last delight— The true sound of his voice.

There’s one that once moved me so much I am no more the same; And I pray I too, I too, may touch Some heart with singing flame.

James Oppenheim

THE SLAVE

They set the slave free, striking off his chains.... Then he was as much of a slave as ever.

He was still chained to servility, He was still manacled to indolence and sloth, He was still bound by fear and superstition, By ignorance, suspicion, and savagery ... His slavery was not in the chains, But in himself ...

They can only set free men free ... And there is no need of that: Free men set themselves free.

THE LONELY CHILD

Do you think, my boy, when I put my arms around you To still your fears, That it is I who conquer the dark and the lonely night?

My arms seem to wrap love about you, As your little heart fluttering at my breast Throbs love through me ...

But, dear one, it is not your father: Other arms are about you, drawing you near, And drawing the Earth near, and the Night near, And your father near....

Some day you shall lie alone at nights, As now your father lies; And in those arms, as a leaf fallen on a tranquil stream, Drift into dreams and healing sleep.

NOT OVERLOOKED

Though I am little as all little things, Though the stars that pass over my tininess are as the sands of the sea, Though the garment of the night was made for a sky-giant and does not fit me, Though even in a city of men I am as nothing, Yet at times the gift of life is almost more than I can bear.... I laugh with joyousness, the morning is a blithe holiday; And in the overrunning of my hardy bliss praise rises for the very breath I breathe.

How soaked the universe is with life— Not a cranny but is drenched! Ah, not even I was overlooked!

THE RUNNER IN THE SKIES

Who is the runner in the skies, With her blowing scarf of stars, And our earth and sun hovering like bees about her blossoming heart! Her feet are on the winds where space is deep; Her eyes are nebulous and veiled; She hurries through the night to a far lover.

Patrick Orr

ANNIE SHORE AND JOHNNIE DOON

Annie Shore, ’twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.

I’d be forgetting Annie’s singing— I’d not have thought again— But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words, cheap music, And innocence in pain.

They sentenced Johnnie Doon today For murder, stark and grim; Death’s none too dear a price, they say, For such-like men as him to pay; No need to pity him!

And Johnnie Doon I’d not be pitying— I could forget him now— But for the childish look of trouble That fell across his brow, For the twisting hands he looked at dumbly As if they’d sinned, he knew not how.

IN THE MOHAVE

As I rode down the arroyo through yuccas belled with bloom I saw a last year’s stalk lift dried hands to the light, Like age at prayer for death within a careless room, Like one by day o’ertaken, whose sick desire is night.

And as I rode I saw a lean coyote lying All perfect as in life upon a silver dune, Save that his feet no more could flee the harsh light’s spying, Save that no more his shadow would cleave the sinking moon.

O cruel land, where form endures, the spirit fled! You chill the sun for me with your gray sphinx’s smile, Brooding in the bright silence above your captive dead, Where beat the heart of life so brief, so brief a while!

Seumas O’Sullivan

MY SORROW

My sorrow that I am not by the little dun, By the lake of the starlings at Rosses under the hill— And the larks there, singing over the fields of dew, Or evening there, and the sedges still! For plain I see now the length of the yellow sand, And Lissadell far off and its leafy ways, And the holy mountain whose mighty heart Gathers into it all the colored days. My sorrow that I am not by the little dun, By the lake of the starlings at evening when all is still— And still in whispering sedges the herons stand. ’Tis there I would nestle at rest till the quivering moon Uprose in the golden quiet over the hill.

SPLENDID AND TERRIBLE

Splendid and terrible your love. The searing pinions of its flight Flamed but a moment’s space above The place where ancient memories keep Their quiet; and the dreaming deep Moved inly with a troubled light, And that old passion woke and stirred Out of its sleep.

Splendid and terrible your love. I hold it to me like a flame; I hold it like a flame above The empty anguish of my breast. There let it stay, there let it rest— Deep in the heart whereto it came Of old as some wind-wearied bird Drops to its nest.

THE OTHERS

From our hidden places, By a secret path, We come in the moonlight To the side of the green rath.

There the night through We take our pleasure, Dancing to such a measure As earth never knew.

To dance and lilt And song without a name, So sweetly chanted ’Twould put a bird to shame.

And many a maiden Is there, of mortal birth, Her young eyes laden With dreams of earth.

Music so piercing wild And forest-sweet would bring Silence on blackbirds singing Their best in the ear of spring.

And many a youth entrancèd Moves slow in the dreamy round, His brave lost feet enchanted With the rhythm of faery sound.

Oh, many a thrush and blackbird Would fall to the dewy ground, And pine away in silence For envy of such a sound.

So the night through, In our sad pleasure, We dance to many a measure That earth never knew.

Josephine Preston Peabody

CRADLE SONG

I

Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy’s Cheek lies heavy as a rose, And his eyelids close?