Part 18
So-Kin of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember That you built me a special tavern, By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin. With yellow gold and white jewels we paid for the songs and laughter, And we were drunk for month after month, forgetting the kings and princes. Intelligent men came drifting in, from the sea and from the west border, And with them, and with you especially, there was nothing at cross-purpose; And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of mountain-crossing, If only they could be of that fellowship. And we all spoke out our hearts and minds ... and without regret. And then I was sent off to South Wei, smothered in laurel groves, And you to the north of Raku-hoku, Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories between us. And when separation had come to its worst We met, and travelled together into Sen-Go Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters; Into a valley of a thousand bright flowers ... that was the first valley, And on into ten thousand valleys full of voices and pine-winds. With silver harness and reins of gold, prostrating themselves on the ground, Out came the East-of-Kan foreman and his company; And there came also the “True-man” of Shi-yo to meet me, Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ. In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us more Sennin music; Many instruments, like the sound of young phœnix broods. And the foreman of Kan-Chu, drunk, Danced because his long sleeves Wouldn’t keep still, with that music playing. And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap, And my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens.
And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars or rain. I had to be off to So, far away over the waters, You back to your river-bridge. And your father, who was brave as a leopard, Was governor in Hei Shu and put down the barbarian rabble. And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance; And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going ... Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts. And I was still going, late in the year, in the cutting wind from the north, And thinking how little you cared for the cost ... and you caring enough to pay it. Then what a reception! Red jade cups, food well set, on a blue jewelled table; And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning; And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle, To the dynastic temple, with the water about it clear as blue jade, With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums, With ripples like dragon-scales going grass-green on the water, Pleasure lasting, with courtezans going and coming without hindrance, With the willow-flakes falling like snow, And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset, And the waters a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows— Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight, Gracefully painted—and the girls singing back at each other, Dancing in transparent brocade, And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it, Tossing it up under the clouds.
And all this comes to an end, And is not again to be met with. I went up to the court for examination, Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyu song, And got no promotion, And went back to the East Mountains white-headed.
And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head. And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace. And if you ask how I regret that parting? It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end, confused, whirled in a tangle. What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking— There is no end of things in the heart.
I call in the boy, Have him sit on his knees to write and seal this, And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.
(_Translated by Ezra Pound from the notes of the late Ernest Fenollosa, and the decipherings of the Professors Mori and Araga._)
John Reed
SANGAR
_To Lincoln Steffens_
Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale Smelling of war; most curiously named _The Mad Recreant Knight of the West_. Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong Harried the weak ... Long past, long past, praise God, In these fair, peaceful, happy days.
_The Tale_:
Eastward the Huns break border, Surf on a rotten dyke; They have murdered the Eastern Warder (His head on a pike). “Arm thee, arm thee, my father! Swift rides the Goddes-bane, And the high nobles gather On the plain!”
“O blind world-wrath!” cried Sangar, “Greatly I killed in youth; I dreamed men had done with anger Through Goddes truth!” Smiled the boy then in faint scorn, Hard with the battle-thrill; “Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn And shrill!”
He has bowed to the voice stentorian, Sick with thought of the grave— He has called for his battered morion And his scarred glaive. On the boy’s helm a glove Of the Duke’s daughter— In his eyes splendor of love And slaughter.
Hideous the Hun advances Like a sea-tide on sand; Unyielding, the haughty lances Make dauntless stand. And ever amid the clangor, Butchering Hun and Hun, With sorrowful face rides Sangar And his son....
Broken is the wild invader (Sullied, the whole world’s fountains); They have penned the murderous raider With his back to the mountains. Yet though what had been mead Is now a bloody lake, Still drink swords where men bleed, Nor slake.
Now leaps one into the press— The hell ’twixt front and front— Sangar, bloody and torn of dress (He has borne the brunt). “Hold!” cries, “Peace! God’s peace! Heed ye what Christus says—” And the wild battle gave surcease In amaze.
“When will ye cast out hate? Brothers—my mad, mad brothers— Mercy, ere it be too late, These are sons of your mothers. For sake of Him who died on Tree, Who of all creatures, loved the least—” “Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!” Cried a priest.
“Peace!” and with his two hands Has broken in twain his glaive. Weaponless, smiling he stands— (Coward or brave?) “Traitor!” howls one rank, “Think ye The Hun be our brother?” And “Fear we to die, craven, think ye?” The other.
Then sprang his son to his side, His lips with slaver were wet, For he had felt how men died And was lustful yet; (On his bent helm a glove Of the Duke’s daughter, In his eyes splendor of love And slaughter)—
Shouting, “Father no more of mine! Shameful old man—abhorr’d, First traitor of all our line!” Up the two-handed sword. He smote—fell Sangar—and then Screaming, red, the boy ran Straight at the foe, and again Hell began....
Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came. Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds, And God the Father healed him of despair, And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed....
Ernest Rhys
DAGONET’S CANZONET
A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And sunshine was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remember’d still the light; _My soul, was she not fair!_
But for her eyes—they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself transmuted there Light blue, or deeper blue; _My soul, was she not fair!_
The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: _O soul, was she not fair!_
A SONG OF HAPPINESS
Ah, Happiness: Who called you “Earandel”? (Winter-star, I think, that is); And who can tell the lovely curve By which you seem to come, then swerve Before you reach the middle-earth? And who is there can hold your wing, Or bind you in your mirth, Or win you with a least caress, Or tear, or kiss, or anything— Insensate Happiness?
Once I thought to have you Fast there in a child: All her heart she gave you, Yet you would not stay. Cruel, and careless, Not half reconciled, Pain you cannot bear; When her yellow hair Lay matted, every tress; When those looks of hers, Were no longer hers, You went: in a day She wept you all away.
Once I thought to give You, plighted, holily— No more fugitive, Returning like the sea: But they that share so well Heaven must portion Hell In their copartnery: Care, ill fate, ill health, Came we know not how And broke our commonwealth. Neither has you now.
Some wait you on the road, Some in an open door Look for the face you showed Once there—no more. You never wear the dress You danced in yesterday; Yet, seeming gone, you stay, And come at no man’s call: Yet, laid for burial, You lift up from the dead Your laughing, spangled head.
Yes, once I did pursue You, unpursuable; Loved, longed for, hoped for you— Blue-eyed and morning brow’d. Ah, lovely Happiness! Now that I know you well, I dare not speak aloud Your fond name in a crowd; Nor conjure you by night, Nor pray at morning-light, Nor count at all on you:
But, at a stroke, a breath, After the fear of death, Or bent beneath a load; Yes, ragged in the dress, And houseless on the road, I might surprise you there. Yes: who of us shall say When you will come, or where? Ask children at their play, The leaves upon the tree, The ships upon the sea, Or old men who survived, And lived, and loved, and wived. Ask sorrow to confess Your sweet improvidence, And prodigal expense And cold economy, Ah, lovely Happiness!
Edwin Arlington Robinson
THE MASTER
_Lincoln as he appeared to one soon after the Civil War_
A flying word from here and there Had sown the name at which we sneered, But soon the name was everywhere, To be reviled and then revered: A presence to be loved and feared, We cannot hide it, or deny That we, the gentlemen who jeered, May be forgotten by and by.
He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled, And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled. Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.
He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait— The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.
We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through; But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do. And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed?— It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.
The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured, to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung. Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among The mysteries that are untold— The face we see was never young, Nor could it ever have been old.
For he, to whom we had applied Our shopman’s test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died, As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic—and Olympian.
The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own: With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept, Icarian wings.
For we were not as other men: ’Twas ours to soar and his to see. But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our perigee And have one Titan at a time.
JOHN GORHAM
“Tell me what you’re doing over here, John Gorham— Sighing hard and seeming to be sorry when you’re not. Make me laugh or let me go now, for long faces in the moonlight Are a sign for me to say again a word that you forgot.”
“I’m over here to tell you what the moon already May have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago; I’m over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland, And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so.”
“Tell me what you’re saying to me now, John Gorham, Or you’ll never see as much of me as ribbons any more; I’ll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers, And you’ll not follow far for one where flocks have been before.”
“I’m sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland; But you’re the one to make of them as many as you need. And then about the vanishing: it’s I who mean to vanish; And when I’m here no longer you’ll be done with me indeed.”
“That’s a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham! How am I to know myself until I make you smile? Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you, And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while.”
“You are what it is that over rose-blown gardens Makes a pretty flutter for a season in the sun. You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland, Catches him and let’s him go and eats him up for fun.”
“Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham. All you say is easy, but so far from being true That I wish you wouldn’t ever be again the one to think so; For it isn’t cats and butterflies that I would be to you.”
“All your little animals are in one picture— One I’ve had before me since a year ago to-night; And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland, Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight.”
“Won’t you ever see me as I am, John Gorham, Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant? Somewhere in me there’s a woman, if you know the way to find her— Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?”
“I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland; And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as well Fall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten, As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell.”
RICHARD CORY
Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, “Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king, And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
THE GROWTH OF LORRAINE
I
While I stood listening, discreetly dumb, Lorraine was having the last word with me: “I know,” she said, “I know it, but you see Some creatures are born fortunate, and some Are born to be found out and overcome— Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free; And if I’m one of them (and I must be) You may as well forget me and go home.
“You tell me not to say these things, I know, But I should never try to be content: I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow. Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff; But I can’t do it—I don’t know enough. I’m going to the devil.” And she went.
II
I did not half believe her when she said That I should never hear from her again; Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine, Was I surprised or grieved at what I read: “Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead. You are too far away to make me stop. They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!— Will be enough; but I’ll take five instead.
“You do not frown because I call you friend; For I would have you glad that I still keep Your memory, and even at the end— Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curse The love that flings, for better or for worse, This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”
CASSANDRA
I heard one who said: “Verily, What word have I for children here? Your Dollar is your only Word, The wrath of it your only fear.
“You build it altars tall enough To make you see, but you are blind; You cannot leave it long enough To look before you or behind.
“When Reason beckons you to pause, You laugh and say that you know best; But what it is you know, you keep As dark as ingots in a chest.
“You laugh and answer, ‘We are young; Oh, leave us now, and let us grow:’ Not asking how much more of this Will Time endure or Fate bestow.
“Because a few complacent years Have made your peril of your pride, Think you that you are to go on Forever pampered and untried?
“What lost eclipse of history, What bivouac of the marching stars, Has given the sign for you to see Millenniums and last great wars?
“What unrecorded overthrow Of all the world has ever known, Or ever been, has made itself So plain to you, and you alone?
“Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle make A Trinity that even you Rate higher than you rate yourselves; It pays, it flatters, and it’s new.
“And though your very flesh and blood Be what your Eagle eats and drinks, You’ll praise him for the best of birds, Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.
“The power is yours, but not the sight; You see not upon what you tread; You have the ages for your guide, But not the wisdom to be led.
“Think you to tread forever down The merciless old verities? And are you never to have eyes To see the world for what it is?
“Are you to pay for what you have With all you are?”—No other word We caught, but with a laughing crowd Moved on. None heeded, and few heard.
Carl Sandburg
CHICAGO
Hog-Butcher for the World, Tool-maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight-handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked, and I answer, Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is, On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of youth; half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog-butcher, Tool-maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads, and Freight-handler to the Nation.
THE HARBOR