Part 22

I heard them whisper in the quiet room. I longed to open then my sealed eyes, And tell them of the glory that was mine. There was no darkness where my spirit flew, There was no night beyond the teeming world. Their April was like winter where I roamed; Their flowers were like stones where now I fared. Earth’s day! it was as if I had not known What sunlight meant!... Yea, even as they grieved For all that I had lost in their pale place, I swung beyond the borders of the sky, And floated through the clouds, myself the air, Myself the ether, yet a matchless being Whom God had snatched from penury and pain To draw across the barricades of heaven. I clomb beyond the sun, beyond the moon; In flight on flight I touched the highest star; I plunged to regions where the Spring is born, Myself (I asked not how) the April wind, Myself the elements that are of God. Up flowery stairways of eternity I whirled in wonder and untrammeled joy, An atom, yet a portion of His dream— His dream that knows no end.... I was the rain, I was the dawn, I was the purple east, I was the moonlight on enchanted nights, (Yet time was lost to me); I was a flower For one to pluck who loved me; I was bliss, And rapture, splendid moments of delight; And I was prayer, and solitude, and hope; And always, always, always I was love. I tore asunder flimsy doors of time, And through the windows of my soul’s new sight I saw beyond the ultimate bounds of space. I was all things that I had loved on earth— The very moonbeam in that quiet room, The very sunlight one had dreamed I lost, The soul of the returning April grass, The spirit of the evening and the dawn, The perfume in unnumbered hawthorn-blooms. There was no shadow on my perfect peace, No knowledge that was hidden from my heart. I learned what music meant; I read the years; I found where rainbows hide, where tears begin; I trod the precincts of things yet unborn.

Yea, while I found all wisdom (being dead), They grieved for me ... I should have grieved for them!

Louis Untermeyer

LANDSCAPES

The rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of grass appear Vivid and startling—everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere.

The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The goldenrod with all its million fires (A million torches swinging in the wind); A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces, Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field— How bountifully were they all revealed! How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive— So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!

And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose.... Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive And keep the very dirt that died, alive.

And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm or drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, And flying in the wind—her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rushing spirits running over.... What made a sober tree seem such a rover—

Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below? What lit the heart of every golden-glow— Oh, why was nothing weary, dull, or tame?... Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth.

And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise. Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where green Silence laughed or stood enthralled, Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled. The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills— The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea....

A stirring landscape and a generous earth! Freshening courage and benevolent mirth— And then the city, like a hideous sore.... Good God, and what is all this beauty for?

“FEUERZAUBER”

I never knew the earth had so much gold— The fields run over with it, and this hill Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.

Such golden fires, such yellow—lo, how good This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God— This fringe of wood, Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see Your face grow mystical, as on that night You turned to me, And all the trembling world—and you—were white.

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb; The fields absorb you, color you entire.... And you become A goddess standing in a world of fire!

ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD

_Jerome Epstein—August 8, 1912_

Lo—to the battle-ground of life, Child, you have come, like a conquering shout, Out of a struggle—into strife; Out of a darkness—into doubt.

Girt with the fragile armor of youth, Child, you must ride into endless wars, With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth, And a banner of love to sweep the stars.

About you the world’s despair will surge; Into defeat you must plunge and grope— Be to the faltering an urge; Be to the hopeless years a hope!

Be to the darkened world a flame; Be to its unconcern a blow— For out of its pain and tumult you came, And into its tumult and pain you go.

IRONY

Why are the things that have no death The ones with neither sight nor breath! Eternity is thrust upon A bit of earth, a senseless stone. A grain of dust, a casual clod Receives the greatest gift of God. A pebble in the roadway lies— It never dies.

The grass our fathers cut away Is growing on their graves to-day; The tiniest brooks that scarcely flow Eternally will come and go. There is no kind of death to kill The sands that lie so meek and still.... But Man is great and strong and wise— And so he dies.

Allen Upward

SCENTED LEAVES FROM A CHINESE JAR

THE ACACIA LEAVES

The aged man, when he beheld winter approaching, counted the leaves as they lapsed from the acacia trees; while his son was talking of the spring.

THE BITTER PURPLE WILLOWS

Meditating on the glory of illustrious lineage I lifted up my eyes and beheld the bitter purple willows growing round the tombs of the exalted Mings.

THE CORAL FISHER

The coral fisher, who had been a long time beneath the water, rose to the surface with nothing in his hand but a spray of crimson seaweed. In answer to the master of the junk he said, “While I was in the world of fishes this miserable weed appeared to me more beautiful than coral.”

THE DIAMOND

The poet Wong, after he had delighted a company of mandarins at a feast, sat silent in the midst of his household. He explained, “The diamond sparkles only when it is in the light.”

THE ESTUARY

Some one complained to the Master, “After many lessons I do not fully understand your doctrine.” In response the Master pointed to the tide in the mouth of the river, and asked, “How wide is the sea in this place?”

THE INTOXICATED POET

A poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue, spoke thus: “More fragrant than the heliotrope, which blooms all the year round, better than vermilion letters on tablets of sendal, are thy kisses, thou shy one!”

THE JONQUILS

I have heard that a certain princess, when she found that she had been married by a demon, wove a wreath of jonquils and sent it to the lover of former days.

THE MARIGOLD

Even as the seed of the marigold, carried by the wind, lodges on the roofs of palaces, and lights the air with flame-colored blossoms, so may the child-like words of the insignificant poet confer honor on lofty and disdainful mandarins.

THE MERMAID

The sailor boy who leant over the side of the Junk of Many Pearls, and combed the green tresses of the sea with his ivory fingers, believing that he had heard the voice of a mermaid, cast his body down between the waves.

THE MIDDLE KINGDOM

The emperors of fourteen dynasties, clad in robes of yellow silk embroidered with the Dragon, wearing gold diadems set with pearls and rubies, and seated on thrones of incomparable ivory, have ruled over the Middle Kingdom for four thousand years.

THE MILKY WAY

My mother taught me that every night a procession of junks carrying lanterns moves silently across the sky, and the water sprinkled from their paddles falls to the earth in the form of dew. I no longer believe that the stars are junks carrying lanterns, no longer that the dew is shaken from their oars.

THE ONION

The child who threw away leaf after leaf of the many-coated onion, to get to the sweet heart, found in the end that he had thrown away the heart itself.

THE SEA-SHELL

To the passionate lover, whose sighs come back to him on every breeze, all the world is like a murmuring sea-shell.

THE STUPID KITE

A kite, while devouring a skylark, complained, “Had I known that thy flesh was no sweeter than that of a sparrow I should have listened longer to thy delicious notes.”

THE WINDMILL

The exquisite painter Ko-tsu was often reproached by an industrious friend for his fits of idleness. At last he excused himself by saying, “You are a watermill—a windmill can grind only when the wind blows.”

THE WORD

The first time the emperor Han heard a certain Word he said, “It is strange.” The second time he said, “It is divine.” The third time he said, “Let the speaker be put to death.”

John Hall Wheelock

SUNDAY EVENING IN THE COMMON

Look—on the topmost branches of the world The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick; Over the huddled rows of stone and brick A few sad wisps of empty smoke are curled Like ghosts, languid and sick.

One breathless moment now the city’s moaning Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim; There is no sound around the world’s rim, Save in the distance a small band is droning Some desolate old hymn.

Van Wyck, how often have we been together When this same moment made all mysteries clear— The infinite stars that brood above us here, And the gray city in the soft June weather, So tawdry and so dear!

SPRING

The air is full of dawn and spring; Outside the room I see A swallow, like a shaft of light, Shift sideways suddenly.

There is no room for death at all In earth or heaven above; He never yet believed in death Who ever learned to love.

Build me a tomb when I am dead, But leave a window free That I may watch the swallow’s flight, And spring come back to me.

Build me a tomb of steel and stone, But leave one window free, That I may feel the spring come back— And you come back to me!

LIKE MUSIC

Your body’s motion is like music; Her stride ecstatical and bright Moves to the rhythm of dumb music, The unheard music of delight.

The silent splendor of the creation Speaks through your body’s stately strength, And the lithe harmony of beauty Undulates through its lovely length.

And rhythmically your bosom’s arches, Alternately, with every breath Lift lifeward in long lines of beauty And lapse along the slopes of death.

THE THUNDER-SHOWER

The lightning flashed, and lifted The lids of heaven apart, The fiery thunder rolled you All night long through my heart.

From dreams of you at dawn I rose to the window ledge: The storm had passed away, The lake lapped on the sedge.

The lyre of heaven trembled Still with the thought of you, The twilight on the waters, And all my spirit, too.

SONG

All my love for my sweet I bared one day to her. Carelessly she took it, And like a conqueror She bowed the neck of my soul To fit it to her yoke, And bridled the lips of Song— Fear within me awoke! But Love cried: “Swiftly, swiftly Bear her along the road; Beautiful is the goal And Beauty is the goad.”

ALONE

Ah, never in all my life Have I ever fled away From the loneliness that follows My spirit night and day!

Though I fly to the dearest face, It follows without rest— To the kind heart of love, And the belovèd breast.

Though I walk amid the crowd, Still I walk apart; Alone, alone I lie Even at the loved one’s heart.

NIRVANA

Sleep on—I lie at heaven’s high oriels, Over the stars that murmur as they go Lighting your lattice-window far below. And every star some of the glory spells Whereof I know.

I have forgotten you, long long ago; Like the sweet, silver singing of thin bells Vanished, or music fading faint and low. Sleep on—I lie at heaven’s high oriels, Who loved you so.

TRIUMPH OF THE SINGER

I shake my hair in the wind of morning For the joy within me that knows no bounds. I echo backward the vibrant beauty Wherewith heaven’s hollow lute resounds.

I shed my song on the feet of all men, On the feet of all shed out like wine; On the whole and the hurt I shed my bounty, The beauty within me that is not mine.

Turn not away from my song, nor scorn me, Who bear the secret that holds the sky And the stars together; but know within me There speaks another more wise than I.

Nor spurn me here from your heart to hate me, Yet hate me here if you will. Not so Myself you hate, but the love within me That loves you whether you would or no.

Here love returns with love to the lover And beauty unto the heart thereof, And hatred unto the heart of the hater, Whether he would or no, with love!

Hervey White

LAST NIGHT

Last night the full moon laid a cloth of white Within my window, spread upon my bed, And, with her old-time splendor, asked of me To share her harvest supper. I arose, And stepped without to pay my greetings. When, Behold! The old world flowered again, as it had done When I was twenty, at the gate of life; The meadows held untouched their virgin bloom, The darkling trees with gleaming leaves flashed bright, Dewy and pendant till the waiting morn; The shadows lay like cool soft soothing hands Upon the pastures pulsing with sweet June: I, too, was young again, and God was just, And through my blood propelled great future acts— Big things to do, and thoughts, and voice to speak— So potent was the charm of my white queen. It was not till I walked for many miles, And came back weary to my quiet room, That I had once more taken back my years, My cares, my listlessness, and stagnant grief. And, even as I sit in full faced day, My memory faintly shadows out this song.

I SAW THE CLOUDS

I saw the clouds among the hills Trailing their plumes of rainy gray. The purple of the woods behind Fell down to where the valley lay In sweet satiety of rain, With ripened fruit, and full filled grain.

I saw the graves, upon the plain, Of pioneers, who took the land, And tamed the stubborn elements Till they were gentle to the hand. Their children, now in fortune’s ways, Dwell in their father’s palaces.

I saw some old forgotten lays; And treasured volumes I passed by. They were but repetitions cheap For any hucksterer to buy. The clouds, the graves, the worn old song, I bear them in my heart along.

Margaret Widdemer

THE BEGGARS

The little pitiful, worn, laughing faces, Begging of Life for Joy!

I saw the little daughters of the poor, Tense from the long day’s working, strident, gay, Hurrying to the picture-place. There curled A hideous flushed beggar at the door, Trading upon his horror, eyeless, maimed, Complacent in his profitable mask. They mocked his horror, but they gave to him From the brief wealth of pay-night, and went in To the cheap laughter and the tawdry thoughts Thrown on the screen; in to the seeking hand Covered by darkness, to the luring voice Of Horror, boy-masked, whispering of rings, Of silks, of feathers, bought—so cheap!—with just Their slender starved child-bodies, palpitant For beauty, laughter, passion—that is life: (A frock of satin for an hour’s shame, A coat of fur for two days’ servitude; “And the clothes last,” the thought runs on, within The poor warped girl-minds drugged with changeless days; “Who cares or knows after the hour is done?”) —Poor little beggars at Life’s door for Joy!

The old man crouched there, eyeless, horrible, Complacent in the marketable mask That earned his comforts—and they gave to him!

But ah, the little painted, wistful faces Questioning Life for Joy!

TERESINA’S FACE

He saw it last of all before they herded in the steerage, Dark against the sunset where he lingered by the hold, The tear-stained dusk-rose face of her, the little Teresina, Sailing out to lands of gold:

Ah, the days were long, long days, still toiling in the vineyard, Working for the coins that set him free to go to her, Where gay it glowed, the flower face of little Teresina, Where the joy and riches were:

Hard to find one rose-face where the dark rose-faces cluster, Where the outland laws are strange and outland voices hum, (Only one lad’s hoping, and the word of Teresina, Who would wait for him to come!)

· · · · ·

God grant he may not find her, since he might not win her freedom, Nor yet be great enough to love, in such marred, captive wise, The patient, painted face of her, the little Teresina, With its cowed, all-knowing eyes!

GREEK FOLK SONG

Under dusky laurel leaf, Scarlet leaf of rose, I lie prone, who have known All a woman knows.

Love and grief and motherhood, Fame and mirth and scorn— These are all shall befall Any woman born.

Jewel-laden are my hands, Tall my stone above— Do not weep that I sleep, Who was wise in love.

Where I walk, a shadow gray Through gray asphodel, I am glad, who have had All that life can tell.

Florence Wilkinson

OUR LADY OF IDLENESS

They in the darkness gather and ask Her name, the mistress of their endless task.

_The Toilers_

Tinsel-makers in factory gloom, Miners in ethylene pits, Divers and druggists mixing poisonous bloom;

Huge hunters, men of brawn, Half-naked creatures of the tropics, Furred trappers stealing forth at Labrador dawn;

Catchers of beetles, sheep-men in bleak sheds, Pearl-fishers perched on Indian coasts, Children in stifling towers pulling threads;

Dark bunchy women pricking intricate laces, Myopic jewelers’ apprentices, Arabs who chase the long-legged birds in sandy places:

They are her invisible slaves, The genii of her costly wishes, Climbing, descending, running under waves.

They strip earth’s dimmest cell, They burn and drown and stifle To build her inconceivable and fragile shell.

_The Artist-Artisans_

They have painted a miracle-shawl Of cobwebs and whispering shadows, And trellised leaves that ripple on a wall.

They have broidered a tissue of cost, Spun foam of the sea And lilied imagery of the vanishing frost.

Her floating skirts have run Like iridescent marshes, Or like the tossed hair of a stormy sun.

Her silver cloak has shone Blue as a mummy’s beads, Green as the ice-glints of an Arctic zone.

She is weary and has lain At last her body down. What, with her clothing’s beauty, they have slain!

_The Angel With the Sword_

Come, brothers, let us lift Her pitiful body on high, Her tight-shut hands that take to heaven no gift But ashes of costly things. We seven archangels will Bear her in silence on our flame-tipped wings.

_The Toilers_

Lo, she is thinner than fire On a burned mill-town’s edge, And smaller than a young child’s dead desire.

Yea, emptier than the wage Of a spent harlot crying for her beauty, And grayer than the mumbling lips of age.

_A Lost Girl_

White as a drowned one’s feet Twined with the wet sea-bracken, And naked as a Sin driven from God’s littlest street.

STUDENTS