Part 23

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau— ’Twas Toussaint, just a year ago; Crimson and copper was the glow Of all the woods at Fontainebleau. They peered into that ancient well, And watched the slow torch as it fell. John gave the keeper two whole sous, And Jeanne that smile with which she woos John Brown to folly. So they lose The Paris train. But never mind!— All-Saints are rustling in the wind, And there’s an inn, a crackling fire— (It’s _deux-cinquante_, but Jeanne’s desire); There’s dinner, candles, country wine, Jeanne’s lips—philosophy divine! There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud Wherein John’s picture of her grew To be a Salon masterpiece— Till the rain fell that would not cease. Through one long alley how they raced!— ’Twas gold and brown, and all a waste Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced. Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things Were company to their wanderings; Then rain and darkness on them drew. The rich folks’ motors honked and flew. They hailed an old cab, heaven for two; The bright Champs-Elysées at last— Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.

Paris, upspringing white and gold: Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic— Fierce chargers, angels histrionic; The royal sweep of gardened spaces, The pomp and whirl of columned Places; The _Rive Gauche_, age-old, gay and gray; The _impasse_ and the loved café; The tempting tidy little shops; The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops; Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays; Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

May—Robinson’s, the chestnut trees— Were ever crowds as gay as these? The quick pale waiters on a run, The round green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers— Lilac, laburnum’s golden showers. Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred. And then that last extravagance— O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him!—“Let’s play millionaire For just two hours—on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine _A deux_ and pledge across the wine!” They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom. The garçon has a splendid way Of bearing in _grand déjeuner_. Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees— Time waits for moments such as these.

Marguerite Wilkinson

A WOMAN’S BELOVED _A Psalm_

To what shall a woman liken her beloved, And with what shall she compare him to do him honor? He is like the close-folded new leaves of the woodbine, odorless, but sweet, Flushed with a new and swiftly rising life, Strong to grow and give glad shade in summer. Even thus should a woman’s beloved shelter her in time of anguish.

And he is like the young robin, eager to try his wings, For within soft-stirring wings of the spirit has she cherished him, And with the love of the mother bird shall she embolden him, that his flight may avail.

A woman’s beloved is to her as the roots of the willow, Long, strong, white roots, bedded lovingly in the dark. Into the depths of her have gone the roots of his strength and of his pride, That she may nourish him well and become his fulfilment. None may tear him from the broad fields where he is planted!

A woman’s beloved is like the sun rising upon the waters, making the dark places light, And like the morning melody of the pine trees. Truly, she thinks the roses die joyously If they are crushed beneath his feet. A woman’s beloved is to her a great void that she may illumine, A great king that she may crown, a great soul that she may redeem. And he is also the perfecting of life, Flowers for the altar, bread for the lips, wine for the chalice.

You that have known passion, think not that you have fathomed love. It may be that you have never seen love’s face. For love thrusts aside storm-clouds of passion to unveil the heavens, And, in the heart of a woman, only then is love born.

To what shall I liken a woman’s beloved, And with what shall I compare him to do him honor? He is a flower, a song, a struggle, a wild storm, And, at the last, he is redemption, power, joy, fulfilment and perfect peace.

AN INCANTATION

O great sun of heaven, harm not my love; Sear him not with your flame, blind him not with your beauty, Shine for his pleasure!

O gray rains of heaven, harm not my love; Drown not in your torrent the song of his heart, Lave and caress him.

O swift winds of heaven, harm not my love; Bruise not nor buffet him with your rough humor, Sing you his prowess!

O mighty triad, strong ones of heaven, Sun, rain, and wind, be gentle, I charge you— For your mad mood of wrath have me—I am ready— But spare him, my lover, most proud and most dear, O sun, rain and wind, strong ones of heaven!

William Carlos Williams

SICILIAN EMIGRANT’S SONG

_In New York Harbor_

O—eh—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange and fig, The lively sun and the sea breeze at evening? Hey—la! Donna! Donna! Maria!

O—eh—li! La—la! Donna! Donna! Gray is the sky of this land. Gray and green is the water. I see no trees, dost thou? The wind Is cold for the big woman there with the candle. Hey—la! Donna! Donna! Maria!

O—eh—li! O—la! Donna! Donna! I sang thee by the blue waters; I sing thee here in the gray dawning. Kiss, for I put down my guitar; I’ll sing thee more songs after the landing. O Jesu, I love thee! Donna! Donna! Maria!

PEACE ON EARTH

The Archer is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven— Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Bears are abroad! The Eagle is screaming! Gold against blue Their eyes are gleaming! Sleep! Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Sisters lie With their arms intertwining; Gold against blue Their hair is shining! The Serpent writhes! Orion is listening!

Gold against blue His sword is glistening! Sleep! There is hunting in heaven— Sleep safe till tomorrow.

THE SHADOW

Soft as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

Rich as the smell Of new earth on a stone, That has lain, breathing The damp through its pores— Spring closes me in With her blossomy hair; Brings dark to my eyes.

METRIC FIGURE

There is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them— Day is on his wings. Phoenix! It is he that is making The great gleam among the poplars. It is his singing Outshines the noise Of leaves clashing in the wind.

SUB TERRA

Where shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one With the earthy tastes I require: The burrowing pride that rises Subtly as on a bush in May.

Where are you this day— You, my seven-year locusts With cased wings? Ah, my beauties, how I long! That harvest That shall be your advent— Thrusting up through the grass, Up under the weeds, Answering me— That shall be satisfying! The light shall leap and snap That day as with a million lashes!

Oh, I have you! Yes, you are about me in a sense, Playing under the blue pools That are my windows. But they shut you out still There in the half light— For the simple truth is That though I see you clear enough ... You are not there.

It is not that—it is you, You I want, my companions!

God! if I could only fathom The guts of shadows!— You to come with me Poking into negro houses With their gloom and smell! In among children Leaping around a dead dog! Mimicking Onto the lawns of the rich! You! To go with me a-tip-toe Head down under heaven, Nostrils lipping the wind!

SLOW MOVEMENT

All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams: All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them; Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining; Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep finally.

But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate than their night! And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little house of my treasures; For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely faint and sleepy As they are now.

POSTLUDE

Now that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances, Ripples at Philae, in and out, And lips, my Lesbian, Wall flowers that once were flame.

Your hair is my Carthage And my arms the bow, And our words arrows To shoot the stars Who from that misty sea Swarm to destroy us.

But you there beside me— Oh, how shall I defy you, Who wound me in the night With breasts shining Like Venus and like Mars? The night that is shouting Jason When the loud eaves rattle As with waves above me Blue at the prow of my desire.

Charles Erskine Scott Wood

THE POET IN THE DESERT _Extracts from the Prologue_

I have come into the Desert because my soul is athirst as the Desert is athirst; My soul which is the soul of all; universal, not different. We are athirst for the waters which make beautiful the path And entice the grass, the willows and poplars, So that in the heat of the day we may lie in a cool shadow, Soothed as by the hands of quiet women, listening to the discourse of running waters as the voices of women, exchanging the confidences of love.

· · · · ·

The mountains afar girdle the Desert as a zone of amethyst; Pale, translucent walls of opal, Girdling the Desert as Life is girt by Eternity. They lift their heads high above our tribulation Into the azure vault of Time; Theirs are the airy castles which are set upon foundations of sapphire. My soul goes out to them as the bird to her secret nest. They are the abode of peace.

· · · · ·

The flowers bloom in the Desert joyously— They do not weary themselves with questioning; They are careless whether they be seen, or praised. They blossom unto life perfectly and unto death perfectly, leaving nothing unsaid. They spread a voluptuous carpet for the feet of the Wind And to the frolic Breezes which overleap them, they whisper: “Stay a moment, Brother; plunder us of our passion; Our day is short, but our beauty is eternal.”

Never have I found a place, or a season, without beauty. Neither the sea, where the white stallions champ their bits and rear against their bridles, Nor the Desert, bride of the Sun, which sits scornful, apart, Like an unwooed princess, careless, indifferent. She spreads her garments, wonderful beyond estimation, And embroiders continually her mantle. She is a queen, seated on a throne of gold In the Hall of Silence. She insists upon humility. She insists upon meditation. She insists that the soul be free. She requires an answer. She demands the final reply to thoughts which cannot be answered. She lights the sun for a torch And sets up the great cliffs as sentinels: The morning and the evening are curtains before her chambers. She displays the stars as her coronet. She is cruel and invites victims, Restlessly moving her wrists and ankles, Which are loaded with sapphires. Her brown breasts flash with opals. She slays those who fear her, But runs her hand lovingly over the brow of those who know her, Soothing with a voluptuous caress. She is a courtesan, wearing jewels, Enticing, smiling a bold smile; Adjusting her brilliant raiment negligently, Lying brooding upon her floor which is richly carpeted; Her brown thighs beautiful and naked. She toys with the dazzelry of her diadems, Smiling inscrutably. She is a nun, withdrawing behind her veil; Gray, subdued, silent, mysterious, meditative; unapproachable. She is fair as a goddess sitting beneath a flowering peach-tree, beside a clear river.

Her body is tawny with the eagerness of the Sun And her eyes are like pools which shine in deep cañons. She is beautiful as a swart woman, with opals at her throat, Rubies on her wrists and topaz about her ankles. Her breasts are like the evening and the day stars; She sits upon her throne of light, proud and silent, indifferent to her wooers. The Sun is her servitor, the Stars are her attendants, running before her. She sings a song unto her own ears, solitary, but it is sufficient— It is the song of her being. Oh, if I may sing the song of my being it will be sufficient. She is like a jeweled dancer, dancing upon a pavement of gold; Dazzling, so that the eyes must be shaded. She wears the stars upon her bosom and braids her hair with the constellations.

I know the Desert is beautiful, for I have lain in her arms and she has kissed me. I have come to her, that I may know freedom; That I may lie upon the breast of the Mother and breathe the air of primal conditions. I have come out from the haunts of men; From the struggle of wolves upon a carcass, To be melted in Creation’s crucible and be made clean; To know that the law of Nature is freedom.

Edith Wyatt

ON THE GREAT PLATEAU

In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another day— Far and far away—far away.

Slow their floating step, but tireless, terraced down the great Plateau. Towards our ways of steam and wireless, silver-paced the brookbeds go. Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the back-locked river’s ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards, towards horizons blue and bay. All the roofs the roads ensconce so dream of visions far away— Santa Cruz and Ildefonso, Santa Clara, Santa Fé. Ancient, sacred fears and faiths, ancient, sacred faiths and fears— Some were real, some were wraiths—Indian, Franciscan years, Built the Khivas, swung the bells; while the wind sang plain and free, “Turn your eyes from visioned hells!—look as far as you can see!” In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Dying dreams divide and dally, crystal-terraced waters sally— Linger towards another day, far and far away—far away.

As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau, In the hollows left behind them Spanish chapels fade below— Shaded court and low corrals. In the vale the goat-herd browses. Hollyhocks are seneschals by the little buff-walled houses. Over grassy swale and alley have you ever seen it so— Up the Santa Clara Valley, riding on the Great Plateau? Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the trenchèd waters’ ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay. All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away, As you ride near Ildefonso back again to Santa Fé. Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know Half the storied faiths and fears haunting green New Mexico? Only from her open places down arroyos blue and bay,

One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day. Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know, Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau: Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé, Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away— Far and far away—far away.

SUMMER HAIL

Once the heavens’ gabled door Opened: down a stabled floor, Down the thunders, something galloped far and wide, Glancing far and fleet Down the silver street— And I knew of nothing, nothing else beside. _Pitty patty polt— Shoe the wild colt! Here a nail! There a nail! Pitty patty polt!_

Good and badness, die away. Strength and swiftness down the day, Dapple happy down my glancing silver street! Oh, the touch of summer cold!— Beauty swinging quick and bold, Dipping, dappling where the distant roof-tops meet! _Pitty patty polt— Shoe the wild colt!_

Listen, dusty care: Through a magic air, Once I watched the way of perfect splendor ride, Swishing far and gray, Buoyant and gay— And I knew of nothing, nothing else beside. Good and badness, go your ways, Vanish far and fleet. Strength and swiftness run my days, Down my silver street. Little care, forevermore Be you lesser than before. Mighty frozen rain, Come! oh, come again! Let the heavens’ door be rended With the touch of summer cold— Dappling hoof-beats clatter splendid, Infinitely gay and bold! _Pitty patty polt— Shoe the wild colt! Here a nail and there a nail! Pitty patty polt!_

Once the heavens’ gabled door Opened: down the stabled floor, Down the thunders something galloped wide and far; Something dappled far and fleet, Glancing down my silver street, And I saw the ways of life just as they are. _Pitty patty polt— Shoe the wild colt! Here a nail! There a nail! Pitty patty polt!_

TO F. W.

You are my companion Down the silver road, Still and many-changing, Infinitely changing. You are my companion. Something sings in lives— Days of walking on and on, Deep beyond all singing, Wonderful past singing.

Wonderful our road, Long and many-changing, Infinitely changing. This, more wonderful— We are here together, You and I together, I am your companion; You are my companion, My own, true companion.

Let the road-side fade: Morning on the mountain-top, Hours along the valley, Days of walking on and on, Pulse away in silence, In eternal silence. Let the world all fade, Break and pass away. Yet will this remain, Deep beyond all singing, My own true companion, Beautiful past singing: We were here together— On this earth together; I was your companion, You were my companion, My own true companion.

A CITY AFTERNOON

Green afternoon serene and bright, along my street you sail away Sun-dappled like a ship of light that glints upon a rippled bay. Afar, freight-engines call and toll; the sprays flash on the fragrant grass; The children and the nurses stroll; the charging motors plunge and pass. Invisibly the shadows grow, empurpling in a rising tide The walks where light-gowned women go, white curb, gray asphalt iris-dyed. A jolting trolley shrills afar; nasturtiums blow, and ivy vines; Wet scents of turf and black-smoothed tar float down the rooftrees’ vergent lines. Where will you go, my afternoon, that glints so still and swift away, Blue-shaded like a ship of light bound outward from a wimpled bay? Oh—thrilling, pulsing, dark and bright, shall you, your work, your pain, your mirth, Fly into the immortal night and silence of our mother earth? She bore all Eden’s green and dew, and Persia’s scented wine and rose, And, flowering white against the blue, acanthus leaf and marbled pose. And deep the Maenad’s choric dance, Crusader’s cross, and heathen crest Lie sunk with rose and song and lance all veiled and vanished in her breast.

And all those afternoons once danced and sparkled in the sapphire light And iris shade as you have glanced, green afternoon, in vibrant flight.

As, down dim vistas, echoing, dead afternoons entreat our days, What breath of beauty will you sing to souls unseen and unknown ways? How close and how unanswering, green afternoon, you pulse away, So little and so great a thing—deep towards the bourne of every day.

BIBLIOGRAPHY