Part 4

Perhaps it is no matter that you died. Life’s an _incognito_ which you saw through: You never told on life—you had your pride; But life has told on you.

DIALOGUE

Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate, And when he enters let him be at home. Think of the roads that he has had to roam. Think of the years that he has had to wait.

_But if I let Love in I shall be late. Another has come first—there is no room. And I am thoughtful of the endless loom— Let Love be patient, the importunate._

O Life, be idle and let Love come in, And give thy dreamy hair that Love may spin. _But Love himself is idle with his song. Let Love come last, and then may Love last long._

Be patient, Life, for Love is not the last. Be patient now with Death, for Love has passed.

SONG OF THE SOULS SET FREE

Wrap the earth in cloudy weather For a shroud. We have slipped the earthly tether, We’re above the cloud. Peep and draw the cloud together, Peep upon the bowed.

What can they be bowing under, Wild and wan? Peep, and draw the cloud asunder, Peep, and wave a dawn. It will make them rise and wonder Whether we are gone.

Wilton Agnew Barrett

A NEW ENGLAND CHURCH

The white church on the hill Looks over the little bay— A beautiful thing on the hill When the mist is gray; When the hill looks old, and the air turns cold With the dying day!

The white church on the hill— A Greek in a Puritan town— Was built on the brow of the hill For John Wesley’s God’s renown, And a conscience old set a steeple cold On its Grecian crown.

In a storm of faith on the hill Hands raised it over the bay. When the night is clear on the hill, It stands up strong and gray; But its door is old, and the tower points cold To the Milky Way.

The white church on the hill Looks lonely over the town. Dim to them under the hill Is its God’s renown, And its Bible old, and its creed grown cold, And the letters brown.

Joseph Warren Beach

RUE BONAPARTE

You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee, When you have passed the bar, and have saluted Its watchful madam, then pray enter softly The inner chamber, even as one who treads The haunts of mating birds, and watch discreetly Over your paper’s edge. There in the corner, Obscure, ensconced behind the uncovered table, A man and woman keep their silent tryst. Outside the morning floods the pavement sweetly; Yonder aloft a maid throws back the shutters; The hucksters utter modulated cries As wistful as some old pathetic ballad. Within the brooding lovers, unaware, Sit quiet hand in hand, or in low whispers Communicate a more articulate love. Sometimes she plays with strings and, gently leaning Against his shoulder, shows him childish tricks. She has not touched the glass of milk before her, Her breakfast and the price of their admittance. She has a look devoted and confiding And might be pretty were not life so hard. But he, gaunt as his rusty bicycle That stands against the table, and with features So drawn and stark, has only futile strength. The love they cherish in this stolen meeting Through all the day that follows makes her sweeter, And him perhaps it only leaves more bitter. But you that have not love at all, old men That warm your fingers by this fire, discreetly Play out your morning game of dominoes.

THE VIEW AT GUNDERSON’S

Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea, Gazing from his window, this is what you see:

A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading down By log-built shanties gray and brown;

The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fence Of rough-hewn pickets standing dense;

The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day; And the blanket fog where lies the bay.

But when he’s seen the last of you, Sitting in his rocker, what’s _his_ view?

(For there he sits, day in, day out, Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)

The snow-slide up behind the _gaard_; The farm beside old Trondjem _fjord_;

Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes, And the great pine where his father lies;

The boat that brought him over the sea; And the toothless woman who makes his tea.

(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall, Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)

He sees the balsam thick on the hill, And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.

And last he sees the full-grown son For whom he hoards what he has won.

You saw little worth the strife: What he sees is one man’s life.

William Rose Benét

THE FALCONER OF GOD

I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying. I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below! I shall start a heron soon In the marsh beneath the moon— A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings, Rising and crying Wordless, wondrous things; The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings The answer to their woe. Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”

My wild soul waited on as falcons hover. I beat the reedy fens as I trampled past. I heard the mournful loon In the marsh beneath the moon. And then, with feathery thunder, the bird of my desire Broke from the cover Flashing silver fire. High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire. The pale clouds gazed aghast As my falcon stooped upon him, and gript and held him fast.

My soul dropped through the air—with heavenly plunder?— Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew? Nay! but a piteous freight, A dark and heavy weight Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled— All of the wonder Gone that ever filled Its guise with glory. O bird that I have killed, How brilliantly you flew Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!

Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor, And I ride the world below with a joyful mind. _I shall start a heron soon In the marsh beneath the moon— A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!_ I beat forever The fens and the sedges. The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges, All hopes resigned! My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find!

THE HORSE THIEF

There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyon’s lip. His mane was mixed with the moonlight that silvered his snow-white side, For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the wake of a spectral ship. I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my lariat coil looped wide.

Dimly and dark the mesas broke on the starry sky. A pall covered every color of their gorgeous glory at noon. I smelt the yucca and mesquite, and stifled my heart’s quick cry, And wormed and crawled on my belly to where he moved against the moon!

Some Moorish barb was that mustang’s sire. His lines were beyond all wonder. From the prick of his ears to the flow of his tail he ached in my throat and eyes. Steel and velvet grace! As the prophet says, God had “clothed his neck with thunder.” Oh, marvelous with the drifting cloud he drifted across the skies!

And then I was near at hand—crouched, and balanced, and cast the coil; And the moon was smothered in cloud, and the rope through my hands with a rip! But somehow I gripped and clung, with the blood in my brain aboil,— With a turn round the rugged tree-stump there on the purple canyon’s lip.

Right into the stars he reared aloft, his red eye rolling and raging. He whirled and sunfished and lashed, and rocked the earth to thunder and flame. He squealed like a regular devil horse. I was haggard and spent and aging— Roped clean, but almost storming clear, his fury too fierce to tame.

And I cursed myself for a tenderfoot moon-dazzled to play the part, But I was doubly desperate then, with the posse pulled out from town, Or I’d never have tried it. I only knew I must get a mount and a start. The filly had snapped her foreleg short. I had had to shoot her down.

So there he struggled and strangled, and I snubbed him around the tree. Nearer, a little nearer—hoofs planted, and lolling tongue— Till a sudden slack pitched me backward. He reared right on top of me. Mother of God—that moment! He missed me ... and up I swung.

Somehow, gone daft completely and clawing a bunch of his mane, As he stumbled and tripped in the lariat, there I was—up and astride And cursing for seven counties! And the mustang? _Just insane!_ Crack-bang! went the rope; we cannoned off the tree—then—gods, that ride!

A rocket—that’s all, a rocket! I dug with my teeth and nails. Why, we never hit even the high spots (though I hardly remember things), But I heard a monstrous booming like a thunder of flapping sails When he spread—well, _call_ me a liar!—when he spread those wings, those wings!

So white that my eyes were blinded, thick-feathered and wide unfurled They beat the air into billows. We sailed, and the earth was gone. Canyon and desert and mesa withered below, with the world. And then I knew that mustang; for I—was Bellerophon!

Yes, glad as the Greek, and mounted on a horse of the elder gods, With never a magic bridle or a fountain-mirror nigh! _My chaps and spurs and holster must have looked it?_ What’s the odds? I’d a leg over lightning and thunder, careering across the sky!

And forever streaming before me, fanning my forehead cool, Flowed a mane of molten silver; and just before my thighs (As I gripped his velvet-muscled ribs, while I cursed myself for a fool), The steady pulse of those pinions—their wonderful fall and rise!

The bandanna I bought in Bowie blew loose and whipped from my neck. My shirt was stuck to my shoulders and ribboning out behind. The stars were dancing, wheeling and glancing, dipping with smirk and beck. The clouds were flowing, dusking and glowing. We rode a roaring wind.

We soared through the silver starlight to knock at the planets’ gates. New shimmering constellations came whirling into our ken. Red stars and green and golden swung out of the void that waits For man’s great last adventure; the Signs took shape—and then

I knew the lines of that Centaur the moment I saw him come! The musical-box of the heavens all around us rolled to a tune That tinkled and chimed and trilled with silver sounds that struck you dumb, As if some archangel were grinding out the music of the moon.

Melody-drunk on the Milky Way, as we swept and soared hilarious, Full in our pathway, sudden he stood—the Centaur of the Stars, Flashing from head and hoofs and breast! I knew him for Sagittarius. He reared, and bent and drew his bow. He crouched as a boxer spars.

Flung back on his haunches, weird he loomed—then leapt—and the dim void lightened. Old White Wings shied and swerved aside, and fled from the splendor-shod. Through a flashing welter of worlds we charged. I knew why my horse was frightened. He _had_ two faces—a dog’s and a man’s—that Babylonian god!

Also, he followed us real as fear. Ping! went an arrow past. My broncho buck-jumped, humping high. We plunged ... I guess that’s all! I lay on the purple canyon’s lip, when I opened my eyes at last— Stiff and sore and my head like a drum, but I broke no bones in the fall.

So you know—and now you may string me up. Such was the way you caught me. Thank you for letting me tell it straight, though you never could greatly care. For I took a horse that wasn’t mine!... But there’s one the heavens brought me, And I’ll hang right happy, because I know he is waiting for me up there.

From creamy muzzle to cannon-bone, by God, he’s a peerless wonder! He is steel and velvet and furnace-fire, and death’s supremest prize; And never again shall be roped on earth that neck that is “clothed with thunder” ... String me up, Dave! Go dig my grave! _I rode him across the skies!_

Maxwell Bodenheim

THE REAR-PORCHES OF AN APARTMENT-BUILDING

A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars, A sky that is like a dead, kind face, Would have the color of your eyes, O servant-girl, singing of pear-trees in the sun, And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked When your lavender-white eyes were alive.... On the porch above you are two women, Whose faces have the color of brown earth that has never felt rain. The still wet basins of ponds that have been drained Are their eyes. They knit gray rosettes and nibble cakes.... And on the top-porch are three children Gravely kissing each others’ foreheads— And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....

The passing of the afternoon to them Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.

THE INTERNE

Oh, the agony of having too much power! In my passive palm are hundreds of lives. Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood: My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass. Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged, Or fluttering and broken. They are my children, I am their mother and father. I watch them live and die.

THE OLD JEW

No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity, Which tamed even the doctors with its pure fire. They examined him; made him bow to them: Massive altars were they, at whose swollen feet grovelled a worshiper. Then they laughed, half in scorn of him; and there came a miracle. The little man was above them at a bound. His austerity, like an irresistible sledge-hammer, drove them lower and lower: They dwindled while he soared.

THE MINER

Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars. You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother. Only the son knows his father. We are alike—sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge. I drink and shout with my brothers when above you— Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls. But you avidly grip us again—we pay for the little noise of life we steal.

TO AN ENEMY

I despise my friends more than you. I would have known myself, but they stood before the mirrors And painted on them images of the virtues I craved. You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint. Then I knew and detested myself, but not you: For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncovered Showed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.

TO A DISCARDED STEEL RAIL

Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch, A soul you have—strength has always delicate secret reasons. Your soul is a dull question. I do not care for your strength, but for your stiff smile at Time— A smile which men call rust.

Gordon Bottomley

NIGHT AND MORNING SONGS

MY MOON

My moon was lit in an hour of lilies; The apple-trees seemed older than ever. It rose from matted trees that sever The oats from the meadow, and woke the fillies That reared in dew and gleamed with dew And ran like water and shadow, and cried. It moistened and veiled the oats yet new, And seemed to drip long drops of the tide, Of the mother-sea so lately left. Feathers of flower were each bereft Of color and stem, and floated low; Another lily opened then And lost a little gold dust; but when The lime-boughs lifted there seemed to go Some life of the moon, like breath that moves Or parting glances that flutter and strain— A ghost with hands the color of doves And feet the color of rain.

ELEGIAC MOOD

From song and dream for ever gone Are Helen, Helen of Troy, And Cleopatra made to look upon, And many a daring boy— Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus: They are twice dead and we must find Great ladies yet unblemished by the mind, Heroes and acts not cold for us In amber or spirits of too many words. Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on. I hanker even for new shapes of swords, More different sins, and raptures not yet done. Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a bird As maybe Sigurd heard— A thrush—alighting with a little run Out-tops the daisies as it passes And peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.

DAWN

A thrush is tapping a stone With a snail-shell in its beak; A small bird hangs from a cherry Until the stem shall break. No waking song has begun, And yet birds chatter and hurry And throng in the elm’s gloom Because an owl goes home.

Rollo Britten

BIRD OF PASSION

Leave the lovely words unsaid; For another thought is fled From my dream-entangled mind. Bird of passion, unenshrined, I can never phrase thee quite— So I speed thee on thy flight, Unembodied thus forever, Floating in a mist that never May be raised. Thou art one Of the black-winged birds that run, With uncomprehended flight, Unimpeded down the night.

Rupert Brooke

RETROSPECT

In your arms was still delight, Quiet as a street at night; And thoughts of you, I do remember, Were green leaves in a darkened chamber, Were dark clouds in a moonless sky. Love, in you, went passing by, Penetrative, remote, and rare, Like a bird in the wide air; And, as the bird, it left no trace In the heaven of your face. In your stupidity I found The sweet hush after a sweet sound. All about you was the light That dims the graying end of night; Desire was the unrisen sun, Joy the day not yet begun, With tree whispering to tree, Without wind, quietly. Wisdom slept within your hair, And Long-suffering was there, And, in the flowing of your dress, Undiscerning Tenderness. And when you thought, it seemed to me, Infinitely, and like a sea, About the slight world you had known Your vast unconsciousness was thrown.... O haven without wave or tide! Silence, in which all songs have died! Holy book, where hearts are still! And home at length under the hill! O mother quiet, breasts of peace, Where love itself would faint and cease! O infinite deep I never knew, I would come back, come back to you, Find you, as a pool unstirred, Kneel down by you, and never a word, Lay my head, and nothing said, In your hands, ungarlanded; And a long watch you would keep; And I should sleep, and I should sleep!

NINETEEN-FOURTEEN

I—PEACE

Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping! With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad about a world grown old and cold and weary; Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move, And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, And all the little emptiness of love! Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there, Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there, But the only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II—SAFETY

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest He who has found our hid security, Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest, And heard our word, “Who is so safe as we?” We have found safety with all things undying. The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth, The deep night and birds singing, and clouds flying, And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth. We have built a house that is not for Time’s throwing. We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, Secretly armed against all death’s endeavor; Safe though all safety’s lost; safe where men fall; And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

III—THE DEAD

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene That men call age; and those who would have been Their sons they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honor has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.

IV—THE DEAD

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colors of the earth. These had seen movement, and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V—THE SOLDIER