Part 6
_Second Old Man_ “They brought yon fellow over here, And set him up for an overseer: Though men from work are turned away That thick-necked fellow draws full pay— Three pounds a week.... They let burn down The timber yard behind the town Where work was good; though firemen stand In boots and brasses big and grand The crow of a cock away from the place. And with the yard they let burn too The clock in the tower, the clock I knew As well as I know the look in my face.”
_Third Old Man_ “The fellow you spoke of has broken his bounds— He came to skulk inside of these grounds: Behind the bushes he lay down And stretched full hours in the sun. He rises now, and like a crane He looks abroad. He’s off again: Three pounds a week, and still he owes Money in every street he goes, Hundreds of pounds where we’d not get The second shilling of a debt.”
_First Old Man_ “Old age has every impediment Vexation and discontent; The rich have more than we: for bit The cut of bread, and over it The scrape of hog’s lard, and for sup Warm water in a cup. But different sorts of feeding breaks The body more than fasting does With pains and aches.
“I’m not too badly off, for I Have pipe and tobacco, a place to lie, A nook to myself; but from my hand Is taken the strength to back command— I’m broken, and there’s gone from me The privilege of authority.”
_I heard them speak— The old men heavy on the sod, Letting their angers come Between them and the thought of God._
Grace Hazard Conkling
REFUGEES
_Belgium—1914_
“Mother, the poplars cross the moon; The road runs on, so white and far, We shall not reach the city soon: Oh, tell me where we are!”
“Have patience, patience, little son, And we shall find the way again: (God show me the untraveled one! God give me rest from men!)”
“Mother, you did not tell me why You hurried so to come away. I saw big soldiers riding by; I should have liked to stay.”
“Hush, little man, and I will sing Just like a soldier, if I can— They have a song for everything. Listen, my little man!
“This is the soldiers’ marching song: We’ll play this is the village street—” “Yes, but this road is very long, And stones have hurt my feet.”
“Nay, little pilgrim, up with you! And yonder field shall be the town. I’ll show you how the soldiers do Who travel up and down.
“They march and sing and march again, Not minding all the stones and dust: They go, (God grant me rest from men!) Forward, because they must.”
“Mother, I want to go to sleep.” “No, darling! Here is bread to eat! (O God, if thou couldst let me weep, Or heal my broken feet!)”
“THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR”
The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.
And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.
Alice Corbin
O WORLD
O world that changes under my hand, O brown world, bitter and bright, And full of hidden recesses Of love and light—
O world, what use would there be to me Of power beyond power To change, or establish new balance, To build, or deflower?
O world, what use would there be? Had I the Creator’s fire, I could not build you nearer To my heart’s desire!
TWO VOICES
There is a country full of wine And liquor of the sun, Where sap is running all the year, And spring is never done, Where all is good as it is fair, And love and will are one. Old age may never come there, But ever in to-day The people talk as in a dream And laugh slow time away.
But would you stay as now you are, Or as a year ago? Oh, not as then, for then how small The wisdom we did owe! Or if forever as to-day, How little we could know!
Then welcome age, and fear not sorrow; To-day’s no better than to-morrow, Or yesterday that flies. By the low light in your eyes, By the love that in me lies, I know we grow more lovely Growing wise.
LOVE ME AT LAST
Love me at last, or if you will not, Leave me; Hard words could never, as these half-words, Grieve me: Love me at last—or leave me.
Love me at last, or let the last word uttered Be but your own; Love me, or leave me—as a cloud, a vapor, Or a bird flown. Love me at last—I am but sliding water Over a stone.
HUMORESQUE
To some the fat gods Give money, To some love;
But the gods have given me Money _and_ love:
Not _too much_ money, Nor _quite enough_ love!
To some the fat gods Give money, To some love.
ONE CITY ONLY
One city only, of all I have lived in, And one house of that city, belong to me ... I remember the mellow light of afternoon Slanting across brick buildings on the waterfront, And small boats at rest on the floating tide, And larger boats at rest in the near-by harbor; And I know the tidal smell, and the smell of mud, Uncovering oyster flats, and the brown bare toes of small negroes With the mud oozing between them; And the little figures leaping from log to log, And the white children playing among them— I remember how I played among them. And I remember the recessed windows of the gloomy halls In the darkness of decaying grandeur, The feel of cool linen in the cavernous bed, And the window curtain swaying gently In the night air; All the half-hushed noises of the street In the southern town, And the thrill of life— Like a hand in the dark With its felt, indeterminate meaning: I remember that I knew there the stirring of passion, Fear, and the knowledge of sin, Tragedy, laughter, death....
And I remember, too, on a dead Sunday afternoon In the twilight, When there was no one else in the house, My self suddenly separated itself And left me alone, So that the world lay about me, lifeless. I could not touch it, or feel it, or see it; Yet I was there. The sensation lingers: Only the most vital threads Hold me at all to living ... Yet I only live truly when I think of that house; Only enter then into being. One city only of all I have lived in, And one house of that city, belong to me.
APPARITIONS
I
A thin gray shadow on the edge of thought Hiding its wounds: These are the wounds of sorrow— It was my hand that made them; And this gray shadow that resembles you Is my own heart, weeping ... You sleep quietly beneath the shade Of willows in the south.
II
When the cold dawn stood above the house-tops, Too late I remembered the cry In the night of a wild bird flying Through the rain-filled sky.
THE POOL
Do you remember the dark pool at Nîmes, The pool that had no bottom? Shadowed by Druids ere the Romans came— Dark, still, with little bubbles rising So quietly level with its rim of stone That one stood shuddering with the breathless fear Of one short step?
My little sister stood beside the pool As dark as that of Nîmes. I saw her white face as she took the plunge; I could not follow her, although I tried. The silver bubbles circled to the brink, And then the water parted: With dream-white face my little sister rose Dripping from that dark pool, and took the hands Outstretched to meet her.
I may not speak to her of all she’s seen; She may not speak to me of all she knows, Because her words mean nothing: She chooses them As one to whom our language is quite strange, As children make queer words with lettered blocks Before they know the way....
My little sister stood beside the pool— I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.
MUSIC
_The ancient songs Pass deathward mournfully._ _R. A._
The old songs Die. Yes, the old songs die. Cold lips that sang them, Cold lips that sang them— The old songs die, And the lips that sang them Are only a pinch of dust.
I saw in Pamplona In a musty museum— I saw in Pamplona In a buff-colored museum— I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of the dead violinist; I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of Pablo Sarasate.
Dust was inch-deep on the cases, Dust on the stick-pins and satins, Dust on the badges and orders, On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!
The old songs Die— And the lips that sang them. Wreaths, withered and dusty, Cuff-buttons with royal insignia, These, in a musty museum, Are all that is left of Sarasate.
WHAT DIM ARCADIAN PASTURES
What dim Arcadian pastures Have I known That suddenly, out of nothing, A wind is blown, Lifting a veil and a darkness, Showing a purple sea— And under your hair the faun’s eyes Look out on me?
NODES
The endless, foolish merriment of stars Beside the pale cold sorrow of the moon, Is like the wayward noises of the world Beside my heart’s uplifted silent tune.
The little broken glitter of the waves Beside the golden sun’s intense white blaze, Is like the idle chatter of the crowd Beside my heart’s unwearied song of praise.
The sun and all the planets in the sky Beside the sacred wonder of dim space, Are notes upon a broken, tarnished lute That God will someday mend and put in place.
And space, beside the little secret joy Of God that sings forever in the clay, Is smaller than the dust we can not see, That yet dies not, till time and space decay.
And as the foolish merriment of stars Beside the cold pale sorrow of the moon, My little song, my little joy, my praise, Beside God’s ancient, everlasting rune.
Adelaide Crapsey
CINQUAINS
NOVEMBER NIGHT
Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees And fall.
TRIAD
These be Three silent things: The falling snow ... the hour Before the dawn ... the mouth of one Just dead.
SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS
“Why do You thus devise Evil against her?” “For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.”
THE GUARDED WOUND
If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!
THE WARNING
Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk ... as strange, as still ... A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?
FATE DEFIED
As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
THE PLEDGE
White doves of Cytherea, by your quest Across the blue Heaven’s bluest highest air, And by your certain homing to Love’s breast, Still to be true and ever true—I swear.
EXPENSES
Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare.
ADVENTURE
Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly ... Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!
DIRGE
Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Thou ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.
SONG
I make my shroud, but no one knows— So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows. I make my shroud, but no one knows.
In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.
THE LONELY DEATH
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe In waters of ice; myself Will shiver, and shrive myself, Alone in the dawn, and anoint Forehead and feet and hands; I will shutter the windows from light, I will place in their sockets the four Tall candles and set them a-flame In the grey of the dawn; and myself Will lay myself straight in my bed, And draw the sheet under my chin.
H. D.
HERMES OF THE WAYS
I
The hard sand breaks, And the grains of it Are clear as wine.
Far off over the leagues of it, The wind, Playing on the wide shore, Piles little ridges, And the great waves Break over it.
But more than the many-foamed ways Of the sea, I know him Of the triple path-ways. Hermes, Who awaiteth.
Dubious, Facing three ways, Welcoming wayfarers, He whom the sea-orchard Shelters from the west, From the east Weathers sea-wind; Fronts the great dunes.
Wind rushes Over the dunes, And the coarse, salt-crusted grass Answers.
Heu, It whips round my ankles!
II
Small is This white stream, Flowing below ground From the poplar-shaded hill, But the water is sweet.
Apples on the small trees Are hard, Too small, Too late ripened By a desperate sun That struggles through sea-mist. The boughs of the trees Are twisted By many bafflings; Twisted are The small-leafed boughs.
But the shadow of them Is not the shadow of the mast head Nor of the torn sails.
Hermes, Hermes, The great sea foamed, Gnashed its teeth about me; But you have waited, Where sea-grass tangles with Shore-grass.
PRIAPUS
_Keeper of Orchards_
I saw the first pear As it fell. The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness!) And I fell prostrate, Crying, “Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms; Spare us the beauty Of fruit-trees!”
The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, And I alone was prostrate.
O rough-hewn God of the orchard, I bring thee an offering; Do thou, alone unbeautiful (Son of the god), Spare us from loveliness.
The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken figs, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.
THE POOL
Are you alive? I touch you— You quiver like a sea-fish. I cover you with my net. What are you, banded one?
OREAD
Whirl up, sea— Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines On our rocks. Hurl your green over us— Cover us with your pools of fir.
THE GARDEN
I
You are clear, O rose, cut in rock. I could scrape the color From the petals, Like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you I could break a tree.
If I could stir I could break a tree, I could break you.
II
O wind, rend open the heat, Cut apart the heat, Slit it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop Through this thick air; Fruit cannot fall into heat That presses up and blunts The points of pears, And rounds grapes.
Cut the heat: Plough through it, Turning it on either side Of your path.
MOONRISE
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear-head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song, On the bank we share our arrows— The loosed string tells our note:
_O flight, Bring her swiftly to our song. She is great, We measure her by the pine-trees._
THE SHRINE
“_She watches over the sea_”
I
Are your rocks shelter for ships?— Have you sent galleys from your beach, Are you graded—a safe crescent— Where the tide lifts them back to port? Are you full and sweet, Tempting the quiet To depart in their trading ships?
Nay, you are great, fierce, evil— You are the land-blight. You have tempted men But they perished on your cliffs.
Your lights are but dank shoals, Slate and pebble and wet shells And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.
It was evil—evil When they found you, When the quiet men looked at you. They sought a headland Shaded with ledge of cliff From the wind-blast. But you—you are unsheltered, Cut with the weight of wind. You shudder when it strikes, Then lift, swelled with the blast. You sink as the tide sinks, You shrill under hail and sound, Thunder when thunder sounds.
You are useless: When the tides swirl Your boulders cut and wreck The staggering ships.
II
You are useless, O grave, O beautiful. The landsmen tell it—I have heard— You are useless.
And the wind sounds with this And the sea Where rollers shot with blue Cut under deeper blue.
Oh, but stay tender, enchanted Where wave-lengths cut you Apart from all the rest— For we have found you, We watch the splendor of you, We thread throat on throat of freesia For your shelf.
You are not forgot, O plunder of lilies, Honey is not more sweet Than the salt stretch of your beach.
III
Stay—stay— But terror has caught us now. We passed the men in ships, We dared deeper than the fisher-folk; And you strike us with terror, O bright shaft.
Flame passes under us And sparks that unknot the flesh— Sorrow, splitting bone from bone, Splendors thwart our eyes And rifts in the splendor, Sparks and scattered light.
Many warned of this, Men said: “There are wrecks on the fore-beach, Wind will beat your ship, There is no shelter in that headland; It is useless waste, that edge, That front of rock— Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers, None venture to that spot.”
IV
But hail— As the tide slackens, As the wind beats out, We hail this shore— We sing to you, Spirit between the headlands And the further rocks. Though oak-beams split, Though boats and sea-men flounder, And the strait grind sand with sand And cut boulders to sand and drift—
Your eyes have pardoned our faults, Your hands have touched us; You have leaned forward a little And the waves can never thrust us back From the splendor of your ragged coast.
Mary Carolyn Davies
CLOISTERED