Part 8

You will see me any morning in the park Reading the comics and the sporting page. Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage, A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, Another bank defaulter has confessed. I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired, Reiterates some worn-out common song, With the smell of hyacinths across the garden Recalling things that other people have desired. Are these ideas right or wrong?

III

The October night comes down. Returning as before, Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease, I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.

“And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? But that’s a useless question. You hardly know when you are coming back, You will find so much to learn.” My smile falls heavily among the bric-a-brac.

“Perhaps you can write to me.” My self-possession flares up for a second; _This_ is as I had reckoned. “I have been wondering frequently of late (But our beginnings never know our ends!) Why we have not developed into friends.” I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark Suddenly, his expression in a glass. My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.

“For everybody said so, all our friends, They all were sure our feelings would relate So closely! I myself can hardly understand. We must leave it now to fate. You will write, at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.”

And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression ... dance, dance Like a dancing bear, Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance ... Well! and what if she should die some afternoon, Afternoon gray and smoky, evening yellow and rose; Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand With the smoke coming down above the house tops; Doubtful, for quite a while Not knowing what to feel or if I understand Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon... Would she not have the advantage, after all? This music is successful with a “dying fall” Now that we talk of dying— And should I have the right to smile?

Arthur Davison Ficke

MEETING

Gray-robed Wanderer in sleep ... Wanderer ... You also move among Those silent halls Dim on the shore of the unsailed deep? And your footfalls, yours also, Wanderer, Faint through those twilight corridors have rung?

Of late my eyes have seen ... Wanderer ... Amid the shadows’ gloom Of that sleep-girdled place I should have known such joy could not have been— To see your face: and yet, Wanderer, What hopes seem vain beneath the night in bloom?

Wearily I awake ... Wanderer ... Your look of old despair, Like a dying star, In morning vanishes. But for all memories’ sake, Though you are far, tonight, O Wanderer, Tonight come, though in silence, to the shadows there ...

AMONG SHADOWS

In halls of sleep you wandered by, This time so indistinguishably I cannot remember aught of it, Save that I know last night we met. I know it by the cloudy thrill That in my heart is quivering still; And sense of loveliness forgot Teases my fancy out of thought. Though with the night the vision wanes, Its haunting presence still may last— As odor of flowers faint remains In halls where late a queen has passed.

THE THREE SISTERS

Gone are the three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two, your ivy vine. For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMAN

She limps with halting painful pace, Stops, wavers, and creeps on again; Peers up with dim and questioning face Void of desire or doubt or pain.

Her cheeks hang gray in waxen folds Wherein there stirs no blood at all. A hand like bundled cornstalks holds The tatters of a faded shawl.

Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps; A knot jerks where were woman-hips; A ropy throat sends writhing gasps Up to the tight line of her lips.

Here strong the city’s pomp is poured ... She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast: An empty temple of the Lord From which the jocund Lord has passed.

He has builded him another house, Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, Shines stark upon these weathered brows Abandoned to the final night.

I AM WEARY OF BEING BITTER

I am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise, And the armor and the mask of these fall from me, after long. I would go where the islands sleep, or where the sea-dawns rise, And lose my bitter wisdom in the wisdom of a song.

There are magics in melodies, unknown of the sages; The powers of purest wonder on secret wings go by. Doubtless out of the silence of dumb preceding ages Song woke the chaos-world—and light swept the sky.

All that we know is idle; idle is all we cherish; Idle the will that takes loads that proclaim it strong. For the knowledge, the strength, the burden—all shall perish: One thing only endures, one thing only—song.

FROM “SONNETS OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER”

I am in love with high far-seeing places That look on plains half-sunlight and half-storm, In love with hours when from the circling faces Veils pass, and laughing fellowship glows warm. You who look on me with grave eyes where rapture And April love of living burn confessed— The Gods are good! the world lies free to capture! Life has no walls. Oh, take me to your breast! Take me—be with me for a moment’s span! I am in love with all unveilèd faces. I seek the wonder at the heart of man; I would go up to the far-seeing places. While youth is ours, turn toward me for a space The marvel of your rapture-lighted face!

There are strange shadows fostered of the moon, More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day.... Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June, Into the dusk of swooping bats at play; Or go into that late November dusk When hills take on the noble lines of death, And on the air the faint astringent musk Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath. Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun Knows nothing—aye, a thousand shadows there Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run, Like petrels of the changing foul or fair; Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him Whose homeland lies past each horizon’s rim....

LIKE HIM WHOSE SPIRIT

Like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon Still keeps the memory of one secret star That in the dusk of a remembered June Thrilled the strange hour with beauty from afar— And perilous spells of twilight snare his heart, And wistful moods his common thoughts subdue, And life seethes by him utterly apart— Last night I dreamed, today I dream, of you. Gleams downward strike; bright bubbles upward hover Through the charmed air; far sea-winds cool my brow. Invisible lips tell me I shall discover Today a temple, a mystery, a vow ... The cycle rounds: only the false seems true. Last night I dreamed, today I dream, of you.

John Gould Fletcher

IRRADIATIONS

I

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds: Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

Whirlpools of purple and gold, Winds from the mountains of cinnabar, Lacquered mandarin moments, palanquins swaying and balancing Amid the vermilion pavilions, against the jade balustrades; Glint of the glittering wings of dragon-flies in the light; Silver filaments, golden flakes settling downwards; Rippling, quivering flutters; repulse and surrender, The sun broidered upon the rain, The rain rustling with the sun.

Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds: Like horses the shadows of clouds charge down the street.

II

O seeded grass, you army of little men Crawling up the low slopes with quivering quick blades of steel: You who storm millions of graves, tiny green tentacles of earth, Interlace your tangled webs tightly over my heart And do not let me go: For I would lie here for ever and watch with one eye The pilgrimaging ants in your dull savage jungles, While with the other I see the long lines of the slope Break in mid air, a wave surprisingly arrested; And above it, wavering, bodiless, colorless, unreal, The long thin lazy fingers of the heat.

III

Not noisily, but solemnly and pale, In a meditative ecstasy, you entered life, As for some strange rite, to which you alone held the clue. Child, life did not give rude strength to you; From the beginning you would seem to have thrown away, As something cold and cumbersome, that armor men use against death. You would perchance look on death face to face and from him wrest the secret Whether his face wears oftenest a smile or no? Strange, old and silent being, there is something Infinitely vast in your intense tininess: I think you could point out with a smile some curious star Far off in the heavens which no man has seen before.

IV

The morning is clean and blue, and the wind blows up the clouds: Now my thoughts, gathered from afar, Once again in their patched armor, with rusty plumes and blunted swords, Move out to war.

Smoking our morning pipes we shall ride two and two Through the woods. For our old cause keeps us together, And our hatred is so precious not death or defeat can break it.

God willing, we shall this day meet that old enemy Who has given us so many a good beating. Thank God, we have a cause worth fighting for, And a cause worth losing, and a good song to sing!

ARIZONA POEMS

MEXICAN QUARTER

By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks, And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering, Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth, and dogs Scratching their mangy backs: Half-naked children are running about, Women puff cigarettes in black doorways, Crickets are crying. Men slouch sullenly Into the shadows. Behind a hedge of cactus, The smell of a dead horse Mingles with the smell of tamales frying.

And a girl in a black lace shawl Sits in a rickety chair by the square of unglazed window, And sees the explosion of the stars Fiercely poised on the velvet sky. And she seems humming to herself: “Stars, if I could reach you (You are so very near that it seems as if I could reach you), I would give you all to the Madonna’s image On the gray plastered altar behind the paper flowers, So that Juan would come back to me, And we could live again those lazy burning hours, Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words, And I would only keep four of you— Those two blue-white ones overhead, To put in my ears, And those two orange ones yonder To fasten on my shoe-buckles.”

A little further along the street A man squats stringing a brown guitar. The smoke of his cigarette curls round his hair, And he too is humming, but other words: “Think not that at your window I wait. New love is better, the old is turned to hate. Fate! Fate! All things pass away; Life is forever, youth is but for a day. Love again if you may Before the golden moons are blown out of the sky And the crickets die. Babylon and Samarkand Are mud walls in a waste of sand.”

RAIN IN THE DESERT

The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning Its altar fires of pinyon and toyon for the day.

The old priests sleep, white-shrouded; Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely feathered. On every mummied face there glows a smile.

The sun is rolling slowly Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents, Coiling, uncoiling, blue black, sparked with fires.

The old dead priests Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them, Above the smell of scorching, oozing pinyon, The acrid smell of rain.

And now the showers Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers: Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring, Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.

THE BLUE SYMPHONY

I

The darkness rolls upward. The thick darkness carries with it Rain and a ravel of cloud. The sun comes forth upon earth.

Palely the dawn Leaves me facing timidly Old gardens sunken: And in the gardens is water.

Sombre wreck-autumnal leaves; Shadowy roofs In the blue mist, And a willow-branch that is broken.

O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees!

Blue and cool: Blue, tremulously, Blow faint puffs of smoke Across sombre pools. The damp green smell of rotted wood; And a heron that cries from out the water.

II

Through the upland meadows I go alone. For I dreamed of someone last night Who is waiting for me.

Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her? Have the rocks hidden her voice? They are very blue and still.

Long upward road that is leading me, Light hearted I quit you, For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass Invite me to dance upon them.

Quivering grass, Daintily poised For her foot’s tripping.

O blown clouds, could I only race up like you! Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep!

Look, the sky! Across black valleys Rise blue-white aloft Jagged unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death.

Solitude. Silence.

III

One chuckles by the brook for me: One rages under the stone. One makes a spout of his mouth, One whispers—one is gone.

One over there on the water Spreads cold ripples For me Enticingly.

The vast dark trees Flow like blue veils Of tears Into the water.

Sour sprites, Moaning and chuckling, What have you hidden from me?

“In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever Bound hand and foot.”

Was it the wind That rattled the reeds together?

Dry reeds, A faint shiver in the grasses.

IV

On the left hand there is a temple: And a palace on the right-hand side. Foot-passengers in scarlet Pass over the glittering tide.

Under the bridge The old river flows Low and monotonous Day after day.

I have heard and have seen All the news that has been: Autumn’s gold and Spring’s green!

Now in my palace I see foot-passengers Crossing the river, Pilgrims of autumn In the afternoons.

Lotus pools; Petals in the water: Such are my dreams.

For me silks are outspread. I take my ease, unthinking.

V

And now the lowest pine-branch Is drawn across the disk of the sun. Old friends who will forget me soon, I must go on Towards those blue death mountains I have forgot so long.

In the marsh grasses There lies forever My last treasure, With the hope of my heart.

The ice is glazing over; Torn lanterns flutter, On the leaves is snow.

In the frosty evening Toll the old bell for me Once, in the sleepy temple. Perhaps my soul will hear.

Afterglow: Before the stars peep I shall creep into the darkness.

F. S. Flint

POEMS IN UNRHYMED CADENCE

I

London, my beautiful, It is not the sunset Nor the pale green sky Shimmering through the curtain Of the silver birch, Nor the quietness; It is not the hopping Of the little birds Upon the lawn, Nor the darkness Stealing over all things That moves me.

But as the moon creeps slowly Over the tree-tops Among the stars, I think of her And the glow her passing Sheds on men.

London, my beautiful, I will climb Into the branches To the moonlit tree-tops, That my blood may be cooled By the wind.

II

Under the lily shadow And the gold And the blue and mauve That the whin and the lilac Pour down on the water, The fishes quiver.

Over the green cold leaves And the rippled silver And the tarnished copper Of its neck and beak, Toward the deep black water Beneath the arches, The swan floats slowly.

Into the dark of the arch the swan floats And the black depth of my sorrow Bears a white rose of flame.

III—IN THE GARDEN

The grass is beneath my head; And I gaze At the thronging stars In the aisles of night.

They fall ... they fall.... I am overwhelmed, And afraid.

Each little leaf of the aspen Is caressed by the wind, And each is crying.

And the perfume Of invisible roses Deepens the anguish.

Let a strong mesh of roots Feed the crimson of roses Upon my heart; And then fold over the hollow Where all the pain was.

Moireen Fox

LIADAIN TO CURITHIR

_Liadain and Curithir were two poets who lived in Ireland in the seventh century. They fell in love, but while Curithir was absent making preparations for their marriage, Liadain, for some unexplained reason, took the vows of a nun. Curithir in despair became a monk. At first they continued to see each other, but when this led to the breaking of their vows, Curithir left Liadain to spend his life in penance and thus save his soul._

I

If I had known how narrow a prison is love, Never would I have given the width of the skies In return for thy kiss, O Curithir, thou my grief!

If I had known love’s poverty, I would have given Dúns and forests and ploughlands and begged my bread: For now I have lost the earth and the stars and my soul.

If I had known the strength of love, I would have laid The ridge of the world in ashes to stay his feet: I would have cried on a stronger lord—on Death.

II

I, that was wont to pass by all unmoved As the long ridge of the tide sweeps to the shore, Am broken at last on the crags of a pitiless love.

I, who was wont to see men pale at my glance, Like the quivering grass am shaken beneath thine eyes; At thy touch my spirit is captive, my will is lost.

I would darken the sun and moon to break from thy love, I would shatter the world to win thee again to my side. O aching madness of love! Have the dead repose? Or wilt thou tear my heart in the close-shut grave?

III

I have done with blame, I have risen from the cold earth Where night and day my forehead has known the clay. With faltering steps I have passed out to the sun.

Now in the sight of all I stand, that all may know (For I myself will praise thee and prove their words) How great was thy wisdom in turning away from me.

Who that has drunken wine will keep the lees? Who that has slain a man will wait for revenge? Who that has had his desire of a woman will stay?

Farewell, O Curithir, let thy soul be saved! I have not found a thing that is dearer to thee. In the eyes of God is it priceless? Who can say!

My soul is a thing of little worth unto God: Of less worth unto thee, O Curithir, than my love. And unto me so small I flung it beneath thy feet.

IV

If the dark earth hold a Power that is not God I pray It to bind up memory lest I die.

There was a day when Curithir loved me, now it is gone. It was I that sundered his love from me, I myself; Or it was God who struck me with madness and mocked.

If the dark earth hold a Power that is not God I pray It to hide me for ever away from His face.

V

All things are outworn now—grief is dead, And passion has fallen from me like a withered leaf. Little it were to me now though Curithir were beside me: Though he should pass I would not turn my head. My heart is like a stone in my body. All I have grasped I loose again from my hands.

Florence Kiper Frank

THE JEWISH CONSCRIPT

_There are nearly a quarter of a million Jews in the Czar’s army alone.—Newspaper clipping._

They have dressed me up in a soldier’s dress, With a rifle in my hand, And have sent me bravely forth to shoot My own in a foreign land.

Oh, many shall die for the fields of their homes, And many in conquest wild; But I shall die for the fatherland That murdered my little child.

How many hundreds of years ago— The nations wax and cease!— Did the God of our fathers doom us to bear The flaming message of peace!

We are the mock and the sport of time! Yet why should I complain!— For a Jew that they hung on the bloody cross, He also died in vain.

THE MOVIES

She knows a cheap release From worry and from pain— The cowboys spur their horses Over the unending plain.

The tenement rooms are small; Their walls press on the brain. Oh, the dip of the galloping horses On the limitless, wind-swept plain!

YOU

I go my way complacently, As self-respecting persons should. You are to me the rebel thought, You are the wayward rebel mood.

What shall we share who are separate? We part—as alien persons should. But oh, I have need of the rebel thought, And a wicked urge to the rebel mood!

Robert Frost

MENDING WALL