Chapter 11

"And in an instant there Something fell from me, I became a cloud, A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. And in that glory I perceived all things: I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns And I knew God, and knew all things as God: The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, Truth, love and purity. And in that instant Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, And how they are arranged order to order, With no break in the order, one harmonious Whole of universal life all blended And interfused with universal love. And as it was with Shelley so I cried, And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose And started back to climb the hill again, Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, Nor where I went, and thinking if this be A fancy only of the Saviour then He will not follow me, and if it be Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall After the revelation. As I reached The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, Who knowest me, when they who walked with me Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, Who knew me not till I brake bread and then, As after thought could say, Did not our heart Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed With visions and my Father's love, this walk Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, Expounding all the scriptures, telling me About the race of men who live and move Along a life of meat and drink and sleep And comforts of the flesh, while here and there A hungering soul is chosen to lift up And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet Must seek and must find God to keep the race Awake to the divine and to the orders Of universal and harmonious life, All interfused with Universal love, Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, Which sees no order, reason, no intent Beat down the race to welter in the mire When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, The leaders of the race from age to age Are chosen for their separate work, each work Fits in the given order. All who suffer The martyrdom of thought, whether they think Themselves as servants of my Father, or even Mock at the images and rituals Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize The mystery they sensed, or whether they be Spirits of laughter, logic, divination Of human life, the human soul, all men Who give their essence, blindly or in vision In faith that life is worth their utmost love, They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' So Jesus told me as we took my walk Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned And walked through heading rye and purple vetch Into an orchard where great rows of pears Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, And a half moon was hanging just above The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! We came back to the boats at last and loosed One of them and rowed out into the bay, And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said 'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' A haziness came on me now. I seem To find myself alone there in that boat. At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk, The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home Back to the village in a silence, peace, A happiness profound.

"And the next morning I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet With spiritual vision so intense I looked Through things material as if they were But shadows--old things passed away or grew A lovelier order. And my heart was full. Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. My landlady looked at me sharply, asked What hour I entered, where I was so late. I only answered fishing. For I told No person of my vision, went my way At carpentry in silence, in great joy. For archangels and powers were at my side, They led me, bore me up, instructed me In mysteries, and voices said to me 'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. I wrote and printed and the village read, And called me mad. And so I grew to see The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, The geniture of all things, of the Word Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages, Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained, And how the search for something (it is God) Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth At harvest time have praise or reverence. I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, Resists the current and makes human thought. As the electric current is not light But heat and power as well. Our little brains Resist God and make thought and love as well. But God is more than these. Oh I heard much Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. That is the axis of profoundest life Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, The epochs of this earth as it were the feet Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew The agony of genius and the woe Of prophets and the great.

"From that next morning I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal Than I had ever done. I could not open Its pages anywhere but I could find Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. I could not doubt my destiny was bound With man's salvation. Jeremiah said 'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words To me were spoken, and to no one else. And so I searched the scriptures. And I found I never had a thought, experience, pang, A state in human life our Saviour had not. He was a carpenter, and so was I. He had his soul's illumination, so had I. His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. For I could, I can feel my way along Death's stages as a man can reach and feel Ahead of him along a wall. I know This body is a shell, a butterfly's Excreta pushed away with rising wings.

"I searched the scriptures. How should I believe Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see At mid-day in the way a light from heaven Above the brightness of the sun and hear The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake Such words as none but men inspired can speak, As well as words of truth and soberness, Such as myself speak now.

"And from the scriptures I passed to studies of the men who came To great illuminations. You will see There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, The understanding, one is of the soul. The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men In their illumination see the frame-work Of life or see its spirit, so align Themselves with Science, Satire, or align Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. So being Aristotle, Rabelais, Paul, Swedenborg.

"And as the years Went on, as I had time, was fortunate In finding books I read of many men Who had illumination, as I had it. Read Of Dante's vision, how he found himself Saw immortality, lost fear of death. Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven Before he quitted life and saw behind The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest My manhood's visionary meditations Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue skies, and in the mind of man-- A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought And rolls through all things.'

"And at last they called me The mad, and learned carpenter. And then-- I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..."

At this point He fainted, sank into a stupor. There I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. There was some other talk, but not of moment. I had to change the cylinder--the talk Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things, Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. He died next morning.

Students who desire To examine the skull and brain may do so now At their convenience in the laboratory.

FRIAR YVES

Said Friar Yves: "God will bless Saint Louis' other-worldliness. Whatever the fate be, still I fare To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. If I survive, I shall return With precious things from Palestine-- Gold for my purse, spices and wine, Glory to wear among my kin. Fame as a warrior I shall win. But, otherwise, if I am slain In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn Immortal life washed white from sin."

Said Friar Yves: "Come what will-- Riches and glory, death and woe-- At dawn to Palestine I go. Whether I live or die, I gain To fly the tepid good and ill Of daily living in Champagne, Where those who reach salvation lose The treasures, raptures of the earth, Captured, possessed, and made to serve The gospel love of Jesus' birth, Sacrifice, death; where even those Passing from pious works and prayer To paradise are not received As those who battled, strove, and lived, And periled bodies, as I choose To peril mine, and thus to use Body and soul to build the throne Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care Lay Jesus under a granite stone."

Then Friar Yves buckled on His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, With crossboy, halberd took his way, Walked without resting, without pause, Till the sun hovered at midday Over a tree of glistening leaves, Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. "If I," he sighed, "could only gain, Like yonder spring, an inner source Of life, and need not dew or rain Of human love, or human friends, And thus accomplish my soul's ends Within myself! No," said the friar; "There is one water and one fire; There is one Spirit, which is God. And what are we but streams and springs Through which He takes His wanderings? Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; Show me the way!" the friar prayed. "Where do I flow and to what end? Am I of Thee, or do I blend Hereafter with Thee?"

Yves heard, While praying, sounds as when the sod Teems with a swarm of insect things. He dropped his halberd to look down, And then his waking vision blurred, As one before a light will frown. His inner ear was caught and stirred By voices; then the chestnut tree Became a step beside a throne. Breathless he lay and fearfully, While on his brain a vision shone. Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: "The time has come when I must take The form of man for mankind's sake. This drama is played long enough By creatures who have naught of me, Save what comes up from foam of the sea To crawling moss or swimming weeds, At last to man. From heaven in flame, Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly, And take a mortal's form and name, And labor for the race's needs." Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky Flushed like a bride's face rosily, And shot to lightning from its bloom. The world leaped like a babe in the womb, And choral voices from heaven's cope Circled the earth like singing stars: "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, O passion realized at last; O end of hunger, fear, and wars, O victory over the bottomless, vast Valley of Death!"

A silence fell, Broke by the voice of Gabriel: "Music may follow this, O Lord! Music I hear; I hear discord Through ages yet to be, as well. There will be wars because of this, And wars will come in its despite. It's noon on the world now; blackest night Will follow soon. And men will miss The meaning, Lord! There will be strife 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. There will be war to win the place Where you bend death to sovereign life. Armed kings will battle for the grace Of rulership, for power and gold In the name of Jesus. Men will hold Conclaves of swords to win surcease Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. The seed is good, Lord, make the ground Good for the seed you scatter round!"

Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: "The gardener sprays his plants and trees To drive out lice and stop disease. After the spraying, fruit is grown Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes Of men can see this end, although Leaves wither or a whole tree dies From what the gardener does to grow Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. The gardener lives outside the tree; The gardener knows the tree can see What cure is needed, plans afresh An end foreseen, and there's the will Wherewith the gardener may fulfil The orchard's destiny."

So He spake. And Friar Yves seemed to wake, But did not wake, and only sunk Into another dreaming state, Wherein he saw a woman's form Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. Her body was virginal, white, and straight, And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, Behind a robe of writhing green: As when a rock's wall makes a screen Whereon the crisscross reflect moves Of circling water under the rays Of April sunlight through the sprays Of budding branches in willow groves-- A liquid mosaic of green and gold-- Thus was her robe.

But to behold Her face was to forget the youth Of her white bosom. All her hair Was tangled serpents; she did wear A single eye in the middle brow. Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough O'ershadowed her the while she gripped A pail in either hand. One dripped Clear water; one, ethereal fire. Then to the Graia spoke the friar: "Have mercy! Tell me your desire And what you are?"

Then the Graia said: "My body is Nature and my head Is Man, and God has given me A seeing spirit, strong and free, Though by a single eye, as even Man has one vision at a time. I lift my pails up; mark them well. With this fire I will burn up heaven, And with this water I will quench The flames of hell's remotest trench, That men may work in righteousness. Not for the fears of an after hell, Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless The soul with when the mountains nod And the sun darkens, but for love Of Man and Life, and love of God. Now look!"

She dashed the pail of fire Against the vault of heaven. It fell As would a canopy of blue Burned by a soldier's careless torch. She dashed the water into hell, And a great steam rose up with the smell Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch All things which on the good earth grew. "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer, Awake from slumber, rise and speed To fight for the Holy Sepulcher-- Nothing is left but Life, indeed-- I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell."

Friar Yves no longer slept; Friar Yves awoke and wept.

THE EIGHTH CRUSADE

June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, And every day it rained. And every morning I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. Try as I would my spirits grew no better. What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind? I spent the whole day working with my hands, For there was brush to clear and corn to plant Between the gusts of rain; and there at night I sat about the room and hugged the fire. And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered For cold and it was June. I ached all through For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body, Or soul if it were soul?

But there at night As I sat aching, worn, before the hour Of sleep, and restless in this interval Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap Of cards upon a table by a boarder Who passed the time in playing solitaire, Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, And scrape away the dust of long past years To show me what had happened in his life. And as he smoked and talked his aged wife Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches Formed by a slender island, flow together. Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, An episode or version. And sometimes He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend While she went on to what she wished to finish, When he'd resume. They talked together thus. He found the story and began to tell it, And she hung on his story, told it too.

This night the rain came down in buckets full, And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath Between the opening of the outer door And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. And my host who had hoed the whole day long, Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe Reading the organ of the Adventists, His wife beside him knitting.

On the table Are several magazines with their monthly grist Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! Who writes these stories? How does it happen people Are born into the world to read these stories? But anyway the lamp is very bad, And every bone in me aches--and why always Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? Why not sit quietly and think?

At last Between the clicking needles and the slap Of cards upon the table and the swish Of rain upon the window my host speaks: "It says here when the Germans are defeated, And that means when the Turks are beaten too, The Christian world will take back Palestine, And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back From Jaffa if the Allies win."

To me The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, But his trunk never came."

And then the husband: "What are you saying, mother, you go on As if our friend here knew the story too. And then you talk as if our hope of the war Was centered on recovering that trunk."

"Oh, not at all But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there In Jaffa you might get it back. You know You'll never get it back while infidels Rule Palestine."

The husband says to me: "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine, Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, Is in existence yet, when chances are They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, Or threw it away."

"They never threw it away. Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, And knitted him a lot of lovely socks, And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained Everything that a man might need in absence A year from home. And yet they threw it away!"

"They might have done so."

"But they never did, Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" "They were too valuable."

"Too valuable, Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes."

"Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: To work at cabinet making while observing Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready To drive the Turks from Palestine."

What's this? I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. And in a moment Turks and Palestine, And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise And show me how the world is small, and a man Native to Illinois may travel forth And mix his life with ancient things afar. To-day be raising corn here and next month Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenæ, Digging for Grecian relics.

So I asked "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, Had planned to meet in Switzerland."

"Montreaux" The wife broke in.

"Montreaux" the husband added. "You said you two had planned it," she went on. Now looking over specks and speaking louder: "The bishop came to him, he planned it out. My husband didn't plan the trip at all. He knows the bishop planned it."

Then the husband: "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, And I acceded and we worked it out. He was to go ahead of me, I was To come in later, soon as I could raise What funds my congregation could afford To spare for this adventure."

"Guess," she said, "How much it was."

I shook my head and she Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come Scarcely before the plan could be put through Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum Had never been made up and put in gold For him to carry in a chamois belt."

And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. Go on," she said.

And so he started over: "The bishop came to me and said he thought The Advent would be June of seventy-six. This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. He said he had a dream; and in this dream An angel stood beside him, told him so, And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, And live there, learn the people and the country, We were to live disguised the better to learn The people and the country. I was to work At my trade as a cabinet maker, he At carpentry, which was his trade, and so No one would know us, or suspect our plan. And thus we could live undisturbed and work, And get all things in readiness, that in time The Lord would send us power, and do all things. We were the messengers to go ahead And make the ways straight, so I told her of it."