Chapter 6

I'm cold, both hands and feet. These three days past I have been cold, this hour I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. God did do well to give us anodynes. ... So now you know why I am much alone, And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, And do not have them here, dear ancient friends, Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. Love is not love which alters when it finds A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch Of hands of flesh.

I am most passionate, And long am used perplexities of love To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder, Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I, A crater which erupts, look where she stands In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, As years go, but I am a youth afire While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! I want them not, I want the love which springs Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body Is piled in reckless generosity. ... You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, And think me nature's child, scarce understand How much of physic, law, and ancient annals I have stored up by means of studious zeal. But pass this by, and for the braggart breath Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated, Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman, According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry-- Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?-- Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it: I believe and say it as I would lightly speak Of the most common thing to sense, outside Myself to touch or analyze, this mind Which has been used by Something, as I use A quill for writing, never in this world In the most high and palmy days of Greece, Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed, Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails Of passions curious, countless lives explored As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this? Since I know them by what I am, the essence From which their utterance came, myself a flower Of every graft and being in myself The recapitulation and the complex Of all the great. Were not brains before books? And even geometries in some brain Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson, If I am nature's child am I not all? Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, And say that reason in me was a fume. But if you honor me, as you have said, As much as any, this side idolatry, Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be In your regard, have come to fifty-two, Defeated in my love, who knew too well That poets through the love of women turn To satyrs or to gods, even as women By the first touch of passion bloom or rot As angels or as bawds.

Bethink you also How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process Working in man's soul from the woman soul As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh, Even as a malady may be, while this thing Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. Till it become a vision paradisic, And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ...

This I have know, but had not. Nor have I Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay What grew within me, while I saw the blood Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel With my own blood stained.

As a virgin shamed By the swelling life unlicensed needles it, But empties not her womb of some last shred Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, And weakness to the last of life, so I For some shame not unlike, some need of life To rid me of this life I had conceived Did up and choke it too, and thence begot A fever and a fixed debility For killing that begot.

Now you see that I Have not grown from a central dream, but grown Despite a wound, and over the wound and used My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever Which longed for that which nursed the malady, And fed on that which still preserved the ill, The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Has left me. And as reason is past care I am past cure, with ever more unrest Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are, And my discourse at random from the truth, Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair And thought her bright, who is as black as hell And dark as night.

But list, good gentlemen, This love I speak of is not as a cloak Which one may put away to wear a coat, And doff that for a jacket, like the loves We men are wont to have as loves or wives. She is the very one, the soul of souls, And when you put her on you put on light, Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, Which if you tear away you tear your life, And if you wear you fall to ashes. So 'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost, And broken hope that we could find each other, And that mean more to me and less to her. 'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me Without a sense of loss, without a tear, And make me fool and perjured for the oath That swore her fair and true. I feel myself As like a virgin who her body gives For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite For other conquests. For I gave myself, And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss Of myself never to myself restored. The urtication of this shame made plays And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, But, better, love.

To hell with punks and wenches, Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. I think I have a fever--hell and furies! Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. Ben, if I die before you, let me waste Richly and freely in the good brown earth, Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil I take the veil and hide, and like great Cæsar Who drew his toga round him, I depart.

Good friends, let's to the fields--I have a fever. After a little walk, and by your pardon, I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, I pass you like an orange to a child: I can no more with you. Do what you will. What should my care be when I have no power To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me As little as I need you: go your way! Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek And clap their gushing wounds--but I shall sleep, Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators Shall fulmine over London or America Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters And cut each others' throats when reason fails-- But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep-- Let's walk and hear the lark.

SWEET CLOVER

Only a few plants up--and not a blossom My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? Old John comes by. I show him my result. Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, I wanted you to sow it. Now you see What comes of letting Hunter do your work. The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed Was sown.

But John, who knows a clover field, Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil And studies them.

He says, Look at the roots! Hunter neglected to inoculate The seed, for clover seed must always have Clover bacteria to make it grow, And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover The roots are studded thick with tubercles, Like little warts, made by bacteria. And somehow these bacteria lay hold Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil, And make the plants grow, make them blossom too. When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: He should have hauled some top-soil to this field From some old clover field, or made a culture Of these bacteria and soaked the seed In it before he sowed it.

As I said, Hunter was sick when he was working here. And then he ran away to Indiana And left his wife and children. Now he's back. His cough was just as bad in Indiana As it is here. A cough is pretty hard To run away from. Wife and children too Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them Stays with a fellow and cannot be left. Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you. He's straightening out his little farm and making Provision for his family. Hunter's changed. He is a better man. It almost seems That Hunter's blossomed. ...

I am sorry for him. The doctor says he has tuberculosis.

SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL

To a western breeze A row of golden tulips is nodding. They flutter their golden wings In a sudden ecstasy and say: Something comes to us from beyond, Out of the sky, beyond the hill We give it to you.

* * * * *

And I walk through rows of jonquils To a beloved door, Which you open. And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head Nodding to me, and saying: Something comes to me Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty-- I give it to you.

* * * * *

There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, And the freshness of June iris in your hands, And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom. But your voice is the voice of the robin Singing at dawn amid new leaves. It is like sun-light on blue water Where the south-wind is on the water And the buds of the flags are green. It is like the wild bird of the sedges With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed Showering lyrics over the sun-light Between rhythmical pauses When his heart has stopped, Making light and water Into song.

* * * * *

Let me hear your voice, And the voice of Eternal Beauty Through the music of your voice. Let me gather the iris of your hands. Against my face. And close my eyes with your eyes. Let me listen with you For the Voice.

FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE

How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work, Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose, The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands, The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene. How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless, You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you, And think of your work--how nothing could balk you Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned, Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh, Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear For your eighty-four years!

And they say of you still You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn, And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always. Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived In your day and your place? It was never their due! Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be-- A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places. Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you. And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe-- Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light? But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric. Did France bar her door? Geneva remained--good enough! Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know. Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing, You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path; You stand at your door and step by another to France-- Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman. And here you have printers to print what you write and a house For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin. O busy Voltaire, never resting. ...

So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke, The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State, The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire: The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil. It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter, A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast Was thrown on the handles.

And yet to this day, O Voltaire, They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun, And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it. But listen The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others, That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides. The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French?

Did you give up three years of your life To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas? Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well, Six lines in an article written in English are plenty To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture, Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble, But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature, Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ...

How well did you know that life to a genius, a god, Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp. Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds. Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying. Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships. You saw through and laughed at--you saw above all That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh.

So you smiled till the lines of your mouth A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me, I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing Through eighty-four years for realities--O let them pass, Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god? Front the ages with a smile!

POOR PIERROT

Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate? Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate?

Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor? Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door? Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye.

I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep: The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep. They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife-- When life fills full the soul then life kills life.

I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune, Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon. And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea.

MIRAGE OF THE DESERT

Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds-- But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue?

* * * * *

And there's the harp on which great fingers play Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things; And there's a soul that wanders out when called By a voice afar from the answering strings.

* * * * *

And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. One cannot have them and live, but if one die It might be better than living--who can say?

* * * * *

Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul-- But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love!

* * * * *

DAHLIAS

The mad wind is the warden, And the smiling dahlias nod To the dahlias across the garden, And the wastes of the golden rod.

They never pray for pardon, Nor ask his way nor forego, Nor close their hearts nor harden Nor stay his hand, nor bestow

Their hearts filched out of their bosoms, Nor plan for dahlias to be. For the wind blows over the garden And sets the dahlias free.

They drift to the song of the warden, Heedless they give him heed. And he walks and blows through the garden Blossom and leaf and seed.

THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES

Silvers and purples breathing in a sky Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger, Of the restrained but passionate July Upon the marshes of the river lie, Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly.

* * * * *

A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend Under the flapping of the breeze's wing, Departing and revisiting The haunts of the river twisting without end.

* * * * *

The torsions of the river make long miles Of the waters of the river which remain Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles Of water between the rushes, which restrain The bewildered currents in returning files, Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, Too hurt to leap with body or uplift Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift

* * * * *

Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes The iron bridge's reticules Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons. But from the bridge, watching the little steamer Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, The river loosened from the abandoned spools Of earth and heaven wanders without will, Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. And two old men who turn the bridge For passing boats sit in the sun all day, Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs, And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. And of the ruthless sacrilege Which mowed away the pines, And cast them in the current here as logs, To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, Making for a little hour heroes and heroines, Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, When the great saws sent screeches up and whines, And cries for more and more Slaughter of forests up and down the river And along the lake's shore.

* * * * *

But all is quiet on the river now As when the snow lay windless in the wood, And the last Indian stood And looked to find the broken bough That told the path under the snow. All is as silent as the spiral lights Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare Of dunes and purple air, There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies.

* * * * *

The forests and the mills are gone! All is as silent as the voice I heard On a summer dawn When we two fished among the river reeds. As silent as the pain In a heart that feeds A sorrow, but does not complain. As silent as above the bridge in this July, Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane: A man-bestridden dragon fly!

DELILAH

Because thou wast most delicate, A woman fair for men to see, The earth did compass thy estate, Thou didst hold life and death in fee, And every soul did bend the knee.

[Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by Delilah and the People by Samson.)]

Much pleasure also made thee grieve For that the goblet had been drained. The well spiced viand thou didst leave To frown on want whose throat was strained, And violence whose hands were stained.

The purple of thy royal cloak, Made the sea paler for its hue. Much people bent beneath the yoke To fetch thee jewels white and blue, And rings to pass thy gold hair through.

Therefore, Delilah wast thou called, Because the choice wines nourished thee In Sorek, by the mountains walled Against the north wind's misery, Where flourished every pleasant tree.

[Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth with divers lovers.)]