Chapter 9

And looking I could see That scarcely any dancer here could free His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze Upon himself or others, till a craze Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate The hand that took each dancer soon or late. Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced, Some stared and paled and then more madly danced. One dancer only never looked at all. He seemed soul captured by the carnival. There were so many dancers there he loved, He was so greatly by the music moved, He had no time to study his own face There in the mirrors as from place to place He quickly danced.

Until I saw at last This dancer by the whirling dancers cast Face full against a mirrored panel where Before he could look at himself or stare He plunged through to the other side--and quick, As water closes when you lift the stick, The mirrored panel swung in place and left No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick. But all his partners thus so soon bereft Went dancing to the music as before. But I saw faces in that mirrored door Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching Their faces over shoulders, even matching Their terror with each other's to repress A growing fear in seeing it was less Than some one else's, or to ease despair By looking in a face who did not care, While watching for the hand that through some door Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor With every time-beat of the orchestra. What is this room of mirrors? Who can say?

THE LETTER

What does one gain by living? What by dying Is lost worth having? What the daily things Lived through together make them worth the while For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying Of souls through separation? There's your smile! And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings Half uttered nothings of delight! But then Now that I see you not, and shall again Touch you no more--memory can possess Your soul's essential self, and none the less You live with me. I therefore write to you This letter just as if you were away Upon a journey, or a holiday; And so I'll put down everything that's new In this secluded village, since you left. ... Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember, After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom. We had spring all at once--the long December Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room, And laid your things away. And then one morning I saw the mother robin giving warning To little bills stuck just above the rim Of that nest which you watched while being built, Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb, With folded wings against an April rain. On June the tenth Edward and Julia married, I did not go for fear of an old pain. I was out on the porch as they drove by, Coming from church. I think I never scanned A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet-- I went into the house to have a cry. A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife. Between housework and hoeing in the garden I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life. My heart was numb and still I had to harden All memory or die. And just the same As when you sat beside the window, passed Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed. He did not die till late November came. Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast, 'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child. Her husband was in Monmouth at the time. She had no milk, the baby is not well. The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell. And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime Has shocked the village, for the monster killed Glendora Wilson's father at his door-- A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled. I could go on, but wherefore tell you more? The world of men has gone its olden way With war in Europe and the same routine Of life among us that you knew when here. This gossip is not idle, since I say By means of it what I would tell you, dear: I have been near you, dear, for I have been Not with you through these things, but in despite Of living them without you, therefore near In spirit and in memory with you.

* * * * *

Do you remember that delightful Inn At Chester and the Roman wall, and how We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth? And afterward when you and I came down To London, I forsook the murky town, And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, While I went on to Putney just to see Old Swinburne and to look into his face's Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on A finer thing than any verse he wrote? (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!) He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason To England's greatness. What was Camden like? Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half My visit, so I left.

The thing was this: None of this talk was Swinburne any more Than some child of his loins would take his hair, Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,-- His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, A channel for the eternal stream--his flesh Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book, But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh And liquid meaning. So I knew at last His real immortal self is in his verse.

* * * * *

Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. I cannot lose you in this universe-- I first must lose myself. The essential touch Of soul possession lies not in the walk Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread Broken together, nor the hour of love When flesh surrenders depths of things divine Beyond all vision, as they were the dream Of other planets, but without these even In death and separation, there is heaven: By just that unison and its memory Which brought our lips together. To be free From accidents of being, to be freeing The soul from trammels on essential being, Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed Into the only heaven God has made: That's where we know each other as we are, In the bright ether of some quiet star, Communing as two memories with each other.

CANTICLE OF THE RACE

SONG OF MEN

How beautiful are the bodies of men-- The agonists! Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong For their strength's behests. Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong In games or tests When they run or box or swim the long Sea-waves crests With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, And their rounded chests.

I know a youth who raises his arms Over his head. He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms Of flood or fire. He springs renewed from a lusty bed To his youth's desire. He drowses, for April flames outspread In his soul's attire.

The strength of men is for husbandry Of woman's flesh: Worker, soldier, magistrate Of city or realm; Artist, builder, wrestling Fate Lest it overwhelm The brood or the race, or the cherished state. They sing at the helm When the waters roar and the waves are great, And the gale is fresh.

There are two miracles, women and men-- Yea, four there be: A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man, And God's decree. And a babe from the womb in a little span Ere the month be ten. Their rapturous arms entwine and cling In the depths of night; He hunts for her face for his wondering, And her eyes are bright. A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring Is man's delight.

SONG OF WOMEN

How beautiful is the flesh of women-- Their throats, their breasts! My wonder is a flame which burns, A flame which rests; It is a flame which no wind turns, And a flame which quests.

I know a woman who has red lips, Like coals which are fanned. Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips From her white-rose chin. Her throat curves like a cloud to the land Where her breasts begin. I close my eyes when I put my hand On her breast's white skin.

The flesh of women is like the sky When bare is the moon: Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, And sea-shell loins. I know a woman whose splendors vex Where the flesh joins-- A slope of light and a circumflex Of clefts and coigns. She thrills like the air when silence wrecks An ended tune.

These are the things not made by hands in the earth: Water and fire, The air of heaven, and springs afresh, And love's desire. And a thing not made is a woman's flesh, Sorrow and mirth! She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre, And she drips the wine. Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh As buds on the vine: For fire and water and air are flesh, And love is the shrine.

SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT

How beautiful is the human spirit In its vase of clay! It takes no thought of the chary dole Of the light of day. It labors and loves, as it were a soul Whom the gods repay With length of life, and a golden goal At the end of the way.

There are souls I know who arch a dome, And tunnel a hill. They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome, And measure the sky. They find the good and destroy the ill, And they bend and ply The laws of nature out of a will While the fates deny.

I wonder and worship the human spirit When I behold Numbers and symbols, and how they reach Through steel and gold; A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, And an hour foretold. It ponders its nature to turn and teach, And itself to mould.

The human spirit is God, no doubt, Is flesh made the word: Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, And the souls who heard Beyond the rim of the world the swell Of an ocean stirred By a Power on the waters inscrutable. There are souls who gird Their loins in faith that the world is well, In a faith unblurred. How beautiful is the human spirit-- The flesh made the word!

BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE

This way and that way measuring, Sighting from tree to tree, And from the bend of the river. This must be the place where Black Eagle Twelve hundred moons ago Stood with folded arms, While a Pottawatomie father Plunged a knife in his heart, For the murder of a son. Black Eagle stood with folded arms, Slim, erect, firm, unafraid, Looking into the distance, across the river. Then the knife flashed, Then the knife crashed through his ribs And into his heart. And like a wounded eagle's wings His arms fell, slowly unfolding, And he sank to death without a groan!

And my name is Black Eagle too. And I am of the spirit, And perhaps of the blood Of that Black Eagle of old. I am naked and alone, But very happy; Being rich in spirit and in memories. I am very strong. I am very proud, Brave, revengeful, passionate. No longer deceived, keen of eye, Wise in the ways of the tribes: A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries. A knower of harmless snakes, And the livid copperhead. Lastly a knower of the spirits, For there are many spirits: Spirits of hidden lakes, And of pine forests. Spirits of the dunes, And of forested valleys. Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, And great distances. There are many spirits Under the Great Spirit. Him I know not. Him I only feel With closed eyes. Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river At a sky of stars, When the leaves of the oak are asleep. I will fill this birch bark full of writing And hide it in the cleft of an oak, Here where Black Eagle fell. Decipher my story who can:

When I was a boy of fourteen Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs, Rose from the door of his tent And came to where we were running, Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, And said to me in their hearing: "You are the fastest of all. Now run again, and let me see. And if you can run I will make you my runner, I will care for you, And you shall have pockets of gold." ...

And then we ran. And the others lagged behind me, Like smoke behind the wind. But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox Grew dark. They nudged each other. They looked side-ways, Toeing the earth in shame. ... Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. And he went here and there To find a match. And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, And nuggets of gold. And at last the match was made.

It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell, It was by a red and yellow mountain, It was by a great river That we ran. Hundreds of Indians came to the race. They babbled, smoked and quarreled. And everyone carried a knife, And everyone carried a gun. And we runners-- How young we were and unknowing What the race meant to them! For we saw nothing but the track, We saw nothing but our trainers And the starters. And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. But the Indians and the squaws saw much else, They thought of the race in such different ways From the way we thought of it. For with me it was honor, It was triumph, It was fame. It was the tender looks of Indian maidens Wherever I went. But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, And the old fathers and young bucks The race meant jugs of whiskey, And new guns. It meant a squaw, A pony, Or some rise in the life of the tribe.

So the shot of the starter rang at last, And we were off. I wore a band of yellow around my brow With an eagle's feather in it, And a red strap for my loins. And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle, They are all behind you." And they were all behind me, As the cloud's shadow is behind The bend of the grass under the wind. But as we neared the end of the race The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, And the young bucks, Crowded close to the track-- I fell and lost.

Next day Tobacco Jim went about Lamenting his losses. And when I told him they tripped me He cursed them. But later he went about asking in whispers If I was wise enough to throw the race. Then suddenly he disappeared. And we heard rumors of his riches, Of his dogs and ponies, And of the joyous life he was leading.

Then my father took me to New Mexico, And here my life changed. I was no longer the runner, I had forgotten it all. I had become a wise Indian. I could do many things. I could read the white man's writing And write it.

And Indians flocked to me: Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel, Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet, And many others. They flocked to me, for I could help them. For the Great Spirit may pick a chief, Or a leader. But sometimes the chief rises By using wise Indians like me Who are rich in gifts and powers ... But at least it is true: All little great Indians Who are after ponies, Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets Gain their ends through the gifts and powers Of wise Indians like me. They come to you and ask you to do this, And to do that. And you do it, because it would be small Not to do it. And until all the cards are laid on the table You do not see what they were after, And then you see: They have won your friend away; They have stolen your hill; They have taken your place at the feast; They are wearing your feathers; They have much gold. And you are tired, and without laughter. And they drift away from you, As Tobacco Jim went away from me. And you hear of them as rich and great. And then you move on to another place, And another life.

Billy the Pelican has built him a board house And lives in Guthrie. Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace. Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News; He is helping the government To reclaim stolen lands. (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole Who tripped me in the race.) Big Jawed Prophet is very rich. He has disappeared as an eagle With a rabbit. And I have come back here Where twelve hundred moons ago Black Eagle before me Had the knife run through his ribs And through his heart. ...

I will hide this writing In the cleft of the oak By this bend in the river. Let him read who can: I was a swift runner whom they tripped.

MY LIGHT WITH YOURS

I

When the sea has devoured the ships, And the spires and the towers Have gone back to the hills. And all the cities Are one with the plains again. And the beauty of bronze, And the strength of steel Are blown over silent continents, As the desert sand is blown-- My dust with yours forever.

II

When folly and wisdom are no more, And fire is no more, Because man is no more; When the dead world slowly spinning Drifts and falls through the void-- My light with yours In the Light of Lights forever!

THE BLIND

Amid the din of cars and automobiles, At the corner of a towering pile of granite, Under the city's soaring brick and stone, Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. And an old woman holds the cup for you, Wherein a curious passer by at times Casts a poor coin.

You are so blind you cannot see us men As walking trees! I fancy from the tune You play upon the flute, you have a vision Of leafy trees along a country road-side, Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks Rise singing in the sun-shine! In your darkness You may see such things playing on your flute Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago!

And here's another on a farther corner, With head thrown back as if he searched the skies, He's selling evening papers, what's to him The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news. That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, Or play the flute in blindness.

Yet I think It's neither news nor music with these blind ones-- Rather the hope of re-created eyes, And a light out of death! "How can it be," I hear them over and over, "There never shall be eyes for me again?"

"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU"

--_His Own Words_

IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL

* * * * *

Eagle, whose fearless Flight in vast spaces Clove the inane, While we stood tearless, White with rapt faces In wonder and pain. ...

Heights could not awe you, Depths could not stay you. Anguished we saw you, Saw Death way-lay you Where the storm flings Black clouds to thicken Round France's defender! Archangel stricken From ramparts of splendor-- Shattered your wings! ...

But Lafayette called you, Rochambeau beckoned. Duty enthralled you. For France you had reckoned Her gift and your debt. Dull hearts could harden Half-gods could palter. For you never pardon If Liberty's altar You chanced to forget. ...

Stricken archangel! Ramparts of splendor Keep you, evangel Of souls who surrender No banner unfurled For ties ever living, Where Freedom has bound them. Praise and thanksgiving For love which has crowned them-- Love frees the world! ...

CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT

Who is that calling through the night, A wail that dies when the wind roars? We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, It faded out at Comingoer's.

Along five miles of wintry road A horseman galloped with a cry, "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, "When I heard clattering hoofs go by."

"I flung the winder up to listen; I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle When he went over Houghton's Bridge."

Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' A heifer in the barn, and then My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.' 'There,' says my boy, it is again."

"Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy I seed go home with Emily.'

"'He is too old for galavantin' Upon a night like this,' says I. 'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty, Good-natured huskiness in that cry.'

"'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, 'I never thought--it makes me shiver, And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'"

Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's."

Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle And held it up to the winder pane. But when I heerd again the holler 'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane."

Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed I thought he'd thump the door away. I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' 'O, Emily,' I heard him say.

"And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', His face so white, he looked so queer. 'O Andy'--and his voice went broken. 'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.'

"'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, 'What brings you here?--I would be told.' Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, It teched her hand ... and it war cold.

"'We got back from the Christmas doin's And went to bed, and she was sayin', (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.'

"'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, And then I thought I heerd her moan. It war the wind, I guess, for Emily War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.'

"I left him then to call my woman To tell her that her mother died. When we come back his voice was steady, The big tears in his eyes was dried.

"He just sot there and quiet like Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had, And said for her to die on Christmas Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad.

"He grew so cam he almost skeered us. Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman That ever walked this Vale of Care.'

"Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, I never heerd her once complain.' Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas When she can go and have no pain.'