WILD GRAPE

Beneath the crawling shadow Of a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten, The wild grape twines amid the fragments Of shattered pillars prone upon the ground, And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures Of faun and youth and maiden, That once stood in the temple pediment, Young, naked, beautiful. In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus leaves of the crumbling columns, And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty. The wild bees hum and buzz Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume, Under the drowsy noonday sun, That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the thirsting hillside. Wanton and wild, Like an unhappy lover Clinging to the breast of his dead mistress, The vine clings in voluptuous embrace About the naked, pallid forms, And mingles there with the eternal beauty Of youth and age And life and death.

Beautiful statue of Parian marble, Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight, Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon; I follow, I follow.

Slender and white is your beautiful body, Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you; Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleeping Is the dream you emprison;—

A dream of beauty that lingers forever, A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight, A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters, Reflecting white temples.

Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow, My dream goes forth with your dream to wander; You lead me into a moonlit garden Beside the Ægean.

White in the moonlight gleams the temple Cutting the purple sky with its pediment; Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain; Black are the cypress trees.

The gods are asleep in the silent temple; Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating With the bells of the fountain.

Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses, Not in vain are your white arms lifted; And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal Embrace in the moonlight.

What are the great pine boughs That stretch over me so lovingly Shielding me from the heat? They are the sheltering arms of God, Visible Against white drifting clouds.

And the trailing white clouds,— What are they? They are the tattered, worn-out clothes, Bordered with broken pearls, Cast off by the angels and archangels, And by God himself.

All my life long I have loved cathedrals; Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches Are the home of peace and beauty, And sometimes, too, of hope. Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glass Shut out the noisy world, And protect tired eyes from the glare of day. Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts; Their blue welling clouds of incense Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers, And their gleaming candles Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.

And now I have a cathedral all my own. It has great pine trunks for pillars, For painted windows red and golden leaves; White slender birches are the singing-boys, And the great organ the winds of God Playing among the pine-boughs. The prim little spruces are virgin nuns, Telling their beads in drops of dew; And the bare broken tree-stumps Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms, But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome. The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me; The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell; From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense; And from the great high altar of eternal rock, God himself looks forth In the red glory of the dawn.

Two monsters, Iron and Coal, Sleep in the darkness. A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them, And they awake hissing and writhing, And spew forth blood-red vomit In streams like fiery serpents. Then from the reeking pools A monstrous brood is born, Black, strong, beautiful. But we turn away our tired eyes, And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.

The Alps— A mighty string of pearls Which Day has laid aside— Flaunt their alluring beauty Upon the purple velvet of deep valleys, Until night, Stretching out black greedy fingers, Steals them one by one.

From staring eyes Of hotel windows, From flaunting rich And cringing poor, From men and women Drunken with wine, passion and money, From tired Cook's tourists Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds, From shrieking steamers Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds, From bands beating out brazen music Under the twisted plane-trees, From all that is poor and rich and ugly, I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills Which are outlined upon orange and crimson By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight, And there my soul finds peace.

Like the High Priest of Jehovah The lake, for the Festival of Beauty Puts upon its blue garment A gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.

Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire; My eyes can scarcely bear its glory, As it burns crimson and scarlet On jasper and flame-colored sard, On ruby, red as sunset flame, And topaz shot with golden lights. Like the eternal fire of distant stars— Blue, green and white, Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire, Jacinth and beryl, Onyx and green-banded agate, And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers. Morning and evening On the day of the great Festival The High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate, And the chosen people, blinded by its glory, Bow down and worship.

I saw a vision of beauty. My eyes looked through the mists of ages, Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was God. And I saw the waves of the blue Ægean, Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled, And I heard the singing of the water, As of playing of distant pipes By slender shepherd lads among the hills. Then I turned away from the shore And I saw the pediment of a great temple Standing white against the sky, And beneath the pediment rows of marble columns Like giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty. Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees, Statues of gods and goddesses, youths and maidens, Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten brass. My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway, And I went a worshipper to the great temple, Whose burnished doors stood wide ajar Gleaming like the portal of a dream city; I lifted my arms in adoration, And my soul drank its fill From the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.

I saw a vision of faith. My eyes were turned to a mediæval city Of crowded low-roofed houses, From which there rose a great cathedral, With walls of chiselled stone And spires that pierced into the blue. Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brain Long years in wood and stone, Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their God. I entered in,

And saw the walls agleam with painted glass, More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings; I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea, And the voices of the singing-boys Like soft ripples on the velvet sand. With golden cross and smoking censers And priests in robes of scarlet and purple, The procession passed along; Then the great sweating throng Bowed low upon the stony floor before the Host, And when the echoing music Had vanished in the soaring vault above, The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloom Comforted, into the golden sun-light. My soul, too, was comforted, For it had drunk deep From the pure mediæval well of faith.

I saw a vision of love. Upon the field of battle Amid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapour Red streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground, Generously, Joyfully, That the world might not die from its festering wounds, But might drink health and life From these pure, youthful streams. Then I stood awed and dumb, For here was love supreme.

I saw a vision of death. Silence held my feet with clinging hands, And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes. Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadows A great night-moth with sable folded wings; It seemed asleep upon a purple flower, But as I watched, Slowly it spread its wings, And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn, And all the world was drenched in showers of light. Then with his flaming wings outspread The great moth sailed away, Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea, Leaving behind a wake of golden light. And I know that my vision of death Was only a vision of beauty.

O little lady with the yellow fan Why are you so sad? Why does a tear stand Like a tea-flower bud upon your cheek? Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk, Your slippers are embroidered with gems, A gold and emerald butterfly has lighted in your hair, Your serving-maid stands near Awaiting your command, And if you lifted but one slender finger A chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace. Why are you so sad?

It is because the ships beside the shore Spread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze; The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands, And there is a gleam of swords and armour, For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.

There are yellow birds within the cage; Beside its gilded bars there stand the women Whom the Great Prince loves to honour. They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair, And live in a pretty pink and yellow house. But the women look not at the captive singing-birds, Nor listen to their song, Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves, Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.

Why do you peer at me, old man, With eyes half shut, From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine? Your face is but a mask, Showing neither joy nor sorrow; But I know you bend your head to listen When the wild geese go honking towards the south, And your eyes grow wide with sadness, When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower. You, too, love beauty, Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts, Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?

In quivering translucent light, Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky, Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water, Sleeps Beauty, Turned to stone by a miracle of art. And though she never stirs, But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white, We come from far-off cities, And we turn to her our hungry eyes, Even away from sunlit sky and sea.

A great prince of the ancient days Once loved a little geisha girl, Who wore a silken robe, Blue as the waters of the lily-pond. But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island, And the little geisha girl Never put on her robe of blue again.

And you, O purple iris with the golden bands, Are the soul of the Great Prince; And you, O slender one, Blue as lapis lazuli, Are the soul of the little dancing-girl; And you nestle at last Beside your stately purple Prince, Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.

The white lotus-flower Grows in the depths of the pool, Love grows in my heart.

The peony flames crimson. My heart's blood is far redder Than its flame.

Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms. Mist and drizzle of rain. Where art thou?

Darkness. Shadows in my soul. The vision of your face. Dawn and music.

Hush of night. Perfumed breath of night. A moth with flaming wings. Come beloved.

The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys; The little wooden bridge, Where the waterfall rings its silver bells, Is a bow of darkness; The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet; A cloud of night-birds Dots the orange sky.

All day our paths have led us side by side Along the steep hot highways. It is cool evening now, And the temple bells call you one way And the silence calls me another.

We come to the white door-posts of your house, We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves. We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drink From a cup of sea-green jade. Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter, For I know that to-morrow My path will not lead over the steep hill, Nor yours down to the deep valley, For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.

Outside the tent Darkness and giant trees swaying in the wind. The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep. And far across the lazy lapping waves, Above the crooning of the wind, I hear a wild loon crying, Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.

Inside the tent Your gentle breathing, Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon; Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.

Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry, But now it is only the voice of Loneliness Bidding me farewell, As it passes away into the night.

You stir in your sleep softly And turn your face to me,— And the loon cries no more.

A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple And played the music taught it by the wind, At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain, When the breeze of summer night caressed it, Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea, Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer. And the people, Who never heard the music of the wind, Paused to listen to the wind-bell, And then passed on through the temple gate, With music echoing in their ears.

O Maker of all music, Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.

Beyond the temple gate A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves. At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast, At sunset flamed like a crimson peony. And the people, Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky, Would linger as they passed from prayer To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool, And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets, With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.

O Maker of all beauty, Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.