TO THE OLYMPIAN HERMES

Now let the formal, folded curtain fall Over this majesty of mellowed stone. Let me go forth with eyes alight with joy From this god-gazing. Let me not pause nor stay Till by some clear word I have given faith To doubting minds, how Greeks ennobled form And carved high meaning in a body’s truth. Yet, Hermes, fair god, consciously the flower Of the Greek dream, sculptured so lofty-kind, Stainlessly physical, superbly true;— Who is to tell thee that thou hast one fleck On that pure manliness, and dare to speak Something against thy calm that seems to say, “Earth has no greater gift than perfect limbs, And god-like manhood’s straight significance”? Forgive me, Hermes, I had thought to take Thy princely healthiness to ailing worlds; To meanness and to littleness and lust, Bidding them gaze upon thee in thy calm, Telling them: “This is all. This Hermes stands For Greek expression of a definite truth Speaking its message to the world of men And placing beauty as a final goal.” But then I pondered: What will be the gain If men say: “Hermes is very kind and fair, Wholesome and generous and unafraid And—soulless! Let be! we’ll no longer hope For strength more than the body—loftier calm Than this superb control of manly limbs, Friendly with sun and rock, and sea, and life. Now yield we up that old, defeated claim Of soul, the ugly, hunted, harried thing, And trust us to a pagan manliness, Stand Hermes-like, unpuzzled, unamazed!” I knew, oh Hermes! Greek perfection, lit Like stately lamp with one clear, shining joy, That of well-being, I knew life ended not With just the beauty of a human form; Marble, translated into mystery Must needs have line to make it fair and right; And that is all.... Thy unknown sculptor knew The pagan mind and set thy godhood high, In an unsullied semblance of a man Untouched by sorrow, poverty, and shame. Immortal semblance—then the cleavage comes! Real men must live (we mortals know the fight), Hot-blooded, passionate, forlorn, astray; We know how men determine to be true To some one Greatness,—struggle to the test Baffled and crucified;—in bitter shame Leaving the unsolved meaning of their lives. And now we know, by those French faces torn To rags, around the dumbly loyal eyes; By English soldiers, done to crippled wrecks And hideous mangling, how men dare to die, Or live their silent, agonizing days. And then we know there is a human thing Transcending any body—called a Soul! Yea, let the formal, folded curtain fall O’er all that graciousness of mellowed stone. The Pagan knew the beauty of the flesh. We, Modern, view that beauty with resolve Firm and unswerving that it be outdone, Firm that all ugly, bruised, and broken things Shall stand invested with a deathless pride Before our eyes—that see them beautiful; Determined that the perfect ones approach Humbly with sense of some imperfectness, And kneel in homage to the shattered brave.