Front matter (continued 2)

JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking, When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock. So we came out and he went home to wife And children, and I started for the club Which I call home; and then just like a flash You came into my mind. I bought a slug And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me To hear your voice at last—it was so drowsy, Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing In nightgown with head leaned against the wall.... Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine— It showed your understanding, that you know How it is with a man, and how it is with me Who work by day and sometimes drift by night About this hellish city. Though you know That I am fifty-one, can you imagine My feeling with no children growing up? My feeling as of one who sees a play And afterwards sits somewhere at a table And talks with friends about the different parts Over a sandwich and a glass of beer? My feeling with this money which I've made And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working The money dulls the fancy which could use it In splendid dreams or in the art of life. Well, here was I ringing your bell at last At half-past one, and there you stood before me With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed, But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia, For that kiss which you gave me at the door.... Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong, My heart acts queer of late.... I want to say Lest I forget it, if you ever hear From Arabel or Francis what I said To Francis when he told me he intended To marry Arabel, why just remember Our talk this morning and forget I said it— I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see, That night we met, I being fifty-one And old at what men call the game, looked on With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you Just as I'd see a woman anywhere; Just as I'd see a woman anywhere; And I found you as I'd found others before you, But with this difference so it seemed to me: What had been false with them was real with you, What had been shame with them with you was life, What had been craft with them with you was nature, What had been sin with them to you was good, What had been vice with them to you the honest And uncorrupted innocence of a human Heart so human looking on our souls. What had been coarse to them to you was clean As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow And move and sing along creation's way. You came to me like friendship, what you gave Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self And least of motive. And it is through you That I have risen out of the pit where sneers And laughter, looks and words obscene, Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia, As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds Upon their infinite sailings and the lake Washes beneath us, and we lie and think How this has been forever and will be When we are dust a thousand, thousand years, Yet how life is eternal—just as one Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme The gospel hymns and ritual) that I Cannot blaspheme you, Julia. For what is our communion, yours and mine, If it be not a way of laying hold On that mysterious essence which makes one Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands.... Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right! Pour me a little coffee, if you please. I'll take from my herbarium certain species To make my points: Now here there is the woman Of life promiscuous, or nearly so. She fixes her design upon a man, Who's married and the riotous game begins. They go along a year or two perhaps. Then psychic chemistry performs its part: They are in love, or he's in love with her. What shall be done with love? Now watch the woman: That which she gave without love at the first She now withdraws in spite of love unless He breaks his life up, cuts all former ties And weds her. Do you wonder sometimes men Kill women with a knife or strangle them? Well, here's another: She has been to Ogontz, You meet her at a dinner-dance, we'll say. She has green eyes and hair as light as jonquils; She wears black velvet and a salmon sash. And when you dance with her she has a way Of giving you her flesh beneath thin silk, Which almost lisps as she caresses you With legs that scarcely touch you; and she says Things with a double meaning, and she smiles To carry out her meaning. Well, you think The girl is yours, and after weeks of chasing She lands you up at the appointed place With mamma, who looks at you with big eyes, That have a nervous way of opening And closing slowly like a big wax doll's, From which great clouds of wrath and wonder come; Which meeting is a way of saying to you: The girl is yours if you will marry her, And let her have your money. Julia, be still; I can't go on while you are laughing so. I know that men are easy, but to see Women as women see them is a gift That comes to men who reach my age in life.... Well, here's another, here's the type of woman Whose power of motherhood conceals the art By which she thrives, through which she reaches also An apotheosis in society. Her dream is children conscious or unconscious. And her strength is the race's, and she draws The urgings of posterity and leans Upon the hopes and ideals of the day. To her a man must sacrifice his life. But women, Julia, of whatever type, Are still but waiting ovules seeking man, And man's life to develop, even to live. And like the praying mantis who's devoured In the embrace, man is devoured by women In some way, by some sort. Love is a flame In man's life where he warms him but to suck The invisible heat and perish. Life is cramped, Bound down with many ropes, shut in by gates— Love is not free which should be wholly free For Life's sake. On Michigan Avenue At lunch time, or at five o'clock, you'll see In rain or shine a certain tailor walk In modish coat and trousers, with a cane. That fellow is the pitifulest man I know. He has no woman, cannot find a woman, Because all women, seeing him, divine What surges through him, and within their hearts Laugh slyly and deny him for the fun Of seeing how denial keeps him walking All up and down the boulevard. He's found No hand of human friendship like yours, Julia. I use him for my point. If we could make Some fine erotometer one could sit And watch its trembling springs and nervous hands Record the waves of longing in the city, And the urge of life that writhes beneath the blows Of custom and of fear. Love is not free, Which should be wholly free for Life's sake. Julia. So much for all these things, and now for you To whom they lead. You'll find among the marshes The sundew and the pitcher plant; in shallows, Where the green scum floats languidly you'll find The water lily with white petals and A sickly perfume. But the sundew catches The midges flitting by with rainbow wings, Impales them on its tiny spines, in time Devours them. And the pitcher plant holds out Its cup of green for larger bugs, which fall Into the water, treasured there like tears Of women, and so drowned are soon absorbed Into the verdant vesture of its leaves. The pitcher plant and sundew, water lily Well typify the nature of most women Who must have blood or soul of man to live— Except you, Julia. For my friend at Hinsdale Who raises flowers laid out a primrose bed. He read somewhere that primroses will change Under your eyes sometimes to something else, Become another flower and not a primrose, Another species even. So he watched And saw it, saw this miracle! The seed Has somewhere in its vital self the power Of this mutation. What is the origin Of spiritual species? For you're a primrose, Julia, Who has mutated: You are not a mother; Nor are you yet the woman seeking marriage; Nor yet the woman thriving by her sex; Nor yet the woman spoken of by Solomon Who waits and watches and whose steps lead down To death and hell. Nor yet Delilah who Rejoices in the secret of man's strength And in subduing it. You are a flower Designed to comfort such poor men as I, And show the world how love can be a thing That asks no more than what it freely gives, And gives all—all some women call the prize For life or honor, riches, power or place. You are a blossom in the primrose bed So raised to subtler color, sweeter scent. You have mutated, Julia, that is it, This flower of you is what I call The Lover!

THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES

I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death— But never a face like Harold's who passed in a throe of pain. There were maidens and youths in the bud, and men in the lust of life; And women whom child-birth racked till the crying soul slipped through; Patriarchs withered with age and nuns ascetical white; And one who wasted her virgin wealth in a riot of joy. Brothers and sisters at last in a quiet and purple pall, Fellow voyagers bound to a port on an ash-blue sea, Locked in an utterless grief, in a mystery fearful to dream. All of these I have seen—but the face of Harold the bold Looked with a penitent pallor and stared with a sad surprise. For now at last he was still who never knew rest in life. And the ardent heat of his blood was cold as the sweat of a stone. Life came in an evil hour and stabbed with a poisoned word The heart of a girl who faintly smiled through her tears. And her little life was tossed as the eddies that whirl in the hollows From the great world-currents that wreck the battle ships at sea. And the face of dead Lillian seemed like a rain-ruined flower. Or what is writ on the brow of the babe as the mother wails for the day When it leaped in the light of the sun and babbled its pure delight? But the face of William the Great was fashioned by life and thought; And death made it massive as bronze, and deepened the lines thereof: Some for the will and some for patience, and some for hope— Hope for the weal of the world wherein he mightily strove— Yet what did it all bespeak—what but submission and awe, And a trace of pain as one with a sword in his side? I have seen many faces changed by the Sculptor Death But the sorrow thereof is dumb like the cloth that lies on the brow. So what should be said of the faun surprised in the woodland dances, Of Harold the light of heart who fought with fear to the last?

THE CRY

There's a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears. It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears. It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres. It may be a dæmon of pent and high emprise, That looks on my soul till my soul hides and cries, Loath to rebuke my soul and bid it arise. It may be myself as I was in another life, Fashioned to lead where strife gives way to strife, Pinioned here in failure by knife thrown after knife. The child turns o'er in the womb; and perhaps the soul Nurtures a dream too strong for the soul's control, When the dream hath eyes, and senses its destined goal. Deep in darkness the bulb under mould and clod Feels the sun in the sky and pushes above the sod; Perhaps this cry in my heart is nothing but God!

THE HELPING HAND

Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars. Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars? Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief. How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief? Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life. Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife. Mother, your face is but a face among a million more. You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore. I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath. You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death. Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God? Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod.

THE DOOR

This is the room that thou wast ushered in. Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win? Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath? There is no door but death. Do shadows crouch within the mocking light? Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore, There is no less one door. Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom, The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom? Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth— There is no door but death. There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof Above the rents within the stairless roof. Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor— Who knocks? Unbolt the door!

SUPPLICATION

For He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust.—Psalm ciii. 14.

Oh Lord, when all our bones are thrust Beyond the gaze of all but Thine; And these blaspheming tongues are dust Which babbled of Thy name divine, How helpless then to carp or rail Against the canons of Thy word; Wilt Thou, when thus our spirits fail, Have mercy, Lord? Here from this ebon speck that floats As but a mote within Thine eye, Vain sneers and curses from our throats Rise to the vault of Thy fair sky: Yet when this world of ours is still Of this all-wondering, tortured horde, And none is left for Thee to kill— Have mercy, Lord! Thou knowest that our flesh is grass; Ah! let our withered souls remain Like stricken reeds of some morass, Bleached, in Thy will, by ceaseless rain. Have we not had enough of fire, Enough of torment and the sword?— If these accrue from Thy desire— Have mercy, Lord! Dost Thou not see about our feet The tangles of our erring thought? Thou knowest that we run to greet High hopes that vanish into naught. We bleed, we fall, we rise again; How can we be of Thee abhorred? We are Thy breed, we little men— Have mercy, Lord! Wilt Thou then slay for that we slay, Wilt Thou deny when we deny? A thousand years are but a day, A little day within Thine eye: We thirst for love, we yearn for life; We lust, wilt Thou the lust record? We, beaten, fall upon the knife— Have mercy, Lord! Thou givest us youth that turns to age; And strength that leaves us while we seek. Thou pourest the fire of sacred rage In costly vessels all too weak. Great works we planned in hopes that Thou Fit wisdom therefor wouldst accord; Thou wrotest failure on our brow— Have mercy, Lord! Could we but know, as Thou dost know— Hold the whole scheme at once in mind! Yet, dost Thou watch our anxious woe Who piece with palsied hands and blind The fragments of our little plan, To thrive and earn Thy blest reward, And make and keep the world of man— Have mercy, Lord! Thou settest the sun within his place To light the world, the world is Thine, Put in our hands and through Thy grace To be subdued and made divine. Whether we serve Thee ill or well, Thou knowest our frame, nor canst afford To leave Thy own for long in hell— Have mercy, Lord!

THE CONVERSATION

The Human Voice

You knew then, starting let us say with ether, You would become electrons, out of whirling Would rise to atoms; then as an atom resting Till through Yourself in other atoms moving And by the fine affinity of power Atom with atom massed, You would go on Over the crest of visible forms transformed, Would be a molecule, a little system Wherein the atoms move like suns and planets With satellites, electrons. So as worlds build From star-dust, as electron to electron, The same attraction drawing, molecules Would wed and pass over the crest again Of visible forms, lying content as crystals, Or colloids—ready now to use the gleam Of life. As 'twere I see You with a match, As one in darkness lights a candle, and one Sees not his friend's form in the shadowed room Until the candle's lighted? Even his form Is darkened by the new-made light, he stands So near it! Well, I add to all I've asked Whether You knew the cell born to the glint Of that same lighted candle would not rest Even as electrons rest not—but would surge Over the crest of visible forms, become Beneath our feet things hidden from the eye However aided,—as above our heads Beyond the Milky Way great systems whirl Beyond the telescope,—become bacilli, Amœba, starfish, swimming things, on land The serpent, and then birds, and beasts of prey The tiger (You in the tiger) on and on Surging above the crest of visible forms until The ape came—oh what ages they are to us— But still creation flies on wings of light— Then to the man who roamed the frozen fields Neither man nor ape,—we found his jaw, You know, At Heidelberg, in a sand-pit. On and on Till Babylon was builded, and arose Jerusalem and Memphis, Athens, Rome, Venice and Florence, Paris, London, Berlin, New York, Chicago—did You know, I ask, All this would come of You in ether moving?

A Voice I knew.

The Human Voice You knew that man was born to be destroyed, That as an atom perfect, whole, at ease, Drawn to some other atom, is broken, changed And rises o'er the crest of visible things To something else—that man must pass as well Through equal transformation. And You knew The unutterable things of man's life: From the first You saw his wracked Deucalion-soul that looks Backward on life that rises, where he rose Out of the stones. You saw him looking forward Over the purple mists that hide the gulf. Ere the green cell rose, even in the green cell You saw the sequences of thought—You saw That one would say, "All's matter" and another, "All's mind," and man's mind which reflects the image, Could not envision it. That even worship Of what you are would be confused by cries From India or Palestine. That love Which sees itself beginning in the seeds, Which fly and seek each other, maims The soul at the last in loss of child or friend Father or mother. And You knew that sex, Ranging from plants through beasts and up to us Had ties of filth—And out of them would rise Diverse philosophies to tear the world. You knew, when the green cell arose, that even The You which formed it moving on would bring Races and breeds, madmen, tyrants, slaves, The idiot child, the murderer, the insane— All springing from the action of one law. You knew the enmity that lies between The lives of micro-beings and our own. You knew How man would rise to vision of himself: Immortal only in the race's life. And past the atom and the first glint of life, Saw him with soul enraptured, yet o'ershadowed Amid self-consciousness!

A Voice I knew. But this your fault: You see me as apart, Over, removed, at enmity with You. You are in Me, and of Me, even at one With Me. But there's your soul—your soul may be The germinal cell of vaster evolution. Why try to tell you? If I gave a cell Voice to inquire, and it should ask you this: "After me what, a stalk, a flower, life That swims or crawls?" And if I gave to you Wisdom to say: "You shall become a reed By the water's edge"—how could the cell foresee What the reed is, bending beneath the wind When the lake ripples and the skies are blue As larkspur? Therefore I, who moved in darkness Becoming light in suns and light in souls And mind with thought—for what is thought but light Sprung from the clash of ether?—I am with you. And if beyond this stable state that stands For your life here (as cells are whole and balanced Till the inner urge bring union, then a breaking And building up to higher life), there is No memory of this world nor of your thought, Nor sense of life on this world lived and borne; Or whether you remember, know yourself As one who lived here, suffered here, aspired— What does it matter?—you cannot be lost, As I am lost not. Therefore be at peace. And from the laws whose orbits cross and run To seeming tangles, find the law through which Your soul shall be perfected till it draw,— As the green cell the sunlight draws and turns Its chemical effulgence into life— My inner splendor. All the rest is mine In infinite time. For if I should unroll The parchment of the future, it were vain— You could not read it.

TERMINUS

Terminus shows the ways and says, "All things must have an end." Oh, bitter thought we hid away When first you were my friend. We hid it in the darkest place Our hearts had place to hide, And took the sweet as from a spring Whose waters would abide. For neither life nor the wide world Has greater store than this:— The thought that runs through hands and eyes And fills the silences. There is a void the agéd world Throws over the spent heart; When Life has given all she has, And Terminus says depart. When we must sit with folded hands, And see with inward eye A void rise like an arctic breath To hollow the morrow's sky. To-morrow is, and trembling leaves, And 'wildered winds from Thrace Look for you where your face has bloomed, And where may bloom your face. Beyond the city, over the hill, Under the anguished moon, The winds and my dreams seek after you By meadow, water and dune. All things must have an end, we know; But oh, the dreaded end; Whether in life, whether in death, To lose the cherished friend. To lose in life the cherished friend, While the myrtle tree is green; To live and have the cherished friend With only the world between. With only the wide, wide world between, Where memory has mortmain. Life pours more wine in the heart of man Than the heart of man can contain. Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, Thirsting for blood of the vine, Life waits till the heart has lived too much And then pours in new wine!

MADELINE

I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed, Fed by the same miraculous power, That moved the rivulet of your life, And made your heart begin to beat. Now all day your steps are a-patter. Oh, what swift and musical feet! You sleep. I wait to see you wake, With wonder-eyes and hands that reach. I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather Too fast on your budding lips for speech. Your sunny hair is cut as if 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock. How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning The flaring skirt of the little frock! You build and play and search and pry, And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys. Why do you never tire of playing, Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise? You will not sleep? You are tired of the house? You are just as naughty as you can be. Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, And play with Marcia under the tree!

MARCIA

Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color Your cheeks of olive incarnadines. A serious wisdom burns and glows Steadily in your dark-eyed look. Already a wit and a little stoic— Perhaps you are going to write a book, Or paint a picture, or sing or act The part of Katherine or Juliet. I believe you were born with the gift of knowing When to remember and when to forget. And when to stifle and kill a grief, And clutch your heart when it beats in vain. The heart that has most strength for feeling Must have the strength to conquer the pain. You understand? It seems that you do— Though you cannot utter a word to me. Marcia, Marcia, look at Madeline Building a doll-house under the tree!

THE ALTAR

My heart is an altar whereon Many sacrificial fires have been kindled In praise of spring and Aphrodite. My heart is an altar of chalcedony, Crowned with a tablet of bronze, Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire, And scented with the aromatic bitterness Of dead incense. Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayer Over the ashes which lie scattered around the altar; For the April rain has wept over them, And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold. What though there are remnants here Of faded coronals, And bits of silver string Torn from forgotten harps? Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst. Let us take it and pour the sea from it, And while the savor of dead lips is washed away, Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth. Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring. Bring from the re-kindled woodland Flames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper, There where the woodman burns the fallen tree, And scented smoke arises On azure wings between the branches, Budding with adolescent life. With these let us light the altar, That a scarlet flame may lean Against the silver sea. For thou art fire also, And air, and water, and the resurgent earth, For thou art woman, thou art love. Thou art April of the Arcadian moon, Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds, Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys. Thy face is the apple tree in bloom; Thine eyes the glimpses of green water When the tree's blossoms shake As soft winds fan them. Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist— Thou art spring. The fire on the altar burns brightly, And the sea sparkles in the sun. Let us murmur a Doric prayer For the gift of love, For the gift of life, Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee!

SOUL'S DESIRE

Her soul is like a wolf that stands Where sunlight falls between the trees Of a sparse forest's leafless edge, When Spring's first magic moveth these. Her soul is like a little brook, Thin edged with ice against the leaves, Where the wolf drinks and is alone, And where the woodbine interweaves. A bank late covered by the snow, But lighted by the frozen North; Her soul is like a little plot That one white blossom bringeth forth. Her soul is slim, like silver slips, And straight, like flags beside a stream. Her soul is like a shape that moves And changes in a wonder dream. Who would pursue her clasps a cloud, And taketh sorrow for his zeal. Memory shall sing him many songs While bound upon the torture wheel. Her soul is like a wolf that glides By moonlight o'er a phantom ridge; Her face is like a light that runs Beneath the shadow of a bridge. Her voice is like a woodland cry Heard in a summer's desolate hour. Her eyes are dim; her lips are faint, And tinctured like the cuckoo flower. Her little breasts are like the buds Of tulips in a place forlorn. Her soul is like a mandrake bloom Standing against the crimson moon. Her dream is like the fenny snake's, That warms him in the noonday's fire. She hath no thought, nor any hope, Save of herself and her desire. She is not life; she is not death; She is not fear, or joy or grief. Her soul is like a quiet sea Beneath a ruin-haunted reef. She is the shape the sailor sees, That slips the rock without a sound. She is the soul that comes and goes And leaves no mark, yet makes a wound. She is the soul that hunts and flies; She is a world-wide mist of care. She is the restlessness of life, Its rapture and despair.

BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE

It was a hermit on Whitsunday That came to the Table Round. "King Arthur, wit ye by what Knight May the Holy Grail be found?" "By never a Knight that liveth now; By none that feasteth here." King Arthur marvelled when he said, "He shall be got this year." Then uprose brave Sir Launcelot And there did mount his steed, And hastened to a pleasant town That stood in knightly need. Where many people him acclaimed, He passed the Corbin pounte, And there he saw a fairer tower Than ever was his wont. And in that tower for many years A dolorous lady lay, Whom Queen Northgalis had bewitched, And also Queen le Fay. And Launcelot loosed her from those pains, And there a dragon slew. Then came King Pelles out and said, "Your name, brave Knight and true?" "My name is Pelles, wit ye well, And King of the far country; And I, Sir Knight, am cousin nigh To Joseph of Armathie." "I am Sir Launcelot du Lake." And then they clung them fast; And yede into the castle hall To take the king's repast. Anon there cometh in a dove By the window's open fold, And in her mouth was a rich censer, That shone like Ophir gold. And therewithal was such savor As bloweth over sea From a land of many colored flowers And trees of spicery. And therewithal was meat and drink, And a damsel passing fair, Betwixt her hands of tulip-white, A golden cup did bear. "O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this marvel mean?" "That is," said Pelles, "richest thing That any man hath seen." "O, Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this sight avail?" "Now wit ye well," said King Pelles, "That was the Holy Grail." Then by this sign King Pelles knew Elaine his fair daughter Should lie with Launcelot that night, And Launcelot with her. And that this twain should get a child Before the night should fail, Who would be named Sir Galahad, And find the Holy Grail. Then cometh one hight Dame Brisen With Pelles to confer, "Now, wit ye well, Sir Launcelot Loveth but Guinevere." "But if ye keep him well in hand, The while I work my charms, The maid Elaine, ere spring of morn, Shall lie within his arms." Dame Brisen was the subtlest witch That was that time in life; She was as if Beelzebub Had taken her to wife. Then did she cause one known of face To Launcelot to bring, As if it came from Guinevere, Her wonted signet ring. "By Holy Rood, thou comest true, For well I know thy face. Where is my lady?" asked the Knight, "There in the Castle Case?" "'Tis five leagues scarcely from this hall," Up spoke that man of guile. "I go this hour," said Launcelot, "Though it were fifty mile." Then sped Dame Brisen to the king And whispered, "An we thrive, Elaine must reach the Castle Case Ere Launcelot arrive." Elaine stole forth with twenty knights And a goodly company. Sir Launcelot rode fast behind, Queen Guinevere to see. Anon he reached the castle door. Oh! fond and well deceived. And there it seemed the queen's own train Sir Launcelot received. "Where is the queen?" quoth Launcelot, "For I am sore bestead," "Have not such haste," said Dame Brisen, "The queen is now in bed." "Then lead me thither," saith he, "And cease this jape of thine." "Now sit thee down," said Dame Brisen, "And have a cup of wine." "For wit ye not that many eyes Upon you here have stared; Now have a cup of wine until All things may be prepared." Elaine lay in a fair chamber, 'Twixt linen sweet and clene. Dame Brisen all the windows stopped, That no day might be seen. Dame Brisen fetched a cup of wine And Launcelot drank thereof. "No more of flagons," saith he, "For I am mad for love." Dame Brisen took Sir Launcelot Where lay the maid Elaine. Sir Launcelot entered the bed chamber The queen's love for to gain. Sir Launcelot kissed the maid Elaine, And her cheeks and brows did burn; And then they lay in other's arms Until the morn's underne. Anon Sir Launcelot arose And toward the window groped, And then he saw the maid Elaine When he the window oped. "Ah, traitoress," saith Launcelot, And then he gat his sword, "That I should live so long and now Become a knight abhorred." "False traitoress," saith Launcelot, And then he shook the steel. Elaine skipped naked from the bed And 'fore the knight did kneel. "I am King Pelles own daughter And thou art Launcelot, The greatest knight of all the world. This hour we have begot." "Oh, traitoress Brisen," cried the knight, "Oh, charmed cup of wine; That I this treasonous thing should do For treasures such as thine." "Have mercy," saith maid Elaine, "Thy child is in my womb." Thereat the morning's silvern light Flooded the bridal room. That light it was a benison; It seemed a holy boon, As when behind a wrack of cloud Shineth the summer moon. And in the eyes of maid Elaine Looked forth so sweet a faith, Sir Launcelot took his glittering sword, And thrust it in the sheath. "So God me help, I spare thy life, But I am wretch and thrall, If any let my sword to make Dame Brisen's head to fall." "So have thy will of her," she said, "But do to me but good; For thou hast had my fairest flower, Which is my maidenhood." "And we have done the will of God, And the will of God is best." Sir Launcelot lifted the maid Elaine And hid her on his breast. Anon there cometh in a dove, By the window's open fold, And in her mouth was a rich censer That shone like beaten gold. And therewithal was such savor, As bloweth over sea, From a land of many colored flowers, And trees of spicery. And therewithal was meat and drink, And a damsel passing fair, Betwixt her hands of silver white A golden cup did bear. "O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this marvel mean?" "That is," she said, "the richest thing That any man hath seen." "O Jesu," said Sir Launcelot, "What may this sight avail?" "Now wit ye well," said maid Elaine, "This is the Holy Grail." And then a nimbus light hung o'er Her brow so fair and meek; And turned to orient pearls the tears That glistered down her cheek. And a sound of music passing sweet Went in and out again. Sir Launcelot made the sign of the cross, And knelt to maid Elaine. "Name him whatever name thou wilt, But be his sword and mail Thrice tempered 'gainst a wayward world, That lost the Holy Grail." Sir Launcelot sadly took his leave And rode against the morn. And when the time was fully come Sir Galahad was born. Also he was from Jesu Christ, Our Lord, the eighth degree; Likewise the greatest knight this world May ever hope to see.

THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT

Sir Launcelot had fled to France For the peace of Guinevere, And many a noble knight was slain, And Arthur lay on his bier. Sir Launcelot took ship from France And sailed across the sea. He rode seven days through fair England Till he came to Almesbury. Then spake Sir Bors to Launcelot: The old time is at end; You have no more in England's realm In east nor west a friend. You have no friend in all England Sith Mordred's war hath been, And Queen Guinevere became a nun To heal her soul of sin. Sir Launcelot answered never a word But rode to the west countree Until through the forest he saw a light That shone from a nunnery. Sir Launcelot entered the cloister, And the queen fell down in a swoon. Oh blessed Jesu, saith the queen, For thy mother's love, a boon. Go hence, Sir Launcelot, saith the queen, And let me win God's grace. My heavy heart serves me no more To look upon thy face. Through you was wrought King Arthur's death, Through you great war and wrake. Leave me alone, let me bleed, Pass by for Jesu's sake. Then fare you well, saith Launcelot, Sweet Madam, fare you well. And sythen you have left the world No more in the world I dwell. Then up rose sad Sir Launcelot And rode by wold and mere Until he came to a hermitage Where bode Sir Bedivere. And there he put a habit on And there did pray and fast. And when Sir Bedivere told him all His heart for sorrow brast. How that Sir Mordred, traitorous knight Betrayed his King and sire; And how King Arthur wounded, died Broken in heart's desire. And so Sir Launcelot penance made, And worked at servile toil; And prayed the Bishop of Canterbury His sins for to assoil. His shield went clattering on the wall To a dolorous wail of wind; His casque was rust, his mantle dust With spider webs entwined. His listless horses left alone Went cropping where they would, To see the noblest knight of the world Upon his sorrow brood. Anon a Vision came in his sleep, And thrice the Vision saith: Go thou to Almesbury for thy sin, Where lieth the queen in death. Sir Launcelot cometh to Almesbury And knelt by the dead queen's bier; Oh none may know, moaned Launcelot, What sorrow lieth here. What love, what honor, what defeat What hope of the Holy Grail. The moon looked through the latticed glass On the queen's face cold and pale. Sir Launcelot kissed the ceréd cloth, And none could stay his woe, Her hair lay back from the oval brow, And her nose was clear as snow. They wrapped her body in cloth of Raines, They put her in webs of lead. They coffined her in white marble, And sang a mass for the dead. Sir Launcelot and seven knights Bore torches around the bier. They scattered myrrh and frankincense On the corpse of Guinevere. They put her in earth by King Arthur To the chant of a doleful tune. They heaped the earth on Guinevere And Launcelot fell in a swoon. Sir Launcelot went to the hermitage Some Grace of God to find; But never he ate, and never he drank And there he sickened and dwined. Sir Launcelot lay in a painful bed, And spake with a dreary steven; Sir Bishop, I pray you shrive my soul And make it clean for heaven. The Bishop houseled Sir Launcelot, The Bishop kept watch and ward. Bury me, saith Sir Launcelot, In the earth of Joyous Guard. Three candles burned the whole night through Till the red dawn looked in the room. And the white, white soul of Launcelot Strove with a black, black doom. I see the old witch Dame Brisen, And Elaine so straight and tall— Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The shadows dance on the wall. I see long hands of dead women, They clutch for my soul eftsoon; Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, 'Tis the drifting light of the moon. I see three angels, saith he, Before a silver urn. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The candles do but burn. I see a cloth of red samite O'er the holy vessels spread. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The great dawn groweth red. I see all the torches of the world Shine in the room so clear. Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The white dawn draweth near. Sweet lady, I behold the face Of thy dear son, our Lord, Nay, saith the Bishop of Canterbury, The sun shines on your sword. Sir Galahad outstretcheth hands And taketh me ere I fail— Sir Launcelot's body lay in death As his soul found the Holy Grail. They laid his body in the quire Upon a purple pall. He was the meekest, gentlest knight That ever ate in hall. He was the kingliest, goodliest knight That ever England roved, The truest lover of sinful man That ever woman loved. I pray you all, fair gentlemen, Pray for his soul and mine. He lived to lose the heart he loved And drink but bitter wine. He wrought a woe he knew not of, He failed his fondest quest, Now sing a psalter, read a prayer May all souls find their rest.

Amen.

IN MICHIGAN

You wrote: "Come over to Saugatuck And be with me on the warm sand, And under cool beeches and aromatic cedars." And just then no one could do a thing in the city For the lure of far places, and something that tugged At one's heart because of a June sky, And stretches of blue water, And a warm wind blowing from the south. What could I do but take a boat And go to meet you? And when to-day is not enough, But you must live to-morrow also; And when the present stands in the way Of something to come, And there is but one you would see, All the interval of waiting is a wall. And so it was I walked the landward deck With flapping coat and hat pulled down; And I sat on the leeward deck and looked At the streaming smoke of the funnels, And the far waste of rhythmical water, And at the gulls flying by our side. There was music on board and dancing, But I could not take part. For above all there was the bluest sky, And around us the urge of magical distances. And just because you were in the violins, And in everything, and were wholly the world Of sense and sight, It was too much. One could not live it And make it all his own— It was too much. And I wondered where the rest could be going, Or what they thought of water and sky Without knowing you. But at four o'clock there was a rim, A circled edge of rainbow color Which suspired, widened and narrowed under your gaze: It was the phantasy of straining eyes, Or land—and it was land. It was distant trees. And then it was dunes, bluffs of yellow sand. We began to wonder how far it was— Five miles, or ten miles— Surely only five miles!— But at last whatever it was we swung to the end. We rounded the lighthouse pier, Almost before we knew. We slowed our speed in a dizzy river of black, We drifted softly to dock. I took the ferry, I crossed the river, I ran almost through the little batch Of fishermen's shacks. I climbed the winding road of the hill, And dove in a shadowy quiet Of paths of moss and dancing leaves, And straight stretched limbs of giant pines On patches of sky. I ran to the top of the bluff Where the lodge-house stood. And there the sunlit lake burst on me And wine-like air. And below me was the beach Where the serried lines of hurrying water Came up like rank on rank of men And fell with a shout on the rocks! I plunged, I stumbled, I ran Down the hill, For I thought I saw you, And it was you, you were there! And I shall never forget your cry, Nor how you raised your arms and cried, And laughed when you saw me. And there we were with the lake And the sun with his ruddy search-light blaze Stretching back to lost Chicago. The sun, the lake, the beach, and ourselves Were all that was left of Time, All else was lost. You were making a camp. You had bent from the bank a cedar bough And tied it down. And over it flung a quilt of many colors, And under it spread on the voluptuous silt Gray blankets and canvas pillows. I saw it all in a glance. And there in dread of eyes we stood Scanning the bluff and the beach, Lest in the briefest touch of lips We might be seen. For there were eyes, or we thought There were eyes, on the porch of the lodge, And eyes along the forest's rim on the hill, And eyes on the shore. But a minute past there was no sun, Only a star that shone like a match which lights To a blue intenseness amid the glow of a hearth. And we sat on the sand as dusk came down In a communion of silence and low words. Till you said at last: "We'll sup at the lodge, Then say good night to me and leave As if to stay overnight in the village. But instead make a long detour through the wood And come to the shore through that ravine, Be here at the tent at midnight." And so I did. I stole through echoless ways, Where no twigs broke and where I heard My heart beat like a watch under a pillow. And the whippoorwills were singing. And the sound of the surf below me Was the sound of silver-poplar leaves In a wind that makes no pause.... I hurried down the steep ravine, And a bat flew up at my feet from the brush And crossed the moon. To my left was the lighthouse, And black and deep purples far away, And all was still. Till I stood breathless by the tent And heard your whispered welcome, And felt your kiss. Lovers lay at mid-night On roofs of Memphis and Athens And looked at tropical stars As large as golden beetles. Nothing is new, save this, And this is always new. And there in your tent With the balm of the mid-night breeze Sweeping over us, We looked at one great star Through a flap of your many-colored tent, And the eternal quality of rapture And mystery and vision flowed through us. Next day we went to Grand Haven, For my desire was your desire, Whatever wish one had the other had. And up the Grand River we rowed, With rushes and lily pads about us, And the sand hills back of us, Till we came to a quiet land, A lotus place of farms and meadows. And we tied our boat to Schmitty's dock, Where we had a dinner of fish. And where, after resting, to follow your will We drifted back to Spring Lake— And under a larger moon, Now almost full, Walked three miles to The Beeches, By a winding country road, Where we had supper. And afterwards a long sleep, Waking to the song of robins. And that day I said: There are wild places, blue water, pine forests, There are apple orchards, and wonderful roads Around Elk Lake—shall we go? And we went, for your desire was mine. And there we climbed hills, And ate apples along the shaded ways, And rolled great boulders down the steeps To watch them splash in the water. And we stood and wondered what was beyond The farther shore two miles away. And we came to a place on the shore Where four great pine trees stood, And underneath them wild flowers to the edge Of sand so soft for naked feet. And here, for not a soul was near, We stripped and swam far out, laughing, rejoicing, Rolling and diving in those great depths Of bracing water under a glittering sun. There were farm houses enough For food and shelter. But something urged us on. One knows the end and dreads the end Yet seeks the end. And you asked, "Is there a town near? Let's see a town." So we walked to Traverse City Through cut-over land and blasted Trunks and stumps of pine, And by the side of desolate hills. But when we got to Traverse City You were not content, nor was I. Something urged us on. Then you thought of Northport And of its Norse and German fishermen, And its quaint piers where they smoke fish. So we drove for thirty miles In a speeding automobile Over hills, around sudden curves, into warm coverts, Or hollows, sometimes at the edge of the Bay, Again on the hill, From where we could see Old Mission Amid blues and blacks, across a score of miles of the Bay, Waving like watered silk under the moon! And by meadows of clover newly cut, And by peach orchards and vineyards. But when we came to the little town Already asleep, though it was but eight o'clock, And only a few drowsy lamps With misty eyelids shone from a store or two, I said, "Do you see those twinkling lights? That's Northport Point, that's the Cedar Cabin— Let's go to the Cedar Cabin." And so we crossed the Bay Amid great waves in a plunging launch, And a roaring breeze and a great moon, For now the moon was full. So here was the Cedar Cabin On a strip of land as wide as a house and lawn, And on one side Lake Michigan, And on one side the Bay. There were distances of color all around, And stars and darknesses of land and trees, And at the point the lighthouse. And over us the moon, And over the balcony of our room All of these, where we lay till I slept, Listening to the water of the lake, And the water of the Bay. And we saw the moon sink like a red bomb, And we saw the stars change As the sky wheeled.... Now this was the end of the earth, For this strip of land Ran out to a point no larger than one of the stumps We saw on the desolate hills. And moreover it seemed to dive under, Or waste away in a sudden depth of water. And around it was a swirl, To the north the bounding waves of the Lake, And to the south the Bay which seemed the Lake. But could we speak of it, even though I saw your eyes when you thought of it? A sigh of wind blew through the rustic temple When we saw this symbol together, And neither spoke. But that night, somewhere in the beginning of drowsiness, You said: "There is no further place to go, We must retrace." And I awoke in a torrent of light in the room, Hearing voices and steps on the walk: I looked for you, But you had arisen. Then I dressed and searched for you, But you were gone. Then I stood for long minutes Looking at a sail far out at sea And departed too.

THE STAR

I am a certain god Who slipped down from a remote height To a place of pools and stars. And I sat invisible Amid a clump of trees To watch the madmen. There were cries and groans about me, And shouts of laughter and curses. Figures passed by with self-absorbed contempt, Wrinkling in bitter smiles about their lips. Others hurried on with set eyes Pursuing something. Then I said this is the place for mad Frederick— Mad Frederick will be here. But everywhere I could see Figures sitting or standing By little pools. Some seemed grown into the soil And were helpless. And of these some were asleep. Others laughed the laughter That comes from dying men Trying to face Death. And others said "I should be content," And others said "I will fly." Whereupon sepulchral voices muttered, As of creatures sitting or hanging head down From limbs of the trees, "We will not let you." And others looked in their pools And clasped hands and said "Gone, all gone." By other pools there were dead bodies: Some of youth, some of age. They had given up the fight, They had drunk poisoned water, They had searched Until they fell— All had gone mad! Then I, a certain god, Curious to know What it is in pools and stars That drives men and women Over the earth in this quest Waited for mad Frederick. And then I heard his step. I knew that long ago He sat by one of these pools Enraptured of a star's image. And that hands, for his own good, As they said, Dumped clay into the pool And blotted his star. And I knew that after that He had said, "They will never spy again Upon my ecstasy. They will never see me watching one star. I will fly by rivers, And by little brooks, And by the edge of lakes, And by little bends of water, Where no wind blows, And glance at stars as I pass. They will never spy again Upon my ecstasy." And I knew that mad Frederick In this flight Through years of restless and madness Was caught by the image of a star In a mere beyond a meadow Down from a hill, under a forest, And had said, "No one sees; Here I can find life, Through vision of eternal things." But they had followed him. They stood on the brow of the hill, And when they saw him gazing in the water They rolled a great stone down the hill, And shattered the star's image. Then mad Frederick fled with laughter. It echoed through the wood. And he said, "I will look for moons, I will punish them who disturb me, By worshiping moons." But when he sought moons They left him alone, And he did not want the moons. And he was alone, and sick from the moons, And covered as with a white blankness, Which was the worst madness of all. And I, a certain god, Waiting for mad Frederick To enter this place of pools and stars, Saw him at last. With a sigh he looked about upon his fellows Sitting or standing by their pools. And some of the pools were covered with scum, And some were glazed as of filth, And some were grown with weeds, And some were congealed as of the north wind, And a few were yet pure, And held the star's image. And by these some sat and were glad, Others had lost the vision. The star was there, but its meaning vanished. And mad Frederick, going here and there, With no purpose, Only curious and interested As I was, a certain god, Came by a certain pool And saw a star. He shivered, He clasped his hands, He sank to his knees, He touched his lips to the water. Then voices from the limbs of the trees muttered: "There he is again." "He must be driven away." "The pool is not his." "He does not belong here." So as when bats fly in a cave They swooped from their hidings in the trees And dashed themselves in the pool. Then I saw what these flying things were— But no matter. They were illusions, evil and envious And dull, But with power to destroy. And mad Frederick turned away from the pool And covered his eyes with his arms. Then a certain god, Of less power than mine, Came and sat beside me and said: "Why do you allow this to be? They are all seeking, Why do you not let them find their heart's delight? Why do you allow this to be?" But I did not answer. The lesser god did not know That I have no power, That only the God has the power. And that this must be In spite of all lesser gods. And I saw mad Frederick Arise and ascend to the top of a high hill, And I saw him find the star Whose image he had seen in the pool. Then he knelt and prayed: "Give me to understand, O Star, Your inner self, your eternal spirit, That I may have you and not images of you, So that I may know what has driven me through the world, And may cure my soul. For I know you are Eternal Love, And I can never escape you. And if I cannot escape you, Then I must serve you. And if I must serve you, It must be to good and not ill— You have brought me from the forest of pools And the images of stars, Here to the hill's top. Where now do I go? And what shall I do?"

THE END

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Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation has been corrected without note.

Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.

It is not always possible to determine if a new stanza begins at the top of a printed page, but every effort has been made by the transcriber to retain stanza breaks where appropriate.