Front matter

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO

SONGS AND SATIRES

By

EDGAR LEE MASTERS

AUTHOR OF

"SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY"

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1916

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1916,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1916.

Reprinted March, June, 1916.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A

For permission to print in book form certain of these poems I wish to acknowledge an indebtedness to Poetry, The Smart Set, The Little Review, The Cosmopolitan Magazine, and William Marion Reedy, Editor of Reedy's Mirror.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Silence 1

St. Francis and Lady Clare 4

The Cocked Hat 10

The Vision 18

So We Grew Together 21

Rain in My Heart 31

The Loop 32

When Under the Icy Eaves 40

In the Car 41

Simon Surnamed Peter 43

All Life in a Life 47

What You Will 56

The City 57

The Idiot 65

Helen of Troy 68

O Glorious France 71

For a Dance 74

When Life is Real 76

The Question 78

The Answer 79

The Sign 80

William Marion Reedy 82

A Study 85

Portrait of a Woman 88

In the Cage 91

Saving a Woman: One Phase 95

Love is a Madness 97

On a Bust 98

Arabel 101

Jim and Arabel's Sister 108

The Sorrow of Dead Faces 116

The Cry 119

The Helping Hand 120

The Door 121

Supplication 122

The Conversation 125

Terminus 130

Madeline 132

Marcia 134

The Altar 135

Soul's Desire 137

Ballad of Launcelot and Elaine 140

The Death of Launcelot 149

In Michigan 156

The Star 166

SONGS AND SATIRES

SONGS AND SATIRES

SILENCE

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence for which music alone finds the word, And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room. And I ask: For the depths Of what use is language? A beast of the field moans a few times When death takes its young: And we are voiceless in the presence of realities— We cannot speak. A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?" And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away, Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off." And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed. But if he could describe it all He would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe. There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, And the silence of a deep peace of mind, And the silence of an embittered friendship. There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life. And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech. There is the silence of defeat. There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours. There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it. There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders. There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth. And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo. And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"— Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope. And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life. And there is the silence of the dead. If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death? Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them.

ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE

Antonio loved the Lady Clare. He caught her to him on the stair And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair, And drew her lips in his, and drew Her soul out like a torch's flare. Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round; Her senses in a vortex swound. She tore him loose and turned around, And reached her chamber in a bound Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue. She closed the door and turned the lock, Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock. She reeled as drunken from the shock. Before her eyes the devils skipped, She thought she heard the devils mock. For had her soul not been as pure As sifted snow, could she endure Antonio's passion and be sure Against his passion's strength and lure? Lean fears along her wonder slipped. Outside she heard a drunkard call, She heard a beggar against the wall Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall Struck through the riot like a sword, And gashed the midnight's festival. She watched the city through the pane, The old Silenus half insane, The idiot crowd that drags its chain— And then she heard the bells again, And heard the voices with the word: Ecco il santo! Up the street There was the sound of running feet From closing door and window seat, And all the crowd turned on its way The Saint of Poverty to greet. He passed. And then a circling thrill, As water troubled which was still, Went through her body like a chill, Who of Antonio thought until She heard the Saint begin to pray. And then she turned into the room Her soul was cloven through with doom, Treading the softness and the gloom Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool, And China's magical perfume. She sickened from the vases hued In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd Twined dragon shapes and figures nude, And tapestries that showed a brood Of leopards by a pool! Candles of wax she lit before A pier glass standing from the floor; Up to the ceiling, off she tore With eager hands her jewels, then The silken vesture which she wore. Her little breasts so round to see Were budded like the peony. Her arms were white as ivory, And all her sunny hair lay free As marigold or celandine. Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase Of crackled turquoise, in her face Was memory of the mad embrace Antonio gave her on the stair, And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace. Like pigeon blood her lips were red. She clasped her bands above her head. Under her arms the waxlight shed Delicate halos where was spread The downy growth of hair. Such sudden sin the virgin knew She quenched the tapers as she blew Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw Herself in tears upon her knees, And round her couch the curtain drew. She called upon St. Francis' name, Feeling Antonio's passion maim Her body with his passion's flame To save her, save her from the shame Of fancies such as these! "Go by mad life and old pursuits, The wine cup and the golden fruits, The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes, I would praise God forevermore With harps of gold and silver lutes." She stripped the velvet from her couch Her broken spirit to avouch. She saw the devils slink and slouch, And passion like a leopard crouch Half mirrored on the polished floor. Next day she found the saint and said: I would be God's bride, I would wed Poverty and I would eat the bread That you for anchorites prepare, For my soul's sake I am in dread. Go then, said Francis, nothing loth, Put off this gown of green snake cloth, Put on one somber as a moth, Then come to me and make your troth And I will clip your golden hair. She went and came. But still there lay, A gem she did not put away, A locket twixt her breasts, all gay In shimmering pearls and tints of blue, And inlay work of fruit and spray. St. Francis felt it as he slipped His hand across her breast and whipped Her golden tresses ere he clipped— He closed his eyes then as he gripped The shears, plunged the shears through. The waterfall of living gold. The locks fell to the floor and rolled, And curled like serpents which unfold. And there sat Lady Clare despoiled. Of worldly glory manifold. She thrilled to feel him take and hide The locket from her breast, a tide Of passion caught them side by side. He was the bridegroom, she the bride— Their flesh but not their spirits foiled. Thus was the Lady Clare debased To sack cloth and around her waist A rope the jeweled belt replaced. Her feet made free of silken hose Naked in wooden sandals cased Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then They housed her in St. Damian And here she prayed for poor women And here St. Francis sought her when His faith sank under earthly woes. Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme And took to wine and got the lime Of hatred on his soul, in time Grew healed though left a little lame, And laughed about it in his prime; When he could see with crystal eyes That love is a winged thing which flies; Some break the wings, some let them rise From earth like God's dove to the skies Diffused in heavenly flame.

THE COCKED HAT

Would that someone would knock Mr. Bryan into a cocked hat.—Woodrow Wilson.

It ain't really a hat at all, Ed: You know that, don't you? When you bowl over six out of the nine pins, And the three that are standing Are the triangular three in front, You've knocked the nine into a cocked hat. If it was really a hat, he would be knocked in, too. Which he hardly is. For a man with money, And a man who can draw a crowd to listen To what he says, ain't all-in yet.... Oh yes, defeated And killed off a dozen times, but still He's one of the three nine pins that's standing ... Eh? Why, the other is Teddy, the other Wilson, we'll say. We'll see, perhaps. But six are down to make the cocked hat— That's me and thousands of others like me, And the first-rate men who were cuffed about After the Civil War, And most of the more than six million men Who followed this fellow into the ditch, While he walked down the ditch and stepped to the level— Following an ideal!

****

Do you remember how slim he was, And trim he was, With black hair and pale brow, And the hawk-like nose and flashing eyes, Not turning slowly like an owl But with a sudden eagle motion?... One time, in '96, he came here And we had just a dollar and sixty cents In the treasury of the organization. So I stuck his lithograph on a pole And started out for the station. By the time we got back here to Clark street Four thousand men were marching in line, And a band that was playing for an opening Of a restaurant on Franklin street Had left the job and was following his carriage. Why, it took all the money Mark Hanna could raise To beat me, with nothing but a pole And a lithograph. And it wasn't because he was one of the prophets Come back to earth again. It shows how human hearts are hungry How wonderfully true they are— And how they will rise and follow a man Who seems to see the truth! Well, these fellows who marched are the cocked hat, And I am the cocked hat and the six millions, And more are the cocked hat, Who got themselves despised or suspected Of ignorance or something for being with him. But still, he's one of the pins that's standing. He got the money that he went after, And he has a place in history, perhaps— Because we took the blow and fell down When the ripping ball went wild on the alley.

****

For we were radicals, And he wasn't a radical. Eh? Why, a radical stands for freedom, And for truth—which he never finds But always looks for. A radical is not a moralist. A radical doesn't say: "This is true and you must believe it; This is good and you must accept it, And if you don't believe it and accept it We'll get a law and make you, And if you don't obey the law, we'll kill you—" Oh no! A radical stands for freedom.

**** Do you remember that banquet at the Tremont In '97 on Jackson's day? Bryan and Altgeld walked together Out to the banquet room. That's the time he said the bolters must Bring fruits meet for repentance—ha! ha! Oh, Gawd!— They never did it and they didn't have to, For they had made friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, Even as he did, a little later, in his own way. Well, Darrow was there that night. I thought it was terribly raw in him, But he said to Bryan, there, in a group: "You'd better go back to Lincoln and study Science, history, philosophy, And read Flaubert's Madam something-or-other, And quit this village religious stuff. You're head of the party before you are ready And a leader should lead with thought." And Bryan turned to the others and said: "Darrow's the only man in the world Who looks down on me for believing in God." "Your kind of a God," snapped Darrow. Honest, Ed, I didn't see this religious business In Bryan in '96 or 1900. Oh well, I knew he went to Church, And talked as statesmen do of God— But McKinley did it, and I used to laugh: "We've got a man to match McKinley, And it's good for us, in a squeeze like this, We didn't nominate some fellow Ethical culture or Unitarian." You see, the newspapers and preachers then Were raising such a hullabaloo About irreligion and dishonesty, And calling old Altgeld an anarchist, And comparing us to Robespierre And the guillotine boys in France. And a little of this religion came in handy. The same as if you saw a Mason button on me, You'd know, you see—but Gee! He was 24-carat religious, A cover-to-cover man.... He was a trained collie, And he looked like a lion, There in the convention of '96—What do you know about that?

**** But right here, I tell you he ain't a hypocrite, This ain't a pose. But I'll tell you: In '96 when they knocked him out, I know what he said to himself as well As if I heard him say it ... I'll tell you in a minute. But suppose you were giving a lecture on the constitution, And you got mixed on your dates, And the audience rotten-egged you, And some one in the confusion Stole the door receipts, And there you were, disgraced and broke! But suppose you could just change your clothes, And lecture to the same audience On the religious nature of Washington, And be applauded and make money— You'd do it, wouldn't you? Well, this is what Bill said to himself: "I'm naturally regular and religious. I'm a moral man and I can prove it By any one in Marion County, Or Jacksonville or Lincoln, Nebraska. I'm a radical, but a radical Alone can be religious. I belong to the church, if not to the bank, Of the people who defeated me. And I'll prove to religious people That I'm a man to be trusted— And just what a radical is. And I'll make some money while winning the votes Of the churches over the country."... That's it—it ain't hypocrisy, It's using what you are for ends, When you find yourself in trouble. And this accounts for "The Prince of Peace"— Except no one but him could write it— And "The Value of an Ideal"— (Which is money in bank and several farms) ... His place in history? One time my grandfather, who was nearly blind, Went out to sow some grass seed. They had two sacks in the barn, One with grass seed, one with fertilizer, And he got the sack with fertilizer, And scattered it over the ground, Thinking he was sowing grass. And as he was finishing up, a grandchild, Dorothy, eight years old, Followed him, dropping flower seeds. Well, after a time That was the greatest patch of weeds You ever saw! And the old man sat, Half blind, on the porch, and said: "Good land, that grass is growing!" And there was nothing but weeds except A few nasturtiums here and there That Dorothy had sown.... Well, I forgot. There was a sunflower in one corner That looked like a man with a golden beard And a mass of tangled, curly hair— And a pumpkin growing near it....

**** Say, Ed! lend me eighty dollars To pay my life insurance.

THE VISION

Of that dear vale where you and I have lain Scanning the mysteries of life and death I dreamed, though how impassable the space Of time between the present and the past! This was the vision that possessed my mind; I thought the weird and gusty days of March Had eased themselves in melody and peace. Pale lights, swift shadows, lucent stalks, clear streams, Cool, rosy eves behind the penciled mesh Of hazel thickets, and the huge feathered boughs Of walnut trees stretched singing to the blast; And the first pleasantries of sheep and kine; The cautioned twitterings of hidden birds; The flight of geese among the scattered clouds; Night's weeping stars and all the pageantries Of awakened life had blossomed into May, Whilst she with trailing violets in her hair Blew music from the stops of watery stems, And swept the grasses with her viewless robes, Which dreaming men thought voices, dreaming still. Now as I lay in vision by the stream That flows amidst our well beloved vale, I looked throughout the vista stretched between Two ranging hills; one meadowed rich in grass; The other wooded, thick and quite obscure With overgrowth, rank in the luxury Of all wild places, but ever growing sparse Of trees or saplings on the sudden slope That met the grassy level of the vale;— But still within the shadow of those woods, Which sprinkled all beneath with fragrant dew, There grew all flowers, which tempted little paths Between them, up and on into the wood. Here, as the sun had left his midday peak The incommunicable blue of heaven blent With his fierce splendor, filling all the air With softened glory, while the pasturage Trembled with color of the poppy blooms Shook by the steps of the swift-sandaled wind. Nor any sound beside disturbed the dream Of Silence slumbering on the drowsy flowers. Then as I looked upon the widest space Of open meadow where the sunlight fell In veils of tempered radiance, I saw The form of one who had escaped the care And equal dullness of our common day. For like a bright mist rising from the earth He made appearance, growing more distinct Until I saw the stole, likewise the lyre Grasped by the fingers of the modeled hand. Yea, I did see the glory of his hair Against the deep green bay-leaves filleting The ungathered locks. And so throughout the vale His figure stood distinct and his own shade Was the sole shadow. Deeming this approach Augur of good, as if in hidden ways Of loveliness the gods do still appear The counselors of men, and even where Wonder and meditation wooed us oft, I cried, "Apollo"—and his form dissolved, As if the nymphs of echo, who took up The voice and bore it to the hollow wood, By that same flight had startled the great god To vanishment. And thereupon I woke And disarrayed the figment of my thought. For of the very air, magic with hues, Blent with the distant objects, I had formed The splendid apparition, and so knew It was, alas! a dream within a dream!

"SO WE GREW TOGETHER"

Reading over your letters I find you wrote me "My dear boy," or at times "dear boy," and the envelope Said "master"—all as I had been your very son, And not the orphan whom you adopted. Well, you were father to me! And I can recall The things you did for me or gave me: One time we rode in a box car to Springfield To see the greatest show on earth; And one time you gave me redtop boots, And one time a watch, and one time a gun. Well, I grew to gawkiness with a voice Like a rooster trying to crow in August Hatched in April, we'll say. And you went about wrapped up in silence With eyes aflame, and I heard little rumors Of what they were doing to you, and how They wronged you—and we were poor—so poor! And I could not understand why you failed, And why if you did good things for the people The people did not sustain you. And why you loved another woman than Aunt Susan, So it was whispered at school, and what could be baser, Or so little to be forgiven?... They crowded you hard in those days. But you fought like a wounded lion For yourself I know, but for us, for me. At last you fell ill, and for months you tottered Around the streets as thin as death, Trying to earn our bread, your great eyes glowing And the silence around you like a shawl! But something in you kept you up. You grew well again and rosy with cheeks Like an Indian peach almost, and eyes Full of moonlight and sunlight, and a voice That sang, and a humor that warded The arrows off. But still between us There was reticence; you kept me away With a glittering hardness; perhaps you thought I kept you away—for I was moving In spheres you knew not, living through Beliefs you believed in no more, and ideals That were just mirrors of unrealities. As a boy can be I was critical of you. And reasons for your failures began to arise In my mind—I saw specific facts here and there With no philosophy at hand to weld them And synthesize them into one truth— And a rush of the strength of youth Deluded me into thinking the world Was something so easily understood and managed While I knew it not at all in truth. And an adolescent egotism Made me feel you did not know me Or comprehend the all that I was. All this you divined.... So it went. And when I left you and passed To the world, the city—still I see you With eyes averted, and feel your hand Limp with sorrow—you could not speak. You thought of what I might be, and where Life would take me, and how it would end— There was longer silence. A year or two Brought me closer to you. I saw the play now And the game somewhat and understood your fights And enmities, and hardnesses and silences, And wild humor that had kept you whole— For your soul had made it as an antitoxin To the world's infections. And you swung to me Closer than before—and a chumship began Between us.... What vital power was yours! You never tired, or needed sleep, or had a pain, Or refused a delight. I loved the things now You had always loved, a winning horse, A roulette wheel, a contest of skill In games or sports ... long talks on the corner With men who have lived and tell you Things with a rich flavor of old wisdom or humor; A woman, a glass of whisky at a table Where the fatigue of life falls, and our reserves That wait for happiness come up in smiles, Laughter, gentle confidences. Here you were A man with youth, and I a youth was a man, Exulting in your braveries and delight in life. How you knocked that scamp over at Harry Varnell's When he tried to take your chips! And how I, Who had thought the devil in cards as a boy, Loved to play with you now and watch you play; And watch the subtle mathematics of your mind Prophecy, divine the plays. Who was it In your ancestry that you harked back to And reproduced with such various gifts Of flesh and spirit, Anglo-Saxon, Celt?— You with such rapid wit and powerful skill For catching illogic and whipping Error's Fangéd head from the body?... I was really ahead of you At this stage, with more self-consciousness Of what man is, and what life is at last, And how the spirit works, and by what laws, With what inevitable force. But still I was Behind you in that strength which in our youth, If ever we have it, squeezes all the nectar From the grapes. It seemed you'd never lose This power and sense of joy, but yet at times I saw another phase of you.... There was the day We rode together north of the old town, Past the old farm houses that I knew— Past maple groves, and fields of corn in the shock, And fields of wheat with the fall green. It was October, but the clouds were summer's, Lazily floating in a sky of June; And a few crows flying here and there, And a quail's call, and around us a great silence That held at its core old memories Of pioneers, and dead days, forgotten things! I'll never forget how you looked that day. Your hair Was turning silver now, but still your eyes Burned as of old, and the rich olive glow In your cheeks shone, with not a line or wrinkle!— You seemed to me perfection—a youth, a man! And now you talked of the world with the old wit, And now of the soul—how such a man went down Through folly or wrong done by him, and how Man's death cannot end all, There must be life hereafter!... As you were that day, as you looked and spoke, As the earth was, I hear as the soul of it all Godard's Dawn, Dvorák's Humoresque, The Morris Dances, Mendelssohn's Barcarole, And old Scotch songs, When the Kye Come Hame, And The Moon Had Climbed the Highest Hill, The Musseta Waltz and Rudolph's Narrative; Your great brow seemed Beethoven's And the lust of life in your face Cellini's, And your riotous fancy like Dumas. I was nearer you now than ever before, And finding each other thus I see to-day How the human soul seeks the human soul And finds the one it seeks at last. For you know you can open a window That looks upon embowered darkness, When the flowers sleep and the trees are still At Midnight, and no light burns in the room; And you can hide your butterfly Somewhere in the room, but soon you will see A host of butterfly mates Fluttering through the window to join Your butterfly hid in the room. It is somehow thus with souls.... This day then I understood it all: Your vital democracy and love of men And tolerance of life; and how the excess of these Had wrought your sorrows in the days When we were so poor, and the small of mind Spoke of your sins and your connivance With sinful men. You had lived it down, Had triumphed over them, and you had grown. Prosperous in the world and had passed Into an easy mastery of life and beyond the thought Of further conquests for things. As the Brahmins say, no more you worshiped matter, Or scarcely ghosts, or even the gods With singleness of heart. This day you worshiped Eternal Peace Or Eternal Flame, with scarce a laugh or jest To hide your worship; and I understood, Seeing so many facets to you, why it was Blind Condon always smiled to hear your voice, And why it was in a greenroom years ago Booth turned to you, marking your face From all the rest, and said, "There is a man Who might play Hamlet—better still Othello"; And why it was the women loved you; and the priest Could feed his body and soul together drinking A glass of beer and visiting with you.... Then something happened: Your face grew smaller, your brow more narrow, Dull fires burned in your eyes, Your body shriveled, you walked with a cynical shuffle, Your hands mixed the keys of life, You had become a discord. A monstrous hatred consumed you— You had suffered the greatest wrong of all, I knew and granted the wrong. You had mounted up to sixty years, now breathing hard, And just at the time that honor belonged to you You were dishonored at the hands of a friend. I wept for you, and still I wondered If all I had grown to see in you and find in you And love in you was just a fond illusion— If after all I had not seen you aright as a boy: Barbaric, hard, suspicious, cruel, redeemed Alone by bubbling animal spirits— Even these gone now, all of you smoke Laden with stinging gas and lethal vapor.... Then you came forth again like the sun after storm— The deadly uric acid driven out at last Which had poisoned you and dwarfed your soul— So much for soul! The last time I saw you Your face was full of golden light, Something between flame and the richness of flesh. You were yourself again, wholly yourself. And oh, to find you again and resume Our understanding we had worked so long to reach— You calm and luminant and rich in thought! This time it seemed we said but "yes" or "no"— That was enough; we smoked together And drank a glass of wine and watched The leaves fall sitting on the porch.... Then life whirled me away like a leaf, And I went about the crowded ways of New York. And one night Alberta and I took dinner At a place near Fourteenth Street where the music Was like the sun on a breeze-swept lake When every wave is a patine of fire, And I thought of you not at all Looking at Alberta and watching her white teeth Bite off bits of Italian bread, And watching her smile and the wide pupils Of her eyes, electrified by wine And music and the touch of our hands Now and then across the table. We went to her house at last. And through a languorous evening. Where no light was but a single candle, We circled about and about a pending theme Till at last we solved it suddenly in rapture Almost by chance; and when I left She followed me to the hall and leaned above The railing about the stair for the farewell kiss— And I went into the open air ecstatically, With the stars in the spaces of sky between The towering buildings, and the rush Of wheels and clang of bells, Still with the fragrance of her lips and cheeks And glinting hair about me, delicate And keen in spite of the open air. And just as I entered the brilliant car Something said to me you are dead— I had not thought of you, was not thinking of you. But I knew it was true, as it was, For the telegram waited me at my room.... I didn't come back. I could not bear to see the breathless breath Over your brow—nor look at your face— However you fared or where To what victories soever— Vanquished or seemingly vanquished!

RAIN IN MY HEART

There is a quiet in my heart Like one who rests from days of pain. Outside, the sparrows on the roof Are chirping in the dripping rain. Rain in my heart; rain on the roof; And memory sleeps beneath the gray And windless sky and brings no dreams Of any well remembered day. I would not have the heavens fair, Nor golden clouds, nor breezes mild, But days like this, until my heart To loss of you is reconciled. I would not see you. Every hope To know you as you were has ranged. I, who am altered, would not find The face I loved so greatly changed.

THE LOOP

From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea Beyond the river walled in by red buildings, O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings, Roped to the wharf till spring shall set them free. Great floes make known how swift the river's current. Out of the north sky blows a cutting wind. Smoke from the stacks and engines in a torrent Whirls downward, by the eddying breezes thinned. Enskyed are sign boards advertising soap, Tobacco, coal, transcontinental trains. A tug is whistling, straining at a rope, Fixed to a dredge with derricks, scoops and cranes. Down in the loop the blue-gray air enshrouds, As with a cyclops' cape, the man-made hills And towers of granite where the city crowds. Above the din a copper's whistle shrills. There is a smell of coffee and of spices. We near the market place of trade's devices. Blue smoke from out a roasting room is pouring. A rooster crows, geese cackle, men are bawling. Whips crack, trucks creak, it is the place of storing, And drawing out and loading up and hauling Fruit, vegetables and fowls and steaks and hams, Oysters and lobsters, fish and crabs and clams. And near at hand are restaurants and bars, Hotels with rooms at fifty cents a day, Beer tunnels, pool rooms, places where cigars And cigarettes their window signs display; Mixed in with letterings of printed tags, Twine, boxes, cartels, sacks and leather bags, Wigs, telescopes, eyeglasses, ladies' tresses, Or those who manicure or fashion dresses, Or sell us putters, tennis balls or brassies, Make shoes, pull teeth, or fit the eye with glasses. And now the rows of windows showing laces, Silks, draperies and furs and costly vases, Watches and mirrors, silver cups and mugs, Emeralds, diamonds, Indian, Persian rugs, Hats, velvets, silver buckles, ostrich-plumes, Drugs, violet water, powder and perfumes. Here is a monstrous winking eye—beneath A showcase by an entrance full of teeth. Here rubber coats, umbrellas, mackintoshes, Hoods, rubber boots and arctics and galoshes. Here is half a block of overcoats, In this bleak time of snow and slender throats. Then windows of fine linen, snakewood canes, Scarfs, opera hats, in use where fashion reigns. As when the hive swarms, so the crowded street Roars to the shuffling of innumerable feet. Skyscrapers soar above them; they go by As bees crawl, little scales upon the skin Of a great dragon winding out and in. Above them hangs a tangled tree of signs, Suspended or uplifted like dædalian Hieroglyphics when the saturnalian Night commences, and their racing lines Run fire of blue and yellow in a puzzle, Bewildering to the eyes of those who guzzle, And gourmandize and stroll and seek the bubble Of happiness to put away their trouble. Around the loop the elevated crawls, And giant shadows sink against the walls Where ten to twenty stories strive to hold The pale refraction of the sunset's gold. Slop underfoot, we pass beneath the loop. The crowd is uglier, poorer; there are smells As from the depths of unsuspected hells, And from a groggery where beer and soup Are sold for five cents to the thieves and bums. Here now are huge cartoons in red and blue Of obese women and of skeleton men, Egyptian dancers, twined with monstrous snakes, Before the door a turbaned lithe Hindoo, A bagpipe shrilling, underneath a den Of opium, whence a man with hand that shakes, Rolling a cigarette, so palely comes. The clang of car bells and the beat of drums. Draft horses clamping with their steel-shod hoofs. The buildings have grown small and black and worn; The sky is more beholden; o'er the roofs A flock of pigeons soars; with dresses torn And yellow faces, labor women pass Some Chinese gabbling; and there, buying fruit, Stands a fair girl who is a late recruit To those poor women slain each year by lust. 'Tis evening now and trade will soon begin. The family entrance beckons for a glass Of hopeful mockery, the piano's din Into the street with sounds of rasping wires Filters, and near a pawner's window shows Pistols, accordions; and, luring buyers, A Jew stands mumbling to the passer-by Of jewelry and watches and old clothes. A limousine gleams quickly—with a cry A legless man fastened upon a board With casters 'neath it by a sudden shove Darts out of danger. And upon the corner A lassie tells a man that God is love, Holding a tambourine with its copper hoard To be augmented by the drunken scorner. A woman with no eyeballs in her sockets Plays "Rock of Ages" on a wheezy organ. A newsboy with cold hands thrust in his pockets Cries, "All about the will of Pierpont Morgan!" The roofline of the street now sinks and dwindles. The windows are begrimed with dust and beer. A child half clothed, with legs as thin as spindles, Carries a basket with some bits of coal. Between lace curtains eyes of yellow leer, The cheeks splotched with white places like the skin Inside an eggshell—destitute of soul. One sees a brass lamp oozing kerosene Upon a stand whereon her elbows lean; Lighted, it soon will welcome negroes in. The railroad tracks are near. We almost choke From filth whirled from the street and stinging vapors. Great engines vomit gas and heavy smoke Upon a north wind driving tattered papers, Dry dung and dust and refuse down the street. A circumambient roar as of a wheel Whirring far off—a monster's heart whose beat Is full of murmurs, comes as we retreat Towards Twenty-second. And a man with jaw Set like a tiger's, with a dirty beard, Skulks toward the loop, with heavy wrists red-raw Glowing above his pockets where his hands Pushed tensely round his hips the coat tails draw, And show what seems a slender piece of metal In his hip pocket. On these barren strands He waits for midnight for old scores to settle Against his ancient foe society, Who keeps the soup house and who builds the jails. Switchmen and firemen with their dinner pails Go by him homeward, and he wonders if These fellows know a hundred thousand workers Walk up and down the city's highways, stiff From cold and hunger, doomed to poverty, As wretched as the thieves and crooks and shirkers. He scurries to the lake front, loiters past The windows of wax lights with scarlet shades, Where smiling diners back of ambuscades Of silk and velvet hear not winter's blast Blowing across the lake. He has a thought Of Michigan, where once at picking berries He spent a summer—then his eye is caught At Randolph street by written light which tarries, Then like a film runs into sentences. He sees it all as from a black abyss. Taxis with skid chains rattle, limousines Draw up to awnings; for a space he catches A scent of musk or violets, sees the patches On powdered cheeks of furred and jeweled queens. The color round his cruel mouth grows whiter, He thrusts his coarse hands in his pockets tighter: He is a thief, he knows he is a thief, He is a thief found out, and, as he knows, The whole loop is a kingdom held in fief By men who work with laws instead of blows From sling shots, so he curses under breath The money and the invisible hand that owns From year to year, in spite of change and death, The wires for the lights and telephones, The railways on the streets, and overhead The railways, and beneath the winding tunnel Which crooks stole from the city for a runnel To drain her nickels; and the pipes of lead Which carry gas, wrapped round us like a snake, And round the courts, whose grip no court can break. He curses bitterly all those who rise, And rule by just the spirit which he plies Coarsely against the world's great store of wealth; Bankers and usurers and cliques whose stealth Works witchcraft through the market and the press, And hires editors, or owns the stock Controlling papers, playing with finesse The city's thinking, that they may unlock Treasures and powers like burglars in the dark. And thinking thus and cursing, through a flurry Of sudden snow he hastens on to Clark. In a cheap room there is an eye to mark His coming and be glad. His footsteps hurry. She will have money, earned this afternoon Through men who took her from a near saloon Wherein she sits at table to dragoon Roughnecks or simpletons upon a lark. Within a little hall a fierce-eyed youth Rants of the burdens on the people's backs— He would cure all things with the single tax. A clergyman demands more gospel truth, Speaking to Christians at a weekly dinner. A parlor Marxian, for a beginner Would take the railways. And amid applause Where lawyers dine, a judge says all will be Well if we hand down to posterity Respect for courts and judges and the laws. An anarchist would fight. Upon the whole, Another thinks, to cultivate one's soul Is most important—let the passing show Go where it wills, and where it wills to go. Outside the stars look down. Stars are content To be so quiet and indifferent.

WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES

When under the icy eaves The swallow heralds the sun, And the dove for its lost mate grieves And the young lambs play and run; When the sea is a plane of glass, And the blustering winds are still, And the strength of the thin snows pass In mists o'er the tawny hill— The spirit of life awakes In the fresh flags by the lakes. When the sick man seeks the air, And the graves of the dead grow green, Where the children play unaware Of the faces no longer seen; When all we have felt or can feel, And all we are or have been, And all the heart can hide or reveal, Knocks gently, and enters in:— The spirit of life awakes, In the fresh flags by the lakes.

IN THE CAR

We paused to say good-by, As we thought for a little while, Alone in the car, in the corner Around the turn of the aisle. A quiver came in your voice, Your eyes were sorrowful too; 'Twas over—I strode to the doorway, Then turned to wave an adieu. But you had not come from the corner, And though I had gone so far, I retraced, and faced you coming Into the aisle of the car. You stopped as one who was caught In an evil mood by surprise.— I want to forget, I am trying To forget the look in your eyes. Your face was blank and cold, Like Lot's wife turned to salt. I suddenly trapped and discovered Your soul in a hidden fault. Your eyes were tearless and wide, And your wide eyes looked on me Like a Mænad musing murder, Or the mask of Melpomene. And there in a flash of lightning I learned what I never could prove: That your heart contained no sorrow, And your heart contained no love. And my heart is light and heavy, And this is the reason why: I am glad we parted forever, And sad for the last good-by.

SIMON SURNAMED PETER

Time that has lifted you over them all— O'er John and o'er Paul; Writ you in capitals, made you the chief Word on the leaf— How did you, Peter, when ne'er on His breast You leaned and were blest— And none except Judas and you broke the faith To the day of His death,— You, Peter, the fisherman, worthy of blame, Arise to this fame? 'Twas you in the garden who fell into sleep And the watch failed to keep, When Jesus was praying and pressed with the weight Of the oncoming fate. 'Twas you in the court of the palace who warmed Your hands as you stormed At the damsel, denying Him thrice, when she cried: "He walked at his side!" You, Peter, a wave, a star among clouds, a reed in the wind, A guide of the blind, Both smiter and flyer, but human alway, I protest, Beyond all the rest. When at night by the boat on the sea He appeared Did you wait till he neared? You leaped in the water, not dreading the worst In your joy to be first To greet Him and tell Him of all that had passed Since you saw Him the last. You had slept while He watched, but fierce were you, fierce and awake When they sought Him to take, And cursing, no doubt, as you smote off, as one of the least, The ear of the priest. Then Andrew and all of them fled, but you followed Him, hoping for strength To save him at length Till you lied to the damsel, oh penitent Peter, and crept, Into hiding and wept. Oh well! But he asked all the twelve, "Who am I?" And who made reply? As you leaped in the sea, so you spoke as you smote with the sword; "Thou art Christ, even Lord!" John leaned on His breast, but he asked you, your strength to foresee, "Nay, lovest thou me?" Thrice over, as thrice you denied Him, and chose you to lead His sheep and to feed; And gave you, He said, the keys of the den and the fold To have and to hold. You were a poor jailer, oh Peter, the dreamer, who saw The death of the law In the dream of the vessel that held all the four-footed beasts, Unclean for the priests; And heard in the vision a trumpet that all men are worth The peace of the earth And rapture of heaven hereafter,—oh Peter, what power Was yours in that hour: You warder and jailer and sealer of fates and decrees, To use the big keys With which to reveal and fling wide all the soul and the scheme Of the Galilee dream, When you flashed in a trice, as later you smote with the sword: "Thou art Christ, even Lord!" We men, Simon Peter, we men also give you the crown O'er Paul and o'er John. We write you in capitals, make you the chief Word on the leaf. We know you as one of our flesh, and 'tis well You are warder of hell, And heaven's gatekeeper forever to bind and to loose— Keep the keys if you choose. Not rock of you, fire of you make you sublime In the annals of time. You were called by Him, Peter, a rock, but we give you the name Of Peter the Flame. For you struck a spark, as the spark from the shock Of steel upon rock. The rock has his use but the flame gives the light In the way in the night:— Oh Peter, the dreamer, impetuous, human, divine, Gnarled branch of the vine!

ALL LIFE IN A LIFE

His father had a large family Of girls and boys and he was born and bred In a barn or kind of cattle shed. But he was a hardy youngster and grew to be A boy with eyes that sparkled like a rod Of white hot iron in the blacksmith shop. His face was ruddy like a rising moon, And his hair was black as sheep's wool that is black. And he had rugged arms and legs and a strong back. And he had a voice half flute and half bassoon. And from his toes up to his head's top He was a man, simple but intricate. And most men differ who try to delineate His life and fate. He never seemed ashamed Of poverty or of his origin. He was a wayward child, Nevertheless though wise and mild, And thoughtful but when angered then he flamed As fire does in a forge. When he was ten years old he ran away To be alone and watch the sea, and the stars At midnight from a mountain gorge. When he returned his parents scolded him And threatened him with bolts and bars. Then they grew soft for his return and gay And with their love would have enfolded him. But even at ten years old he had a way Of gazing at you with a look austere Which gave his kinfolk fear. He had no childlike love for father or mother, Sister or brother, They were the same to him as any other. He was a little cold, a little queer. His father was a laborer and now They made the boy work for his daily bread. They say he read A book or two during these years of work. But if there was a secret prone to lurk Between the pages under the light of his brow It came forth. And if he had a woman In love or out of love, or a companion or a chum, History is dumb. So far as we know he dreamed and worked with hands And learned to know his genius' commands Or what is called one's dæmon. And this became at last the city's call. He had now reached the age of thirty years, And found a Dream of Life and a solution For slavery of soul and even all Miseries that flow from things material. To free the world was his soul's resolution. But his family had great fears For him, knowing the evil Which might befall him, seeing that the light Of his own dream had blinded his mind's eyes. They could not tell but what he had a devil. But still in their tears despite, And warnings he departed with replies That when a man's genius calls him He must obey no matter what befalls him. What he had in his mind was growth Of soul by watching, And the creation of eyes Over your mind's eyes to supervise A clear activity and to ward off sloth. What he had in his mind was scotching And killing the snake of Hatred and stripping the glove From the hand of Hypocrisy and quenching the fire Of Falsehood and Unbrotherly Desire.— What he had in his mind was simply Love. And it was strange he preached the sword and force To establish Love, but it was not strange, Since he did this, his life took on a change. And what he taught seems muddled at its source With moralizing and with moral strife. For morals are merely the Truth diluted And sweetened up and suited To the business and bread of Life. And now this City was just what you'd find A city anywhere, A turmoil and a Vanity Fair, A sort of heaven and a sort of Tophet. There were so many leaders of his kind The city didn't care For one additional prophet. He said some extravagant things And planted a few stings Under the rich man's hide. And one of the sensational newspapers Gave him a line or two for cutting capers In front of the Palace of Justice and the Church. But all of the first grade people took the other side Of the street when they saw him coming With a rag tag crowd singing and humming, And curious boys and men up in a perch Of a tree or window taking the spectacle in, And the Corybantic din Of a Salvation Army as it were. And whatever he dreamed when he lived in a little town The intelligent people ignored him, and this is the stir And the only stir he made in the city. But there was a certain sinister Fellow who came to him hearing of his renown And said "You can be Mayor of this city, We need a man like you for Mayor." And others said "You'd make a lawyer or a politician, Look how the people follow you; Why don't you hire out as a special writer, You could become a business man, a rhetorician, You could become a player, You can grow rich. There's nothing for a fighter, Fighting as you are, but to end in ruin." But he turned from them on his way pursuing The dream he had in view. He had a rich man or two Who took up with him against the powerful frown Which looked him down. For you'll always find a rich man or two To take up with anything. There are those who can't get into society or bring Their riches to a social recognition; Or ill-formed souls who lack the real patrician Spirit for life. But as for him he didn't care, he passed Where the richness of living was rife. And like wise Goethe talking to the last With cabmen rather than with lords He sat about the markets and the fountains, He walked about the country and the mountains, Took trips upon the lakes and waded fords Barefooted, laughing as a young animal Disports itself amid the festival Of warm winds, sunshine, summer's carnival— With laborers, carpenters, seamen And some loose women. And certain notable sinners Gave him dinners. And he went to weddings and to places where youth slakes Its thirst for happiness, and they served him cakes And wine wherever he went. And he ate and drank and spent His time in feasting and in telling stories, And singing poems of lilies and of trees, With crowds of people crowded around his knees That searched with lightning secrets hidden Of life and of life's glories, Of death and of the soul's way after death. Time makes amends usually for scandal's breath, Which touched him to his earthly ruination. But this city had a Civic Federation, And a certain social order which intrigues Through churches, courts, with an endless ramification Of money and morals to save itself. And this city had a Bar Association, Also its Public Efficiency Leagues For laying honest men upon the shelf While making private pelf Secure and free to increase. And this city had illustrious Pharisees And this city had a legion Of men who make a business of religion, With eyes one inch apart, Dark and narrow of heart, Who give themselves and give the city no peace, And who are everywhere the best police For Life as business. And when they saw this youth Was telling the truth, And that his followers were multiplying, And were going about rejoicing and defying The social order and were stirring up The dregs of discontent in the cup With the hand of their own happiness, They saw dynamic mysteries In the poems of lilies and trees, Therefore they held him for a felony. If you will take a kernel of wheat And first make free The outer flake and then pare off the meat Of edible starch you'll find at the kernel's core The life germ. And this young man's words were dim With blasphemy, sedition at the rim, Which fired the heads of dreamers like new wine. But this was just the outward force of him. For this young man's philosophy was more Than such external ferment, being divine With secrets so profound no plummet line Can altogether sound it. It means growth Of soul by watching, And the creation of eyes Over your mind's eyes to supervise A clear activity and to ward off sloth. What he had in mind was scotching And killing the snake of Hatred and stripping the glove From the hand of Hypocrisy and quenching the fire Of falsehood and unbrotherly Desire. What he had in mind was simply Love. But he was prosecuted As a rebel and as a rebel executed Right in a public place where all could see. And his mother watched him hang for the felony. He hated to die being but thirty-three, And fearing that his poems might be lost. And certain members of the Bar Association, And of the Civic Federation, And of the League of Public Efficiency, And a legion Of men devoted to religion, With policemen, soldiers, roughs, Loose women, thieves and toughs, Came out to see him die, And hooted at him giving up the ghost In great despair and with a fearful cry! And after him there was a man named Paul Who almost spoiled it all. And protozoan things like hypocrites, And parasitic things who make a food Of the mysteries of God for earthly power Must wonder how before this young man's hour They lived without his blood, Shed on that day, and which In red cells is so rich.

WHAT YOU WILL

April rain, delicious weeping, Washes white bones from the grave, Long enough have they been sleeping. They are cleansed, and now they crave Once more on the earth to gather Pleasure from the springtime weather. The pine trees and the long dark grass Feed on what is placed below. Think you not that there doth pass In them something we did know? This spell—well, friends, I greet ye once again With joy—but with a most unuttered pain.

THE CITY

The Sun hung like a red balloon As if he would not rise; For listless Helios drowsed and yawned. He cared not whether the morning dawned, The brother of Eos and the Moon Stretched him and rubbed his eyes. He would have dreamed the dream again That found him under sea: He saw Zeus sit by Hera's side, He saw Hæphestos with his bride; He traced from Enna's flowery plain The child Persephone. There was a time when heaven's vault Cracked like a temple's roof. A new hierarchy burst its shell, And as the sapphire ceiling fell, From stern Jehovah's mad assault, Vast spaces stretched aloof: Great blue black depths of frozen air Engulfed the soul of Zeus. And then Jehovah reigned instead. For Judah was living and Greece was dead. And Hope was born to nurse Despair, And the Devil was let loose.

**** Far off in the waste empyrean The world was a golden mote. And the Sun hung like a red balloon, Or a bomb afire o'er a barracoon. And the sea was drab, and the sea was green Like a many colored coat. The sea was pink like cyclamen, And red as a blushing rose. It shook anon like the sensitive plant, Under the golden light aslant. The little waves patted the shore again Where the restless river flows. And thus it has been for ages gone— For a hundred thousand years; Ere Buddha lived or Jesus came, Or ever the city had place or name, The sea thrilled through at the kiss of dawn Like a soul of smiles and tears. When the city's seat was a waste of sand, And the hydra lived alone, The sound of the sea was here to be heard, And the moon rose up like a great white bird, Sailing aloft from the yellow strand To her silent midnight throne. Now Helios eyes the universe, And he knows the world is small. Of old he walked through pagan Tyre, Babylon, Sodom destroyed by fire, And sought to unriddle the primal curse That holds the race in thrall. So he stepped from the Sun in robes of flame As the city woke from sleep. He walked the markets, walked the squares, He walked the places of sweets and snares, Where men buy honor and barter shame, And the weak are killed as sheep. He saw the city is one great mart Where life is bought and sold. Men rise to get them meat and bread To barter for drugs or coffin the dead. And dawn is but a plucked-up heart For the dreary game of gold. "Ho! ho!" said Helios, "father Zeus Would never botch it so. If he had stolen Joseph's bride, And let his son be crucified The son's blood had been put to use To ease the people's woe." "He of the pest and the burning bush, Of locusts, lice, and frogs, Who made me stand, veiling my light, While Joshua slaughtered the Amorite, Who blacked the skin of the sons of Cush, And builded the synagogues." "And Jehovah the great is omnipotent, While Zeus was bound by Fate. But Athens fell when Peter took Rome, And Chicago is made His hecatomb. And since from the hour His son was sent The hypocrite holds the state." Helios traversed the city streets And this is what he saw: Some sold their honor, some their skill, The soldier hired himself to kill, The judges bartered the judgment seats And trafficked in the law. The starving artist sold his youth, The writer sold his pen; The lawyer sharpened up his wits Like a burglar filing auger bits, And Jesus' vicar sold the truth To the famished sons of men. In every heart flamed cruelty Like a little emerald snake. And each one knew if he should stand In another's way the dagger-hand Would make the stronger the feofee Of the coveted wapentake. There's not a thing men will not do For honor, gold, or power. We smile and call the city fair, We call life lovely and debonair, But Proserpina never grew So deadly a passion flower. Go live for an hour in a tropic land Hid near a sinking pool: The lion and tiger come to drink, The boa crawls to the water's brink, The elephant bull kneels down in the sand And drinks till his throat is cool. Jehovah will keep you awhile unseen As you lie behind the rocks. But go, if you dare, to slake your thirst, Though Jesus died for our life accursed Your bones by the tiger will be licked clean As he licks the bones of an ox. And the sky may be blue as fleur de lis, And the earth be tulip red; And God in heaven, and life all good While you lie hid in the underwood: And the city may leave you sorrow free If you ask it not for bread. One day Achilles lost a horse While the pest at Troy was rife, And a million maggots fought and ate Like soldiers storming a city's gate, And Thersites said, as he looked at the corse, "Achilles, that is life."

**** Day fades and from a million cells The office people pour. Like bees that crawl on the honeycomb The workers scurry to what is home, And trains and traffic and clanging bells Make the cañon highways roar. Helios walked the city's ways Till the lights began to shine. Then the janitor women start to scrub And the Pharisees up and enter the club, And the harlot wakes, and the music plays And the glasses glow with wine. Now we're good fellows one and all, And the buffet storms with talk. "The market's closed and trade's at end We had our battle, now I'm your friend." And thanks to the spirit of alcohol Men go for a ride or walk. Oh but traffic is not all done Nor everything yet sold. There's woman to win, and plots to weave, There's a heart to hurt, or one to deceive, And bargains to bind ere rise of Sun To garner the morrow's gold. The market at night is as full of fraud As the market kept by day. The courtesan buys a soul with a look, A dinner tempers the truth in a book, And love is sold till love is a bawd, And falsehood froths in the play. And men and women sell their smiles For friendship's lifeless dregs. For fear of the morrow we bend and bow To moneybags with the slanting brow. For the heart that knows life's little wiles Seldom or never begs. "Poor men," sighed Helios, "how they long For the ultimate fire of love. They yearn, through life, like the peacock moth, And die worn out in search of the troth. For love in the soul is the siren song That wrecks the peace thereof."

**** Helios turned from the world and fled As the convent bell tolled six. For he caught a glimpse of an agéd crone Who knelt beside a coffin alone; She had sold her cloak to shrive the dead And buy a crucifix!

THE IDIOT

Two children in a garden Shouting for joy Were playing dolls and houses, A girl and boy. I smiled at a neighbor window, And watched them play Under a budding oak tree On a wintry day. And then a board half broken In the high fence Fell over and there entered, I know not whence, A jailbird face of yellow With a vacant sulk, His body was a sickly Thing of bulk. His open mouth was slavering, And a green light Turned disc-like in his eyeballs, Like a dog's at night. His teeth were like a giant's, And far apart; I saw him reel on the children With a stopping heart. He trampled their dolls and ruined The house they made; He struck to earth the children With a dirty spade. As a tiger growls with an antelope After the hunt, Over the little faces I heard him grunt. I stood at the window frozen, And short of breath, And then I saw the idiot Was Master Death! A bird in the lilac bushes Began to sing. The garden colored before me To the kiss of spring. And the yellow face in a moment Was a mystic white; The matted hair was softened To starry light. The ragged coat flowed downward Into a robe; He carried a sword and a balance And stood on a globe. I watched him from the window Under a spell; The idiot was the angel Azrael!

HELEN OF TROY

On an ancient vase representing in bas-relief the flight of Helen.

This is the vase of Love Whose feet would ever rove O'er land and sea; Whose hopes forever seek Bright eyes, the vermeiled cheek, And ways made free. Do we not understand Why thou didst leave thy land, Thy spouse, thy hearth? Helen of Troy, Greek art Hath made our heart thy heart, Thy mirth our mirth. For Paris did appear,— Curled hair and rosy ear And tapering hands. He spoke—the blood ran fast, He touched, and killed the past, And clove its bands. And this, I deem, is why The restless ages sigh, Helen, for thee. Whate'er we do or dream, Whate'er we say or seem, We would be free. We would forsake old love, And all the pain thereof, And all the care; We would find out new seas, And lands more strange than these, And flowers more fair. We would behold fresh skies Where summer never dies And amaranths spring; Lands where the halcyon hours Nest over scented bowers On folded wing. We would be crowned with bays, And spend the long bright days On sea or shore; Or sit by haunted woods, And watch the deep sea's moods, And hear its roar. Beneath that ancient sky Who is not fain to fly As men have fled? Ah! we would know relief From marts of wine and beef, And oil and bread. Helen of Troy, Greek art Hath made our heart thy heart, Thy love our love. For poesy, like thee, Must fly and wander free As the wild dove.

O GLORIOUS FRANCE

You have become a forge of snow white fire, A crucible of molten steel, O France! Your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn And fade in light for you, O glorious France! They pass through meteor changes with a song Which to all islands and all continents Says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, Nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child Nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, Nor many days spent in a chosen work, Nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme Of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths Or seventy years. These are not all of life, O France, whose sons amid the rolling thunder Of cannon stand in trenches where the dead Clog the ensanguinéd ice. But life to these Prophetic and enraptured souls is vision, And the keen ecstasy of fated strife, And divination of the loss as gain, And reading mysteries with brightened eyes In fiery shock and dazzling pain before The orient splendor of the face of Death, As a great light beside a shadowy sea; And in a high will's strenuous exercise, Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength And is no more afraid. And in the stroke Of azure lightning when the hidden essence And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth And mystical significance in time Are instantly distilled to one clear drop Which mirrors earth and heaven. This is life Flaming to heaven in a minute's span When the breath of battle blows the smoldering spark. And across these seas We who cry Peace and treasure life and cling To cities, happiness, or daily toil For daily bread, or trail the long routine Of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine Whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup Empty and ringing by the finished feast; Or have it shaken from your hand by sight Of God against the olive woods. As Joan of Arc amid the apple trees With sacred joy first heard the voices, then Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived The dream and known the meaning of the dream, And read its riddle: How the soul of man May to one greatest purpose make itself A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall Turns sweet to soul's surrender. And you say: Take days for repetition, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things: The beaten path, the chair beside the window, The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields— The prison house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough!

FOR A DANCE

There is in the dance The joy of children on a May day lawn. The fragments of old dreams and dead romance Come to us from the dancers who are gone. What strains of ancient blood Move quicker to the music's passionate beat? I see the gulls fly over a shadowy flood And Munster fields of barley and of wheat. And I see sunny France, And the vine's tendrils quivering to the light, And faces, faces, yearning for the dance With wistful eyes that look on our delight. They live through us again And we through them, who wish for lips and eyes Wherewith to feel, not fancy, the old pain Passed with reluctance through the centuries To us, who in the maze Of dancing and hushed music woven afresh Amid the shifting mirrors of hours and days Know not our spirit, neither know our flesh; Nor what ourselves have been, Through the long way that brought us to the dance: I see a little green by Camolin And odorous orchards blooming in Provence. Two listen to the roar Of waves moon-smitten, where no steps intrude. Who knows what lips were kissed at Laracor? Or who it was that walked through Burnham wood?

WHEN LIFE IS REAL

We rode, we rode against the wind. The countless lights along the town Made the town blacker for their fire, And you were always looking down. To 'scape the blustering breath of March, Or was it for your mind's disguise? Still I could shut my eyes and see The turquoise color of your eyes. Surely your ermine furs were warm, And warm your flowing cloak of red; Was it the wild wind kept you thus Pensive and with averted head? I scarcely spoke, my words were swept Like winged things in the wind's despite. We rode, and with what shadow speed Across the darkness of the night! Without a word, without a look. What was the charm and what the spell That made one hour of life become A memory ever memorable?

**** All craft, all labor, all desire, All toil of age, all hope of youth Are shadows from the fount of fire And mummers of the truth. How bloodless books, how pulseless art, Vain kingly and imperial zeal, Vain all memorials of the heart! When Life itself is real! We traced the golden clouds of spring, We roved the beach, we walked the land. What was the world? A Phantom thing That vanished in your hand. You were as quiet as the sky. Your eyes were liquid as the sea. And in that hour that passed us by We lived eternally.

THE QUESTION

I

The sea moans and the stars are bright, The leaves lisp 'neath a rolling moon. I shut my eyes against the night And make believe the time is June— The June that left us over-soon. This is the path and this the place We sat and watched the moving sea, And I the moonlight on your face. We were not happy—woe is me, Happiness is but memory! It seemeth, now that you are gone, My heart a measured pain doth keep:— Are you now, as I am, alone? Do you make merry, do you weep? In whose arms are you now asleep?

THE ANSWER

II

I made my bed beneath the pines Where the sea washed the sandy bars; I heard the music of the winds, And blest the aureate face of Mars. All night a lilac splendor throve Above the heaven's shadowy verge; And in my heart the voice of love Kept music with the dreaming surge. A little maid was at my side— She slept—I scarcely slept at all; Until toward the morning-tide A dream possessed me with its thrall. She sweetly breathed; around my breast I felt her warmth like drowsy bliss, Then came the vision of unrest— I saw your face and felt your kiss. I woke and knew with what dismay She read my secret and surprise; She only said, "Again 'tis day! How red your cheeks, how bright your eyes!"

THE SIGN

There's not a soul on the square, And the snow blows up like a sail, Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man Falling, before the gale. And when the wind eddies it rifts The snow that lies in drifts; And it skims along the walk and sifts In stairways, doorways all about The steps of the church in an angry rout. And one would think that a hungry hound Was out in the cold for the sound. But I do not seem to mind The snow that makes one blind, Nor the crying voice of the wind— I hate to hear the creak of the sign Of Harmon Whitney, attorney at law: With its rhythmic monotone of awe. And neither a moan nor yet a whine, Nor a cry of pain—one can't define The sound of a creaking sign. Especially if the sky be bleak, And no one stirs however you seek, And every time you hear it creak You wonder why they leave it stay When a man is buried and hidden away Many a day!

WILLIAM MARION REEDY

He sits before you silent as Buddha, And then you say This man is Rabelais. And while you wonder what his stock is, English or Irish, you behold his eyes As big and brown as those desirable crockies With which as boys we used to play. And then you see the spherical light that lies Just under the iris coloring, Before which everything, Becomes as plain as day. If you have noticed the rolling jowls And the face that speaks its chief Delight in beer and roast beef Before you have seen his eyes, you see A man of fleshly jollity, Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls To make a show of scowls. And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls In a humorous way like Fielding or Smollett That turns in a trice to Robert La Follette Or retraces to Thales of Crete, And touches upon Descartes coming back Through the intellectual Zodiac That's something of a feat. And you see that the eyes are really the man, For the thought of him proliferates This way over to Hindostan, And that way descanting on Yeats. With a word on Plato's symposium, And a little glimpse of Theocritus, Or something of Bruno's martyrdom, Or what St. Thomas Aquinas meant By a certain line obscure to us. And then he'll take up Horace's odes Or the Roman civilization; Or a few of the Iliad's episodes, Or the Greek deterioration. Or skip to a word on the plasmic jelly, Which Benjamin Moore and others think Is the origin of life. Then Shelley Comes in a for a look of understanding. Or he'll tell you about the orientation Of the ancient dream of Zion. Or what's the matter with Bryan. And while the porter is bringing a drink Something into his fancy skips And he talks about the Apocalypse, Or a painter or writer now unknown In France or Germany who will soon Have fame of him through the whole earth blown. It's not so hard a thing to be wise In the lore of books. It's a different thing to be all eyes, Like a lighthouse which revolves and looks Over the land and out to sea: And a lighthouse is what he seems to me! Sitting like Buddha spiritually cool, Young as the light of the sun is young, And taking the even with the odd As a matter of course, and the path he's trod As a path that was good enough. With a sort of transcendental sense Whose hatred is less than indifference, And a gift of wisdom in love. And who can say as he classifies Men and ages with his eyes With cool detachment: this is dung, And that poor fellow is just a fool. And say what you will death is a rod. But I see a light that shines and shines And I rather think it's God.

A STUDY

If your thoughts were as clear as your eyes, And the whole of your heart were true, You were fitter by far for winning— But then that would not be you. If your pulse beat time to love As fast as you think and plan, You could kindle a lasting passion In the breast of the strongest man. If you felt as much as you thought, And dreamed what you seem to dream, A world of elysian beauty Your ruined heart would redeem. If you thought in the light of the sun, Or the blood in your veins flowed free, If you gave your kisses but gladly, We two could better agree. If you were strong where I counted, And weak where yourself were at stake, You would have my strength for your giving, You would gain and not lose for my sake. If your heart overruled your head, Or your head were lord of your heart, Or the two were lovingly balanced, I think we never should part. If you came to me spite of yourself, And staid not away through design, These days of loving and living Were sweet as Olympian wine. If you could weep with another, And tears for yourself controlled, You could waken and hold to a pity You waken, but do not hold. If your lips were as fain to speak As your face is fashioned to hide— You would know that to lay up treasure A woman's heart must confide. If your bosom were something richer, Or your hands more fragile and thin, You would call what the world calls evil, Or sin and be glad of the sin. If your soul were aflame with love, Or your head were devoted to truth, You never would toss on your pillow Bewildered 'twixt rapture and ruth. If you were the you of my dreams, And the you of my dreams were mine, These days, half sweet and half bitter, Would taste like Olympian wine. Oh, subtle and mystic Egyptians! Who chiseled the Sphinx in the East, With head and the breasts of a woman, And body and claws of a beast. And gave her a marvellous riddle That the eyeless should read as he ran: What crawls and runs and is baffled By woman, the sphinx—but a man? Many look in her face and are conquered, Where one all her heart has explored; A thousand have made her their sovereign, But one is her sovereign and lord. For him she leaps from her standard And fawns at his feet in the sand, Who sees that himself is her riddle, And she but the work of his hand.

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN

The pathos in your face is like a peace, It is like resignation or a grace Which smiles at the surcease Of hope. But there is in your face The shadow of pain, and there is a trace Of memory of pain. I look at you again and again, And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives My search for your despair. I look at your pale hands—I look at your hair; And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves A flutter of color running under leaves— Such anguished dreams in your eyes! And I listen to you speak Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle, Or a star's twinkle. Sometimes as we talk you rise And leave the room, and then I rub a streak Of a tear from my cheek. You tell me such magical things Of pictures, books, romance And of your life in France In the varied music of exquisite words, And in a voice that sings. All things are memory now with you, For poverty girds Your hopes, and only your dreams remain. And sometimes here and there I see as you turn your head a whitened hair, Even when you are smiling most. And a light comes in your eyes like a passing ghost, And a color runs through your cheeks as fresh As burns in a girl's flesh. Then I can shut my eyes and feel the pain That has become a part of you, though I feign Laughter myself. One sees another's bruise And shakes his thought out of it shuddering. So I turn and clamp my will lest I bring Your sorrow into my flesh, who cannot choose But hear your words and laughter, And watch your hands and eyes. Then as I think you over after I have gone from you, and your face Comes to me with its grace Of memory of unfound love: You seem to me the image of all women Who dream and keep under smiles the grief thereof, Or sew, or sit by windows, or read books To hide their Secret's looks. And after a time go out of life and leave No uttered words but in their silence grieve For Life and for the things no tongue can tell: Why Life hurts so, and why Love haunts and hurts Poor men and women in this demi-hell. Perhaps your pathos means that it is well Death in his time the aspiring torch inverts, And all tired flesh and haunted eyes and hands Moving in painéd whiteness are put under The soothing earth to brighten April's wonder.

IN THE CAGE

The sounds of mid-night trickle into the roar Of morning over the water growing blue. At ten o'clock the August sunbeams pour A blinding flood on Michigan Avenue. But yet the half-drawn shades of bottle green Leave the recesses of the room With misty auras drawn around their gloom Where things lie undistinguished, scarcely seen. You, standing between the window and the bed Are edged with rainbow colors. And I lie Drowsy with quizzical half-open eye Musing upon the contour of your head, Watching you comb your hair, Clothed in a corset waist and skirt of silk, Tied with white braid above your slender hips Which reaches to your knees and makes your bare And delicate legs by contrast white as milk. And as you toss your head to comb its tresses They flash upon me like long strips of sand Between a moonlit sea, pale as your hand, And a red sun that on a high dune stresses Its sanguine heat. And then at times your lips, Protruding half unconscious half in scorn Engage my eyes while looking through the morn At the clear oval of your brow brought full Over the sovereign largeness of your eyes; Or at your breasts that shake not as you pull The comb through stubborn tangles, only rise Scarcely perceptible with breath or signs, Firm unmaternal like a young Bacchante's, Or at your nose profoundly dipped like Dante's Over your chin that softly melts away. Now you seem fully under my heart's sway. I have slipped through the magic of your mesh Freed once again and strengthened by your flesh, You seem a weak thing for a strong man's play. Yet I know now that we shall scarce have parted When I shall think of you half heavy hearted. I know our partings. You will faintly smile And look at me with eyes that have no guile, Or have too much, and pass into the sphere Where you keep independent life meanwhile. How do you live without me, is the fear? You do not lean upon me, ask my love, or wonder Of other loves I may have hidden under These casual renewals of our love. And if I loved you I should lie in flame, Ari, go about re-murmuring your name, And these are things a man should be above. And as I lie here on the imminent brink Of soul's surrender into your soul's power, And in the white light of the morning hour I see what life would be if we should link Our lives together in a marriage pact: For we would walk along a boundless tract Of perfect hell; but your disloyalty Would be of spirit, for I have not won Mastered and bound your spirit unto me. And if you had a lover in the way I have you it would not by half betray My love as does your vague and chainless thought, Which wanders, soars or vanishes, returns, Changes, astonishes, or chills or burns, Is unresisting, plastic, freely wrought Under my hands yet to no unison Of my life and of yours. Upon this brink I watch you now and think Of all that has been preached or sung or spoken Of woman's tragedy in woman's fall; And all the pictures of a woman broken By man's superior strength. And there you stand Your heart and life as firmly in command Of your resolve as mine is, knowing all Of man, the master, and his power to harm, His rulership of spheres material, Bread, customs, rules of fair repute— What are they all against your slender arm? Which long since plucked the fruit Of good and evil, and of life at last And now of Life. For dancing you have cast Veil after veil of ideals or pretense With which men clothe the being feminine To satisfy their lordship or their sense Of ownership and hide the things of sin— You have thrown them aside veil after veil; And there you stand unarmored, weirdly frail, Yet strong as nature, making comical The poems and the tales of woman's fall.... You nod your head, you smile, I feel the air Made by the closing door. I lie and stare At the closed door. One, two, your tuftèd steps Die on the velvet of the outer hall. You have escaped. And I would not pursue. Though we are but caged creatures, I and you— A male and female tiger in a zoo. For I shall wait you. Life himself will track Your wanderings and bring you back, And shut you up again with me and cage Our love and hatred and our silent rage.

SAVING A WOMAN: ONE PHASE

To a lustful thirst she came at first And gave him her maiden's pride; And the first man scattered the flower of her love, Then turned to his chosen bride. She waned with grief as a fading star, And waxed as a shining flame; And the second man had her woman's love, But the second was playing the game. With passion she stirred the man who was third; Woe's me! what delicate skill She plied to the heart that knew her art And fled from her wanton will. Now calm and demure, oh fair, oh pure, Oh subtle, patient and wise, She trod the weary round of life, With a sorrow deep in her eyes. Now a hero who knew how false, how true Was the speech that fell from her lips, With a Norseman's strength took sail with her, And landed and burnt his ships. He gave her pity, he gave her mirth, And the hurt in her heart he nursed; But under the silence of her brows Was a dream of the man who was first. And all the deceit and lust of men Had sharpened her own deceit; And down to the gates of hell she led Her friend with her flying feet. For a bitten bud will never bloom, And a woman lost is lost! And the first and the third may go unscathed, But some man pays the cost. And the books of life are full of the rune, And this is the truth of the song: No man can save a woman's soul, Nor right a woman's wrong.

LOVE IS A MADNESS

Love is a madness, love is a fevered dream, A white soul lost in a field of scarlet flowers— Love is a search for the lost, the ever vanishing gleam Of wings, desires and sorrows and haunted hours. Will the look return to your eyes, the warmth to your hand? Love is a doubt, an ache, love is a writhing fear. Love is a potion drunk when the ship puts out from land, Rudderless, sails at full, and with none to steer. The end is a shattered lamp, a drunken seraph asleep, The upturned face of the drowned on a barren beach. The glare of noon is o'er us, we are ashamed to weep— The beginning and end of love are devoid of speech.

ON A BUST

Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce— They do not justify your head in bronze! Your essays! talent's failures were to you Your philosophic gamut, but things true, Or beautiful, oh never! What's the pons For you to cross to fame?—Your head in bronze? What has the artist caught? The sensual chin That melts away in weakness from the skin, Sagging from your indifference of mind; The sullen mouth that sneers at human kind For lack of genius to create or rule; The superficial scorn that says "you fool!" The deep-set eyes that have the mud-cat look Which might belong to Tolstoi or a crook. The nose half-thickly fleshed and half in point, And lightly turned awry as out of joint; The eyebrows pointing upward satyr-wise, Scarce like Mephisto, for you scarcely rise To cosmic irony in what you dream— More like a tomcat sniffing yellow cream. The brow! 'Tis worth the bronze it's molded in Save for the flat-top head and narrow thin Backhead which shows your spirit has not soared. You are a Packard engine in a Ford, Which wrecks itself and turtles with its load, Too light and powerful to keep the road. The master strength for twisting words is caught In the swift turning wheels of iron thought. With butcher knives your hands can vivisect Our butterflies, but you can not erect Temples of beauty, wisdom. You can crawl Hungry and subtle over Eden's wall, And shame half grown up truth, or make a lie Full grown as good. You cannot glorify Our dreams, or aspirations, or deep thirst. To you the world's a fig tree which is curst. You have preached every faith but to betray; The artist shows us you have had your day. A giant as we hoped, in truth a dwarf; A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf, Which seemed at first a vessel with sweet wine For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline You went through sloven spirit, craven heart And cynic indolence. And here the art Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce And made your shame our shame—your head in bronze! Some day this bust will lie amid old metals Old copper boilers, wires, faucets, kettles. Some day it will be melted up and molded In door knobs, inkwells, paper knives, or folded In leaves and wreaths around the capitals Of marble columns, or for arsenals Fashioned in something, or in course of time Successively made each of these, from grime Rescued successively, or made a bell For fire or worship, who on earth can tell? One thing is sure, you will not long be dust When this bronze will be broken as a bust And given to the junkman to re-sell. You know this and the thought of it is hell!

ARABEL

Twists of smoke rise from the limpness of jewelled fingers, The softness of Persian rugs hushes the room. Under a dragon lamp with a shade the color of coral Sit the readers of poems one by one. And all the room is in shadow except for the blur Of mahogany surface, and tapers against the wall. And a youth reads a poem of love: forever and ever Is his soul the soul of the loved one; a woman sings Of the nine months which go to the birth of a soul. And after a time under the lamp a man Begins to read a letter having no poem to read. And the words of the letter flash and die like a fuse Dampened by rain—it's a dying mind that writes What Byron did for the Greeks against the Turks. And a sickness enters our hearts. The jewelled hands Clutch at the arms of the chairs—about the room One hears the parting of lips, and a nervous shifting Of feet and arms. And I look up and over The reader's shoulder and see the name of the writer. What is it I see? The name of a man I knew! You are an ironical trickster, Time, to bring After so many years and into a place like this This face before me: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness, Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes. Such was your look in a photograph I saw In a silver frame on a woman's dresser—and such Your look in life, you thing of flesh alone! And then As a soul looks down on the body it leaves— A body by fever slain—I look on myself As I was a decade ago, while the letter is read: I enter a box Of a theater with Jim, my friend of fifty, I being twenty-two. Two women are in the box One of an age for Jim and one of an age for me. And mine is dressed in a dainty gown of dimity, And she fans herself with a fan of silver spangles Till a subtle odor of delicate powder or of herself Enters my blood and I stare at her snowy neck, And the glossy brownness of her hair until She feels my stare, and turns half-view and I see How like a Greek's is her nose, with just a little Aquiline touch; and I catch the flash of an eye, And the glint of a smile on the richness of her lips. The company now discourses upon the letter But my dream goes on: I re-live a rapture Which may be madness, and no man understands Until he feels it no more. The youth that was I From the theater under the city's lights follows the girl Desperate lest in the city's curious chances He never sees her again. And boldly he speaks. And she and the older woman, her sister Smile and speak in turn, and Jim who stands While I break the ice comes up—and so Arm in arm we go to the restaurant, I in heaven walking with Arabel, And Jim with her older sister. We drive them home under a summer moon, And while I explain to Arabel my boldness, And crave her pardon for it, Jim, the devil, Laughs apart with her sister while I wonder What Jim, the devil, is laughing at. No matter To-morrow I walk in the park with Arabel. Just now the reader of the letter Tells of the writer's swift descent From wealth to want. We are in the park next afternoon by the water. I look at her white throat full as it were of song. And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful! And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyes In the light of the sun. They are full of little rays Like the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smiles At first when I fling my soul at her feet. But when I repeat I love her, love her only, A cloud of wonder passes over her face, She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks. And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears them Her hand is trembling. And when I tell her again I love her, love her only, she blots her eyes With a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts. And she says to me: "You do not know me at all, How can you love me? You never saw me before Last night." "Well, tell me about yourself." And after a time she tells me the story: About her father who ran away from her mother; And how she hated her father, and how she grieved When her mother died; and how a good grandmother Helped her and helps her now. And how her sister Divorced her husband. And then she paused a moment: "I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently, And that takes money, dear, as well as love. Two years ago I was very ill, and since then I am not strong." "Well I can work," I said. "And what would you think of a little cottage Not too far out with a yard and hosts of roses, And a vine on the porch, and a little garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, When a morning breeze blows over your brow, And you sit across the table and serve me And neither of us can speak for happiness Without our voices breaking, or lips trembling." She is looking down with little frowns on her brow. "But if ever I had to work, I could not do it, I am not really well." "But I can work," I said. I rise and lift her up, holding her hand. She slips her arm through mine and presses it. "What a good man you are," she said. "Just like a brother— I almost love you, I believe I love you." The reader of the letter, being a doctor, Is talking learnedly of the writer's case Which has the classical marks of paresis. Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize About a cottage with roses and a garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking And flicking the ashes, but never says a word Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: "Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, But she isn't, my boy—she's just like Arabel's sister. She knew you had the madness for Arabel. That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked. And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, I shook you at the corner and went back, And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop The cottage and the roses." They are still discussing the madman's letter. And memory permeates me like a subtle drug: The memory of my love for Arabel, The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing, The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows, The speculation about her and her sister, And what her illness was; And whether the man I saw one time was leaving Her door or the next door to it, and if her door Whether he saw my Arabel or her sister.... The reader of the letter is telling how the writer Left his wife chasing the lure of women. And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision: The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered. Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was. Madness or love the terrible struggle must end. She took my hand and said, "You must see my room." We stood in the doorway together and on her dresser Was a silver frame with the photograph of a man— I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes. "There is his picture," she said, "ask me whatever you will. Take me as mistress or wife, it is yours to decide. But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you, Take me as wife and be the good man you can be. Choose me as mistress—how can I do less for dearest? Or make me your wife—fate makes me your mistress or wife." "I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed, "But how about hate in your heart." "You are right," I replied. The company is now discussing the subject of love— They seem to know little about it. But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims: "Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness, What has it to do with poetry, tell me?" "Well, it's life," Arabel. "There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added. Then fell into silence.