Second April

     Listen, children:
     Your father is dead.
     From his old coats
     I'll make you little jackets;
     I'll make you little trousers
     From his old pants.
     There'll be in his pockets
     Things he used to put there,
     Keys and pennies
     Covered with tobacco;
     Dan shall have the pennies
     To save in his bank;
     Anne shall have the keys
     To make a pretty noise with.
     Life must go on,
     And the dead be forgotten;
     Life must go on,
     Though good men die;
     Anne, eat your breakfast;
     Dan, take your medicine;
     Life must go on;
     I forget just why.

     Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
       This is the thing I find to be:
     That I am weary of words and people,
       Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

     Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
       Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
     Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
       Of the big surf that breaks all day.

     Always before about my dooryard,
       Marking the reach of the winter sea,
     Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
       Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

     Always I climbed the wave at morning,
       Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
     That now am caught beneath great buildings,
       Stricken with noise, confused with light.

     If I could hear the green piles groaning
       Under the windy wooden piers,
     See once again the bobbing barrels,
       And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

     If I could see the weedy mussels
       Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
     Hear once again the hungry crying
       Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

     Feel once again the shanty straining
       Under the turning of the tide,
     Fear once again the rising freshet,
       Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

     I should be happy,—that was happy
       All day long on the coast of Maine!
     I have a need to hold and handle
       Shells and anchors and ships again!

     I should be happy, that am happy
       Never at all since I came here.
     I am too long away from water.
       I have a need of water near.

     When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
     And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
     Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
     Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
     Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
     Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
     Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
     My heart.  I know that Beauty must ail and die,
     And will be born again,—but ah, to see
     Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
     Oh, Autumn!  Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?

       Aye, but she?
       Your other sister and my other soul
       Grave Silence, lovelier
       Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her?
       Clio, not you,
       Not you, Calliope,
       Nor all your wanton line,
       Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me
       For Silence once departed,
       For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted,
       Whom evermore I follow wistfully,
     Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through;
     Thalia, not you,
     Not you, Melpomene,
     Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore,
     I seek in this great hall,
     But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all.
     I seek her from afar,
     I come from temples where her altars are,
     From groves that bear her name,
     Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame,
     And cymbals struck on high and strident faces
     Obstreperous in her praise
     They neither love nor know,
     A goddess of gone days,
     Departed long ago,
     Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes
     Of her old sanctuary,
     A deity obscure and legendary,
     Of whom there now remains,
     For sages to decipher and priests to garble,
     Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble,
     Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases,
     And the inarticulate snow,
     Leaving at last of her least signs and traces
     None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places.
     "She will love well," I said,
     "If love be of that heart inhabiter,
     The flowers of the dead;
     The red anemone that with no sound
     Moves in the wind, and from another wound
     That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth,
     That blossoms underground,
     And sallow poppies, will be dear to her.
     And will not Silence know
     In the black shade of what obsidian steep
     Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep?
     (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home,
     Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago,
     Reluctant even as she,
     Undone Persephone,
     And even as she set out again to grow
     In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam).
     She will love well," I said,
     "The flowers of the dead;
     Where dark Persephone the winter round,
     Uncomforted for home, uncomforted,
     Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily,
     With sullen pupils focussed on a dream,
     Stares on the stagnant stream
     That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell,
     There, there will she be found,
     She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound."

     "I long for Silence as they long for breath
     Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea;
     What thing can be
     So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death
     What fury, what considerable rage, if only she,
     Upon whose icy breast,
     Unquestioned, uncaressed,
     One time I lay,
     And whom always I lack,
     Even to this day,
     Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away,
     If only she therewith be given me back?"
     I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth,
     Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell,
     And in among the bloodless everywhere
     I sought her, but the air,
     Breathed many times and spent,
     Was fretful with a whispering discontent,
     And questioning me, importuning me to tell
     Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more,
     Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went.
     I paused at every grievous door,
     And harked a moment, holding up my hand,—and for a space
     A hush was on them, while they watched my face;
     And then they fell a-whispering as before;
     So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there.
     I sought her, too,
     Among the upper gods, although I knew
     She was not like to be where feasting is,
     Nor near to Heaven's lord,
     Being a thing abhorred
     And shunned of him, although a child of his,
     (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath,
     Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death).
     Fearing to pass unvisited some place
     And later learn, too late, how all the while,
     With her still face,
     She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile,
     I sought her even to the sagging board whereat
     The stout immortals sat;
     But such a laughter shook the mighty hall
     No one could hear me say:
     Had she been seen upon the Hill that day?
     And no one knew at all
     How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away.

     There is a garden lying in a lull
     Between the mountains and the mountainous sea,
     I know not where, but which a dream diurnal
     Paints on my lids a moment till the hull
     Be lifted from the kernel
     And Slumber fed to me.
     Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene,
     Though it would seem a ruined place and after
     Your lichenous heart, being full
     Of broken columns, caryatides
     Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees,
     And urns funereal altered into dust
     Minuter than the ashes of the dead,
     And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust,
     Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed
     Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead.

     There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria
     Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall,
     And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds;
     There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds;
     But never an echo of your daughters' laughter
     Is there, nor any sign of you at all
     Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria!

     Only her shadow once upon a stone
     I saw,—and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone.

     I tell you you have done her body an ill,
     You chatterers, you noisy crew!
     She is not anywhere!
     I sought her in deep Hell;
     And through the world as well;
     I thought of Heaven and I sought her there;
     Above nor under ground
     Is Silence to be found,
     That was the very warp and woof of you,
     Lovely before your songs began and after they were through!
     Oh, say if on this hill
     Somewhere your sister's body lies in death,
     So I may follow there, and make a wreath
     Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast
     Shall lie till age has withered them!

                             (Ah, sweetly from the rest
     I see
     Turn and consider me
     Compassionate Euterpe!)
     "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death,
     Beyond the gate of everlasting Life,
     Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith,
     "Whereon but to believe is horror!
     Whereon to meditate engendereth
     Even in deathless spirits such as I
     A tumult in the breath,
     A chilling of the inexhaustible blood
     Even in my veins that never will be dry,
     And in the austere, divine monotony
     That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

     This is her province whom you lack and seek;
     And seek her not elsewhere.
     Hell is a thoroughfare
     For pilgrims,—Herakles,
     And he that loved Euridice too well,
     Have walked therein; and many more than these;
     And witnessed the desire and the despair
     Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air;
     You, too, have entered Hell,
     And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak
     None has returned;—for thither fury brings
     Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things.
     Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there."

     Oh, radiant Song!  Oh, gracious Memory!
     Be long upon this height
     I shall not climb again!
     I know the way you mean,—the little night,
     And the long empty day,—never to see
     Again the angry light,
     Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain!
     Ah, but she,
     Your other sister and my other soul,
     She shall again be mine;
     And I shall drink her from a silver bowl,
     A chilly thin green wine,
     Not bitter to the taste,
     Not sweet,
     Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,—
     To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth—
     But savoring faintly of the acid earth,
     And trod by pensive feet
     From perfect clusters ripened without haste
     Out of the urgent heat
     In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine.

     Lift up your lyres!  Sing on!
     But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone.

MEMORIAL TO D. C.
     [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]

     Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,
       Where now no more the music is,
     With hands that wrote you little notes
       I write you little elegies!

     Heap not on this mound
       Roses that she loved so well;
     Why bewilder her with roses,
       That she cannot see or smell?
     She is happy where she lies
       With the dust upon her eyes.

     Be to her, Persephone,
     All the things I might not be;
     Take her head upon your knee.
     She that was so proud and wild,
     Flippant, arrogant and free,
     She that had no need of me,
     Is a little lonely child
     Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
     Take her head upon your knee;
     Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
     It is not so dreadful here."

     Give away her gowns,
     Give away her shoes;
     She has no more use
     For her fragrant gowns;
     Take them all down,
     Blue, green, blue,
     Lilac, pink, blue,
     From their padded hangers;
     She will dance no more
     In her narrow shoes;
     Sweep her narrow shoes
     From the closet floor.

     Let them bury your big eyes
     In the secret earth securely,
     Your thin fingers, and your fair,
     Soft, indefinite-colored hair,—
     All of these in some way, surely,
     From the secret earth shall rise;
     Not for these I sit and stare,
     Broken and bereft completely;
     Your young flesh that sat so neatly
     On your little bones will sweetly
     Blossom in the air.

     But your voice,—never the rushing
     Of a river underground,
     Not the rising of the wind
     In the trees before the rain,
     Not the woodcock's watery call,
     Not the note the white-throat utters,
     Not the feet of children pushing
     Yellow leaves along the gutters
     In the blue and bitter fall,
     Shall content my musing mind
     For the beauty of that sound
     That in no new way at all
     Ever will be heard again.

     Sweetly through the sappy stalk
     Of the vigorous weed,
     Holding all it held before,
     Cherished by the faithful sun,
     On and on eternally
     Shall your altered fluid run,
     Bud and bloom and go to seed;
     But your singing days are done;
     But the music of your talk
     Never shall the chemistry
     Of the secret earth restore.
     All your lovely words are spoken.
     Once the ivory box is broken,
     Beats the golden bird no more.

     Boys and girls that held her dear,
       Do your weeping now;
     All you loved of her lies here.

     Brought to earth the arrogant brow,
       And the withering tongue
     Chastened; do your weeping now.

     Sing whatever songs are sung,
       Wind whatever wreath,
     For a playmate perished young,

     For a spirit spent in death.
     Boys and girls that held her dear,
     All you loved of her lies here.

     I

     We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
     Well, such you are,—but well enough we know
     How thick about us root, how rankly grow
     Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,
     That flourish through neglect, and soon must send
     Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow
     Our steady senses; how such matters go
     We are aware, and how such matters end.
     Yet shall be told no meagre passion here;
     With lovers such as we forevermore
     Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere
     Receives the Table's ruin through her door,
     Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,
     Lets fall the colored book upon the floor.

     II

     Into the golden vessel of great song
     Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
     Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
     Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue
     Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
     Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
     Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
     The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.
     Longing alone is singer to the lute;
     Let still on nettles in the open sigh
     The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute
     As any man, and love be far and high,
     That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit
     Found on the ground by every passer-by.

     III

     Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
     We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,
     Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
     The launching of the colored moths of Love.
     Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone
     We bound about our irreligious brows,
     And fettered him with garlands of our own,
     And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
     Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
     Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
     And pour our blood upon his altar, here
     Henceforward is a grove without a name,
     A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
     Whence flee forever a woman and a man.

     IV

     Only until this cigarette is ended,
     A little moment at the end of all,
     While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
     And in the firelight to a lance extended,
     Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
     The broken shadow dances on the wall,
     I will permit my memory to recall
     The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
     And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
     Yours is a face of which I can forget
     The color and the features, every one,
     The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
     But in your day this moment is the sun
     Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

     V

     Once more into my arid days like dew,
     Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
     Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
     A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
     Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
     Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
     Long since to be but just one other mound
     Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
     And once again, and wiser in no wise,
     I chase your colored phantom on the air,
     And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise
     And stumble pitifully on to where,
     Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,
     Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there.

     VI

     No rose that in a garden ever grew,
     In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine,
     Though buried under centuries of fine
     Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew
     Forever, and forever lost from view,
     But must again in fragrance rich as wine
     The grey aisles of the air incarnadine
     When the old summers surge into a new.
     Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart,"
     'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear,
     'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece;
     And thus as well my love must lose some part
     Of what it is, had Helen been less fair,
     Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece.

     VII

     When I too long have looked upon your face,
     Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
     Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
     And terrible beauty not to be endured,
     I turn away reluctant from your light,
     And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
     A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
     From having looked too long upon the sun.
     Then is my daily life a narrow room
     In which a little while, uncertainly,
     Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
     Among familiar things grown strange to me
     Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
     Till I become accustomed to the dark.

     VIII

     And you as well must die, beloved dust,
     And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
     This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
     This body of flame and steel, before the gust
     Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
     Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
     Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled.
     Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
     Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
     In spite of all my love, you will arise
     Upon that day and wander down the air
     Obscurely as the unattended flower,
     It mattering not how beautiful you were,
     Or how beloved above all else that dies.

     IX

     Let you not say of me when I am old,
     In pretty worship of my withered hands
     Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
     Of such a life as mine run red and gold
     Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold,
     Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands
     A curious superstition in these lands,
     And by its leave some weightless tales are told.

     In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
     I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
     Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
     When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
     Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site
     The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer."

     X

     Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this:
     How in the years to come unscrupulous Time,
     More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss,
     And make you old, and leave me in my prime?
     How you and I, who scale together yet
     A little while the sweet, immortal height
     No pilgrim may remember or forget,
     As sure as the world turns, some granite night
     Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame
     Gone out forever on the mutual stone;
     And call to mind that on the day you came
     I was a child, and you a hero grown?—
     And the night pass, and the strange morning break
     Upon our anguish for each other's sake!

     XI

     As to some lovely temple, tenantless
     Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass,
     Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass
     Grown up between the stones, yet from excess
     Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness,
     The worshiper returns, and those who pass
     Marvel him crying on a name that was,—
     So is it now with me in my distress.
     Your body was a temple to Delight;
     Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled,
     Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move;
     Here might I hope to find you day or night,
     And here I come to look for you, my love,
     Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead.

     XII

     Cherish you then the hope I shall forget
     At length, my lord, Pieria?—put away
     For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay
     These mortal bones against my body set,
     For all the puny fever and frail sweat
     Of human love,—renounce for these, I say,
     The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray
     The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet?
     Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake,
     Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side
     So many nights, a lover and a bride,
     But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain,
     To walk the world forever for my sake,
     And in each chamber find me gone again!

     I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
     And what did I see I had not seen before?
     Only a question less or a question more;
     Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
     Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
     House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
     Wild swans, come over the town, come over
     The town again, trailing your legs and crying!