Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

   What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries,
   Of outworn, childish mysteries,
    Vague pageants woven on a web of dream!
    And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream
   Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.

   Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees,
   The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese
    Dark-banded prints.  Carven cathedrals, on a sky
    Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly
   And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

   Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk
   From over-handling, by some anxious monk.
    Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven
    With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven,
   And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

   They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung
   By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung
    In cadences and falls, to ease a queen,
    Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen
   Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.

   They have watered the street,
   It shines in the glare of lamps,
   Cold, white lamps,
   And lies
   Like a slow-moving river,
   Barred with silver and black.
   Cabs go down it,
   One,
   And then another.
   Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
   Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
   Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
   The city is squalid and sinister,
   With the silver-barred street in the midst,
   Slow-moving,
   A river leading nowhere.

   Opposite my window,
   The moon cuts,
   Clear and round,
   Through the plum-coloured night.
   She cannot light the city;
   It is too bright.
   It has white lamps,
   And glitters coldly.

   I stand in the window and watch the moon.
   She is thin and lustreless,
   But I love her.
   I know the moon,
   And this is an alien city.

     To Ezra Pound

     With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion

   The Poet took his walking-stick
   Of fine and polished ebony.
   Set in the close-grained wood
   Were quaint devices;
   Patterns in ambers,
   And in the clouded green of jades.
   The top was of smooth, yellow ivory,
   And a tassel of tarnished gold
   Hung by a faded cord from a hole
   Pierced in the hard wood,
   Circled with silver.
   For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.
   His wealth had gone to enrich it,
   His experiences to pattern it,
   His labour to fashion and burnish it.
   To him it was perfect,
   A work of art and a weapon,
   A delight and a defence.
   The Poet took his walking-stick
   And walked abroad.

   Peace be with you, Brother.

   The Poet came to a meadow.
   Sifted through the grass were daisies,
   Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.
   The Poet struck them with his cane.
   The little heads flew off, and they lay
   Dying, open-mouthed and wondering,
   On the hard ground.
   "They are useless.  They are not roses," said the Poet.

   Peace be with you, Brother.  Go your ways.

   The Poet came to a stream.
   Purple and blue flags waded in the water;
   In among them hopped the speckled frogs;
   The wind slid through them, rustling.
   The Poet lifted his cane,
   And the iris heads fell into the water.
   They floated away, torn and drowning.
   "Wretched flowers," said the Poet,
   "They are not roses."

   Peace be with you, Brother.  It is your affair.

   The Poet came to a garden.
   Dahlias ripened against a wall,
   Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature,
   And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour
   With the red and gold of its blossoms.
   Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.
   The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias,
   And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.
   Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.
   Red and gold they lay scattered,
   Red and gold, as on a battle field;
   Red and gold, prone and dying.
   "They were not roses," said the Poet.

   Peace be with you, Brother.
   But behind you is destruction, and waste places.

   The Poet came home at evening,
   And in the candle-light
   He wiped and polished his cane.
   The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers,
   And made the jades undulate like green pools.
   It played along the bright ebony,
   And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.
   But these things were dead,
   Only the candle-light made them seem to move.
   "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.

   Peace be with you, Brother.  You have chosen your part.

   He perches in the slime, inert,
   Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
   The oil upon the puddles dries
   To colours like a peacock's eyes,
   And half-submerged tomato-cans
   Shine scaly, as leviathans
   Oozily crawling through the mud.
   The ground is here and there bestud
   With lumps of only part-burned coal.
   His duty is to glean the whole,
   To pick them from the filth, each one,
   To hoard them for the hidden sun
   Which glows within each fiery core
   And waits to be made free once more.
   Their sharp and glistening edges cut
   His stiffened fingers.  Through the smut
   Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
   Wet through and shivering he kneels
   And digs the slippery coals; like eels
   They slide about.  His force all spent,
   He counts his small accomplishment.
   A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
   Which still have fire in their souls.
   Fire!  And in his thought there burns
   The topaz fire of votive urns.
   He sees it fling from hill to hill,
   And still consumed, is burning still.
   Higher and higher leaps the flame,
   The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
   He sees a Spanish Castle old,
   With silver steps and paths of gold.
   From myrtle bowers comes the plash
   Of fountains, and the emerald flash
   Of parrots in the orange trees,
   Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
   He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
   Bears visions, that his master-stroke
   Is out of dirt and misery
   To light the fire of poesy.
   He sees the glory, yet he knows
   That others cannot see his shows.
   To them his smoke is sightless, black,
   His votive vessels but a pack
   Of old discarded shards, his fire
   A peddler's; still to him the pyre
   Is incensed, an enduring goal!
   He sighs and grubs another coal.

   How should I sing when buffeting salt waves
    And stung with bitter surges, in whose might
    I toss, a cockleshell?  The dreadful night
   Marshals its undefeated dark and raves
   In brutal madness, reeling over graves
    Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight,
    Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite
   Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves.
    No parting cloud reveals a watery star,
   My cries are washed away upon the wind,
    My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar,
   My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind.
    But painted on the sky great visions burn,
    My voice, oblation from a shattered urn!

   From out the dragging vastness of the sea,
    Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands,
    He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands
   One moment, white and dripping, silently,
   Cut like a cameo in lazuli,
    Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands
    Prone in the jeering water, and his hands
   Clutch for support where no support can be.
    So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch,
   He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow
   And sandflies dance their little lives away.
    The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch
   The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow,
   And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.

   Be patient with you?
    When the stooping sky
   Leans down upon the hills
   And tenderly, as one who soothing stills
    An anguish, gathers earth to lie
   Embraced and girdled.  Do the sun-filled men
    Feel patience then?

   Be patient with you?
    When the snow-girt earth
   Cracks to let through a spurt
   Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt
    A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth
   To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men
    Feel patience then?

   Be patient with you?
    When pain's iron bars
   Their rivets tighten, stern
   To bend and break their victims; as they turn,
    Hopeless, there stand the purple jars
   Of night to spill oblivion.  Do these men
    Feel patience then?

   Be patient with you?
    You!  My sun and moon!
   My basketful of flowers!
   My money-bag of shining dreams!  My hours,
    Windless and still, of afternoon!
   You are my world and I your citizen.
    What meaning can have patience then?

   Be not angry with me that I bear
    Your colours everywhere,
    All through each crowded street,
     And meet
    The wonder-light in every eye,
     As I go by.

   Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze,
    Blinded by rainbow haze,
    The stuff of happiness,
     No less,
    Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds
     Of peacock golds.

   Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way
    Flushes beneath its gray.
    My steps fall ringed with light,
     So bright,
    It seems a myriad suns are strown
     About the town.

   Around me is the sound of steepled bells,
    And rich perfumed smells
    Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud,
     And shroud
    Me from close contact with the world.
     I dwell impearled.

   You blazon me with jewelled insignia.
    A flaming nebula
    Rims in my life.  And yet
     You set
    The word upon me, unconfessed
     To go unguessed.

   I pray to be the tool which to your hand
    Long use has shaped and moulded till it be
    Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
   You take it for its service.  I demand
   To be forgotten in the woven strand
    Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry
    Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie
   A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.
    I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,
   The railing to the stairway of the clouds,
    To guard your steps securely up, where streams
   A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds
    Of pointed stars.  Remember not whereby
    You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.

   Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
    Unseparated atoms, and I must
    Sort them apart and live them.  Sifted dust
   Covers the formless heap.  Reprieves, delays,
   There are none, ever.  As a monk who prays
    The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
    Each tasteless particle aside, and just
   Begin again the task which never stays.
    And I have known a glory of great suns,
   When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
   Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
    And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
   Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
   Threw down the cup, and did not understand.

   Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch
    I broke and bruised your rose.
    I hardly could suppose
   It were a thing so fragile that my clutch
       Could kill it, thus.

   It stood so proudly up upon its stem,
    I knew no thought of fear,
    And coming very near
   Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem,
       Tearing it down.

   Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one,
    The crimson petals, all
    Outspread about my fall.
   They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone
       Of memory.

   And with my words I carve a little jar
    To keep their scented dust,
    Which, opening, you must
   Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far
       More grieved than you.

   An arid daylight shines along the beach
    Dried to a grey monotony of tone,
    And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon
   The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach
   Sparkles a wet, reviving sea.  Here bleach
    The skeletons of fishes, every bone
    Polished and stark, like traceries of stone,
   The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.
    And they are dead while waiting for the sea,
    The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.
   Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.
    Only the shells and stones can wait to be
    Washed bright.  For living things, who suffer pain,
   May not endure till time can bring them ease.

   Happiness, to some, elation;
   Is, to others, mere stagnation.
   Days of passive somnolence,
   At its wildest, indolence.
   Hours of empty quietness,
   No delight, and no distress.

   Happiness to me is wine,
   Effervescent, superfine.
   Full of tang and fiery pleasure,
   Far too hot to leave me leisure
   For a single thought beyond it.
   Drunk!  Forgetful!  This the bond:  it
   Means to give one's soul to gain
   Life's quintessence.  Even pain
   Pricks to livelier living, then
   Wakes the nerves to laugh again,
   Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
   Although we must die to-morrow,
   Losing every thought but this;
   Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.

   Happiness:  We rarely feel it.
   I would buy it, beg it, steal it,
   Pay in coins of dripping blood
   For this one transcendent good.

   How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,
   A spatter of rust on its polished steel!
    The seasons reel
    Like a goaded wheel.
   Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

   The night is sliding towards the dawn,
   And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.
    A torn moon flees
    Through the hemlock trees,
   The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

   Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing
   A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.
    Like dogs unleashed
    After a beast,
   They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

   A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,
   Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,
    And the fierce unrests
    I keep as guests
   Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

   Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt
   My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.
    I have not quailed,
    I was all unmailed
   And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

   The moon drops into the silver day
   As waking out of her swoon she comes.
    I hear the drums
    Of millenniums
   Beating the mornings I still must stay.

   The years I must watch go in and out,
   While I build with water, and dig in air,
    And the trumpets blare
    Hollow despair,
   The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

   An atom tossed in a chaos made
   Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.
    Whence have I come?
    What would be home?
   I hear no answer.  I am afraid!

   I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.
   Pushed into nothingness by a breath,
    And quench in a wreath
    Of engulfing death
   This fight for a God, or this devil's game.

   There once was a man whom the gods didn't love,
    And a disagreeable man was he.
   He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him,
    And he cursed eternally.

   He damned the sun, and he damned the stars,
    And he blasted the winds in the sky.
   He sent to Hell every green, growing thing,
    And he raved at the birds as they fly.

   His oaths were many, and his range was wide,
    He swore in fancy ways;
   But his meaning was plain:  that no created thing
    Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

   He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill,
    And windows toward the hill there were none,
   And on the other side they were white-washed thick,
    To keep out every spark of the sun.

   When he went to market he walked all the way
    Blaspheming at the path he trod.
   He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to,
    By all the names he knew of God.

   For his heart was soured in his weary old hide,
    And his hopes had curdled in his breast.
   His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over
    For the chinking money-bags she liked best.

   The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin,
    The deer had trampled on his corn,
   His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought,
    And his sheep had died unshorn.

   His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose,
    And his old horse perished of a colic.
   In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes
    By little, glutton mice on a frolic.

   So he slowly lost all he ever had,
    And the blood in his body dried.
   Shrunken and mean he still lived on,
    And cursed that future which had lied.

   One day he was digging, a spade or two,
    As his aching back could lift,
   When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench,
    And to get it out he made great shift.

   So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain,
    And the veins in his forehead stood taut.
   At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked,
    He gathered up what he had sought.

   A dim old vase of crusted glass,
    Prismed while it lay buried deep.
   Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck,
    At the touch of the sun began to leap.

   It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light;
    Flashing like an opal-stone,
   Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran,
    Where at first there had seemed to be none.

   It had handles on each side to bear it up,
    And a belly for the gurgling wine.
   Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide,
    And its lip was curled and fine.

   The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare
    And the colours started up through the crust,
   And he who had cursed at the yellow sun
    Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.

   And he bore the flask to the brightest spot,
    Where the shadow of the hill fell clear;
   And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask,
    And the sun shone without his sneer.

   Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf,
    But it was only grey in the gloom.
   So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth,
    And he went outside with a broom.

   And he washed his windows just to let the sun
    Lie upon his new-found vase;
   And when evening came, he moved it down
    And put it on a table near the place

   Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door.
    The old man forgot to swear,
   Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size,
    Dancing in the kitchen there.

   He forgot to revile the sun next morning
    When he found his vase afire in its light.
   And he carried it out of the house that day,
    And kept it close beside him until night.

   And so it happened from day to day.
    The old man fed his life
   On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.
    And his soul forgot its former strife.

   And the village-folk came and begged to see
    The flagon which was dug from the ground.
   And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy
    At showing what he had found.

   One day the master of the village school
    Passed him as he stooped at toil,
   Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side
    Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

   "My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind,
    "That's a valuable thing you have there,
   But it might get broken out of doors,
    It should meet with the utmost care.

   What are you doing with it out here?"
    "Why, Sir," said the poor old man,
   "I like to have it about, do you see?
    To be with it all I can."

   "You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right,
    "Mark my words and see!"
   And he walked away, while the old man looked
    At his treasure despondingly.

   Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!
    He had toiled for it, and now he cared.
   Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues,
    Which his own hard work had bared.

   He would carry it round with him everywhere,
    As it gave him joy to do.
   A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!
    Who would dare to say so?  Who?

   Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way,
    And he bent to his hoe again....
   A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back,
    And he lurched with a cry of pain.

   For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass,
    And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.
   The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.
    He did not curse, he had no words.

   He gathered the fragments, one by one,
    And his fingers were cut and torn.
   Then he made a hole in the very place
    Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.

   He covered the hole, and he patted it down,
    Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.
   He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows
    That no beam of light should cross the floor.

   He sat down in front of the empty hearth,
    And he neither ate nor drank.
   In three days they found him, dead and cold,
    And they said:  "What a queer old crank!"

   Have at you, you Devils!
    My back's to this tree,
   For you're nothing so nice
    That the hind-side of me
   Would escape your assault.
    Come on now, all three!

   Here's a dandified gentleman,
    Rapier at point,
   And a wrist which whirls round
    Like a circular joint.
   A spatter of blood, man!
    That's just to anoint

   And make supple your limbs.
    'Tis a pity the silk
   Of your waistcoat is stained.
    Why!  Your heart's full of milk,
   And so full, it spills over!
    I'm not of your ilk.

   You said so, and laughed
    At my old-fashioned hose,
   At the cut of my hair,
    At the length of my nose.
   To carve it to pattern
    I think you propose.

   Your pardon, young Sir,
    But my nose and my sword
   Are proving themselves
    In quite perfect accord.
   I grieve to have spotted
    Your shirt.  On my word!

   And hullo!  You Bully!
    That blade's not a stick
   To slash right and left,
    And my skull is too thick
   To be cleft with such cuffs
    Of a sword.  Now a lick

   Down the side of your face.
    What a pretty, red line!
   Tell the taverns that scar
    Was an honour.  Don't whine
   That a stranger has marked you.

    The tree's there, You Swine!

   Did you think to get in
    At the back, while your friends
   Made a little diversion
    In front?  So it ends,
   With your sword clattering down
    On the ground.  'Tis amends

   I make for your courteous
    Reception of me,
   A foreigner, landed
    From over the sea.
   Your welcome was fervent
    I think you'll agree.

   My shoes are not buckled
    With gold, nor my hair
   Oiled and scented, my jacket's
    Not satin, I wear
   Corded breeches, wide hats,
    And I make people stare!

   So I do, but my heart
    Is the heart of a man,
   And my thoughts cannot twirl
    In the limited span
   'Twixt my head and my heels,
    As some other men's can.

   I have business more strange
    Than the shape of my boots,
   And my interests range
    From the sky, to the roots
   Of this dung-hill you live in,
    You half-rotted shoots

   Of a mouldering tree!
    Here's at you, once more.
   You Apes!  You Jack-fools!
    You can show me the door,
   And jeer at my ways,
    But you're pinked to the core.

   And before I have done,
    I will prick my name in
   With the front of my steel,
    And your lily-white skin
   Shall be printed with me.
    For I've come here to win!

   My cup is empty to-night,
   Cold and dry are its sides,
   Chilled by the wind from the open window.
   Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.
   The room is filled with the strange scent
   Of wistaria blossoms.
   They sway in the moon's radiance
   And tap against the wall.
   But the cup of my heart is still,
   And cold, and empty.

   When you come, it brims
   Red and trembling with blood,
   Heart's blood for your drinking;
   To fill your mouth with love
   And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

   See!  I give myself to you, Beloved!
   My words are little jars
   For you to take and put upon a shelf.
   Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,
   And they have many pleasant colours and lustres
   To recommend them.
   Also the scent from them fills the room
   With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

   When I shall have given you the last one,
   You will have the whole of me,
   But I shall be dead.

   You glow in my heart
   Like the flames of uncounted candles.
   But when I go to warm my hands,
   My clumsiness overturns the light,
   And then I stumble
   Against the tables and chairs.

   Outside the long window,
   With his head on the stone sill,
   The dog is lying,
   Gazing at his Beloved.
   His eyes are wet and urgent,
   And his body is taut and shaking.
   It is cold on the terrace;
   A pale wind licks along the stone slabs,
   But the dog gazes through the glass
   And is content.

   The Beloved is writing a letter.
   Occasionally she speaks to the dog,
   But she is thinking of her writing.
   Does she, too, give her devotion to one
   Not worthy?

   I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,
   So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,
   So sharp that the air would turn its edge
   Were it to be twisted in flight.
   Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,
   And the mark of them lies, in and out,
   Worm-like,
   With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.
   My brain is curved like a scimitar,
   And sighs at its cutting
   Like a sickle mowing grass.

   But of what use is all this to me!
   I, who am set to crack stones
   In a country lane!

   My heart is like a cleft pomegranate
   Bleeding crimson seeds
   And dripping them on the ground.
   My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full,
   And its seeds are bursting from it.

   But how is this other than a torment to me!
   I, who am shut up, with broken crockery,
   In a dark closet!

   I have been temperate always,
   But I am like to be very drunk
   With your coming.
   There have been times
   I feared to walk down the street
   Lest I should reel with the wine of you,
   And jerk against my neighbours
   As they go by.
   I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,
   But my brain is noisy
   With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

   I will mix me a drink of stars,—
   Large stars with polychrome needles,
   Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,
   Cool, quiet, green stars.
   I will tear them out of the sky,
   And squeeze them over an old silver cup,
   And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it,
   So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.

   It will lap and scratch
   As I swallow it down;
   And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire,
   Coiling and twisting in my belly.
   His snortings will rise to my head,
   And I shall be hot, and laugh,
   Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

   The rain gullies the garden paths
   And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
   A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
   Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
   A scarlet fruit,
   Filmed over with moisture.
   It seems as though the rain,
   Dripping from it,
   Should be tinged with colour.
   I desire the berries,
   But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
   Probably, too, they are bitter.

   Hold your apron wide
   That I may pour my gifts into it,
   So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them
   From falling to the ground.

   I would pour them upon you
   And cover you,
   For greatly do I feel this need
   Of giving you something,
   Even these poor things.

   Dearest of my Heart!

   When I go away from you
   The world beats dead
   Like a slackened drum.
   I call out for you against the jutted stars
   And shout into the ridges of the wind.
   Streets coming fast,
   One after the other,
   Wedge you away from me,
   And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
   So that I can no longer see your face.
   Why should I leave you,
   To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

   Hold your soul open for my welcoming.
   Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me
   With its clear and rippled coolness,
   That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest,
   Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

   Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,
   That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire,
   The life and joy of tongues of flame,
   And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune,
   I may rouse the blear-eyed world,
   And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

   Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame.
    Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue
    Of Heaven it rose.  Its flickering tongues up-drew
   And vanished in the sunshine.  How it came
   We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name.
    From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew
    Together into fire.  But we knew
   The winds would slap and quench it in their game.
    And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks
   To treasure it, and placed them round about.
   With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole,
    And roofed it with bright bronze.  Behind carved locks
   Flowered the tall and sheltered flame.  Without,
   The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.

   Beneath this sod lie the remains
   Of one who died of growing pains.

   You ask me for a sonnet.  Ah, my Dear,
    Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon?
    Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June
   And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere?
   For your sake, I would go and seek the year,
    Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune,
    Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon
   Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer
    Pulls at my lengthening shadow.  Yes, 'tis that!
    My shadow stretches forward, and the ground
   Is dark in front because the light's behind.
    It is grotesque, with such a funny hat,
    In watching it and walking I have found
   More than enough to occupy my mind.

   I cannot turn, the light would make me blind.

       1

   A yellow band of light upon the street
   Pours from an open door, and makes a wide
   Pathway of bright gold across a sheet
   Of calm and liquid moonshine.  From inside
   Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch
   Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth,
   The clip of tankards on a table top,
   And stir of booted heels.  Against the patch
   Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth
   Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop.

       2

   This is the tavern of one Hilverdink,
   Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed.
   Within his cellar men can have to drink
   The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed
   To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art
   Improve and spice their virgin juiciness.
   Here froths the amber beer of many a brew,
   Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart
   A cap as ever in his wantonness
   Winter set glittering on top of an old yew.

       3

   Tall candles stand upon the table, where
   Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine,
   Clarets and ports.  Those topaz bumpers were
   Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine.
   The centre of the board is piled with pipes,
   Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay
   Awaits its burning fate.  Behind, the vault
   Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way
   Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes
   And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.

       4

   "For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!"
   Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots.
   "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast,
   From that small barrel in the very roots
   Of your deep cellar, man.  Why here is Max!
   Ho!  Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time.
   We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke
   His best tobacco for a grand climax.
   Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme,
   We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!"

       5

   Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat.
   "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan."
   The host set down a jar; then to a vat
   Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran.
   Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem
   Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew
   The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung.
   It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew
   Into the silver night.  At once there flung
   Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them:

       6

   "Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here,
   Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor?
   My master sent me to inquire where
   Such men do mostly be, but every door
   Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour.
   I pray you tell me where I may now find
   One versed in law, the matter will not wait."
   "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind
   Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late.
   I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power.