Toward the Gulf

     Only a few plants up—and not a blossom
     My clover didn't catch. What is the matter?
     Old John comes by. I show him my result.
     Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure,
     I wanted you to sow it. Now you see
     What comes of letting Hunter do your work.
     The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps,
     Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed
     Was sown.

                But John, who knows a clover field,
     Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil
     And studies them.

                       He says, Look at the roots!
     Hunter neglected to inoculate
     The seed, for clover seed must always have
     Clover bacteria to make it grow,
     And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover
     The roots are studded thick with tubercles,
     Like little warts, made by bacteria.
     And somehow these bacteria lay hold
     Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil,
     And make the plants grow, make them blossom too.
     When Hunter sowed this field he was not well:
     He should have hauled some top-soil to this field
     From some old clover field, or made a culture
     Of these bacteria and soaked the seed
     In it before he sowed it.

                               As I said,
     Hunter was sick when he was working here.
     And then he ran away to Indiana
     And left his wife and children. Now he's back.
     His cough was just as bad in Indiana
     As it is here. A cough is pretty hard
     To run away from. Wife and children too
     Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them
     Stays with a fellow and cannot be left.
     Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you.
     He's straightening out his little farm and making
     Provision for his family. Hunter's changed.
     He is a better man. It almost seems
     That Hunter's blossomed. ...

                                  I am sorry for him.
     The doctor says he has tuberculosis.

     To a western breeze
     A row of golden tulips is nodding.
     They flutter their golden wings
     In a sudden ecstasy and say:
     Something comes to us from beyond,
     Out of the sky, beyond the hill
     We give it to you.

     And I walk through rows of jonquils
     To a beloved door,
     Which you open.
     And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head
     Nodding to me, and saying:
     Something comes to me
     Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty—
     I give it to you.

     There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes,
     And the freshness of June iris in your hands,
     And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom.
     But your voice is the voice of the robin
     Singing at dawn amid new leaves.
     It is like sun-light on blue water
     Where the south-wind is on the water
     And the buds of the flags are green.
     It is like the wild bird of the sedges
     With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed
     Showering lyrics over the sun-light
     Between rhythmical pauses
     When his heart has stopped,
     Making light and water
     Into song.

     Let me hear your voice,
     And the voice of Eternal Beauty
     Through the music of your voice.
     Let me gather the iris of your hands.
     Against my face.
     And close my eyes with your eyes.
     Let me listen with you
     For the Voice.

     How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed
     In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told,
     Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you
     From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work,
     Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose,
     The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands,
     The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene.
     How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless,
     You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here
     Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you,
     And think of your work—how nothing could balk you
     Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned,
     Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh,
     Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear
     For your eighty-four years!

                                 And they say of you still
     You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn,
     And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always.
     Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived
     In your day and your place? It was never their due!
     Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be—
     A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes
     Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places.
     Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God gave you.
     And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe—
     Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light?
     But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric.
     Did France bar her door? Geneva remained—good enough!
     Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know.
     Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing,
     You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path;
     You stand at your door and step by another to France—
     Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies
     Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman.
     And here you have printers to print what you write and a house
     For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin.
     O busy Voltaire, never resting. ...

     So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke,
     The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State,
     The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire:
     The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you essayed
     To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil.
     It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter,
     A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast
     Was thrown on the handles.

                                    And yet to this day, O Voltaire,
     They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did
     Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the roots to the sun,
     And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light,
     And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it.
                                                           But listen
     The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still
     But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others,
     That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides.
     The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment
     To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French?

     Did you give up three years of your life
     To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas?
     Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well,
     Six lines in an article written in English are plenty
     To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture,
     Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them
     Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble,
     But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature,
     Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record
     Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, while batting
     At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ...

     How well did you know that life to a genius, a god,
     Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes
     As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show:
     Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp.
     Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds.
     Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying.
     Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake
     Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs,
     Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships.
     You saw through and laughed at—you saw above all
     That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a laugh.

     So you smiled till the lines of your mouth
     A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing
     To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me,
     I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing
     Through eighty-four years for realities—O let them pass,
     Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god?
     Front the ages with a smile!

     Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes
     I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons.
     For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with hate?
     Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate?

     Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor?
     Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door?
     Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie
     Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye.

     I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and deep:
     The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep.
     They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or strife—
     When life fills full the soul then life kills life.

     I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune,
     Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon.
     And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee
     Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea.

     Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door:
     Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through.
     There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds—
     But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue?

     And there's the harp on which great fingers play
     Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things;
     And there's a soul that wanders out when called
     By a voice afar from the answering strings.

     And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears,
     Till the vision, the mad music are wept away.
     One cannot have them and live, but if one die
     It might be better than living—who can say?

     Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know
     How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough?
     Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul—
     But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love!

     The mad wind is the warden,
     And the smiling dahlias nod
     To the dahlias across the garden,
     And the wastes of the golden rod.

     They never pray for pardon,
     Nor ask his way nor forego,
     Nor close their hearts nor harden
     Nor stay his hand, nor bestow

     Their hearts filched out of their bosoms,
     Nor plan for dahlias to be.
     For the wind blows over the garden
     And sets the dahlias free.

     They drift to the song of the warden,
     Heedless they give him heed.
     And he walks and blows through the garden
     Blossom and leaf and seed.

     Silvers and purples breathing in a sky
     Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger,
     Of the restrained but passionate July
     Upon the marshes of the river lie,
     Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly.

     A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend
     Under the flapping of the breeze's wing,
     Departing and revisiting
     The haunts of the river twisting without end.

     The torsions of the river make long miles
     Of the waters of the river which remain
     Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles
     Of water between the rushes, which restrain
     The bewildered currents in returning files,
     Twisting between the greens like a blue racer,
     Too hurt to leap with body or uplift
     Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift

     Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes
     The iron bridge's reticules
     Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons.
     But from the bridge, watching the little steamer
     Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville,
     The river loosened from the abandoned spools
     Of earth and heaven wanders without will,
     Between the rushes, like a silken streamer.
     And two old men who turn the bridge
     For passing boats sit in the sun all day,
     Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs,
     And smoke and talk of a glory passed away.
     And of the ruthless sacrilege
     Which mowed away the pines,
     And cast them in the current here as logs,
     To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver,
     Making for a little hour heroes and heroines,
     Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven,
     When the great saws sent screeches up and whines,
     And cries for more and more
     Slaughter of forests up and down the river
     And along the lake's shore.

     But all is quiet on the river now
     As when the snow lay windless in the wood,
     And the last Indian stood
     And looked to find the broken bough
     That told the path under the snow.
     All is as silent as the spiral lights
     Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise,
     Like the wings of swarming dragon flies,
     Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies
     Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights
     Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare
     Of dunes and purple air,
     There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies.

     The forests and the mills are gone!
     All is as silent as the voice I heard
     On a summer dawn
     When we two fished among the river reeds.
     As silent as the pain
     In a heart that feeds
     A sorrow, but does not complain.
     As silent as above the bridge in this July,
     Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky
     Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane:
     A man-bestridden dragon fly!

     Because thou wast most delicate,
     A woman fair for men to see,
     The earth did compass thy estate,
     Thou didst hold life and death in fee,
     And every soul did bend the knee.

     [Sidenote: (Wherein the corrupt spirit of privilege is symbolized by
     Delilah and the People by Samson.)]

     Much pleasure also made thee grieve
     For that the goblet had been drained.
     The well spiced viand thou didst leave
     To frown on want whose throat was strained,
     And violence whose hands were stained.

     The purple of thy royal cloak,
     Made the sea paler for its hue.
     Much people bent beneath the yoke
     To fetch thee jewels white and blue,
     And rings to pass thy gold hair through.

     Therefore, Delilah wast thou called,
     Because the choice wines nourished thee
     In Sorek, by the mountains walled
     Against the north wind's misery,
     Where flourished every pleasant tree.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah hath a taste for ease and luxury and wantoneth
     with divers lovers.)]

     Thy lovers also were as great
     In numbers as the sea sands were;
     Thou didst requite their love with hate;
     And give them up to massacre,
     Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah conceiveth the design of ensnaring Samson.)]

     At Gaza and at Ashkelon,
     The obscene Dagon worshipping,
     Thy face was fair to look upon.
     Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing,
     Was deadlier than the adder's sting.

     Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure
     The strong man Samson for my spouse,
     His death will make my ease secure.
     The god has heard this people's vows
     To recompense their injured house."

     Thereafter, when the giant lay
     Supinely rolled against thy feet,
     Him thou didst craftily betray,
     With amorous vexings, low and sweet,
     To tell thee that which was not meet.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah attempteth to discover the source of Samson's
     strength. Samson very neatly deceiveth her.)]

     And Samson spake to thee again;
     "With seven green withes I may be bound,
     So shall I be as other men."
     Whereat the lords the green withes found—
     The same about his limbs were bound.

     Then did the fish-god in thee cry:
     "The Philistines be upon thee now."
     But Samson broke the withes awry,
     As when a keen fire toucheth tow;
     So thou didst not the secret know.

     But thou, being full of guile, didst plead:
     "My lord, thou hast but mocked my love
     With lies who gave thy saying heed;
     Hast thou not vexed my heart enough,
     To ease me all the pain thereof?"

     Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes,
     The liers in wait did list, and then
     He said: "Go to, and get new ropes,
     Wherewith thou shalt bind me again,
     So shall I be as other men."

     [Sidenote: (Samson retaineth his intellect and the lustihood of his
     body and again misleadeth the subtle craft of Delilah.)]

     Then didst thou do as he had said,
     Whereat the fish-god in thee cried,
     "The Philistines be upon thy head,"
     He shook his shoulders deep and wide,
     And cast the ropes like thread aside.

     Yet thou still fast to thy conceit,
     Didst chide him softly then and say:
     "Beforetime thou hast shown deceit,
     And mocked my quest with idle play,
     Thou canst not now my wish gainsay."

     Then with the secret in his thought,
     He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair,
     The web withal, the deed is wrought;
     Thou shalt have all my strength in snare,
     And I as other men shall fare."

     Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove
     The web withal and fastened it,
     And then the pin thy treason drove,
     With laughter making all things fit,
     As did beseem thy cunning wit.

     [Sidenote: (Delilah still pursueth her designs and Samson beginning to
     be somewhat wearied hinteth very close to his secret.)]

     Then the god Dagon speaking by
     Thy delicate mouth made horrid din;
     "Lo the Philistine lords are nigh"—
     He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin,
     And took away the web and pin.

     Yet, saying not it doth suffice,
     Thou in the chamber's secrecy,
     Didst with thy artful words entice
     Samson to give his heart to thee,
     And tell thee where his strength might be.

     Pleading, "How canst thou still aver,
     I love thee, being yet unkind?
     How is it thou dost minister
     Unto my heart with treacherous mind,
     Thou art but cruelly inclined."

     From early morn to falling dusk,
     At night upon the curtained bed,
     Fragrant with spikenard and with musk,
     For weariness he laid his head,
     Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread.

     [Sidenote: (Samson being weakened by lust and overcome by Delilah's
     importunities and guile telleth her wherein his great strength
     consisteth.)]

     Nor wouldst not give him any rest,
     But vexed with various words his soul,
     Till death far more than life was blest,
     Shot through and through with heavy dole,
     He gave his strength to thy control.

     Saying, "I am a Nazarite,
     To God alway, nor hath there yet
     Razor or shears done despite
     To these my locks of coarsen jet,
     Therefore my strength hath known no let."

     "But, and if these be shaven close,
     Whereas I once was strong as ten,
     I may not meet my meanest foes
     Among the hated Philistine,
     I shall be weak like other men."

     He turned to sleep, the spell was done,
     Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow
     The secret of his strength is known;
     Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow,
     Bring up the silver thou didst vow."

     [Sidenote: (Samson having trusted Delilah turneth to sleep whereat her
     minions with force falleth upon him and depriveth him of his
     strength.)]

     They came, and sleeping on thy knees,
     The giant of his locks was shorn.
     And Dagon, being now at ease,
     Cried like the harbinger of morn,
     To see the giant's strength forlorn.

     For he wist not the Lord was gone:—
     "I will go as I went erewhile,"
     He said, "and shake my mighty brawn."
     Without the captains, file on file,
     Did execute Delilah's guile.

     [Sidenote: (Sansculottism, as it seemeth, is overthrown.)]

     At Gaza where the mockers pass,
     Midst curses and unholy sound,
     They fettered him with chains of brass,
     Put out his eyes, and being bound
     Within the prison house he ground.

     The heathen looking on did sing;
     "Behold our god into our hand,
     Hath brought him for our banqueting,
     Who slew us and destroyed our land,
     Against whom none of us could stand."

     [Sidenote: (Samson being no longer formidable and being deprived of
     his eyes is reduced to slavery and made the sport of the heathen.)]

     Now, therefore, when the festival
     Waxed merrily, with one accord,
     The lords and captains loud did call,
     To bring him out whom they abhorred,
     To make them sport who sat at board.

     [Sidenote: (After a time Samson prayeth for vengeance even though
     himself should perish thereby.)]

     And Samson made them sport and stood
     Betwixt the pillars of the house,
     Above with scornful hardihood,
     Both men and women made carouse,
     And ridiculed his eyeless brows.

     Then Samson prayed "Remember me
     O Lord, this once, if not again.
     O God, behold my misery,
     Now weaker than all other men,
     Who once was mightier than ten."

     "Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes,
     And for this unrequited toil,
     For fraud, injustice, perjuries,
     For lords whose greed devours the soil,
     And kings and rulers who despoil."

     [Sidenote: (Wherein by a very nice conceit revolution is symbolized.)]

     "For all that maketh light of Thee,
     And sets at naught Thy holy word,
     For tongues that babble blasphemy,
     And impious hands that hold the sword—
     Grant vengeance, though I perish, Lord."

     He grasped the pillars, having prayed,
     And bowed himself—the building fell,
     And on three thousand souls was laid,
     Gone soon to death with mighty yell.
     And Samson died, for it was well.

     The lords and captains greatly err,
     Thinking that Samson is no more,
     Blind, but with ever-growing hair,
     He grinds from Tyre to Singapore,
     While yet Delilah plays the whore.

     So it hath been, and yet will be,
     The captains, drunken at the feast
     To garnish their felicity,
     Will taunt him as a captive beast,
     Until their insolence hath ceased.

     [Sidenote: (Wherein it is shown that while the people like Samson have
     been blinded, and have not recovered their sight still that their hair
     continueth to grow.)]

     Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet,
     To Dagon and to Ashtoreth;
     Of bloody stripes from head to feet,
     He will endure unto the death,
     Being blind, he also nothing saith.

     Then 'gainst the Doric capitals,
     Resting in prayer to God for power,
     He will shake down your marble walls,
     Abiding heaven's appointed hour,
     And those that fly shall hide and cower.

     But this Delilah shall survive,
     To do the sin already done,
     Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive,
     At Gaza and at Ashkelon,
     A woman fair to look upon.

     If the grim Fates, to stave ennui,
     Play whips for fun, or snares for game,
     The liar full of ease goes free,
     And Socrates must bear the shame.

     With the blunt sage he stands despised,
     The Pharisees salute him not;
     Laughter awaits the truth he prized,
     And Judas profits by his plot.

     A million angels kneel and pray,
     And sue for grace that he may win—
     Eternal Jove prepares the day,
     And sternly sets the fateful gin.

     Satan, who hates the light, is fain,
     To back his virtuous enterprise;
     The omnipotent powers alone refrain,
     Only the Lord of hosts denies.

     Whatever of woven argument,
     Lacks warp to hold the woof in place,
     Smothers his honest discontent,
     But leaves to view his woeful face.

     Fling forth the flag, devour the land,
     Grasp destiny and use the law;
     But dodge the epigram's keen brand,
     And fall not by the ass's jaw.

     The idiot snicker strikes more down,
     Than fell at Troy or Waterloo;
     Still, still he meets it with a frown,
     And argues loudly for "the True."

     Injustice lengthens out her chain,
     Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more;
     But while the eons wax and wane,
     He storms the barricaded door.

     Wisdom and peace and fair intent,
     Are tedious as a tale twice told;
     One thing increases being spent—
     Perennial youth belongs to gold.

     At Weehawken the soul set free,
     Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill,
     Drink life from that philosophy,
     And flourish by the age's will.

     If he shall toil to clear the field,
     Fate's children seize the prosperous year;
     Boldly he fashions some new shield,
     And naked feels the victor's spear.

     He rolls the world up into day,
     He finds the grain, and gets the hull.
     He sees his own mind in the sway,
     And Progress tiptoes on his skull.

     Angels and fiends behold the wrong,
     And execrate his losing fight;
     While Jove amidst the choral song
     Smiles, and the heavens glow with light!

     —Trueblood

     Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama—
     Only one drama, then to die. Enough
     To win the heights but once! He writes me letters,
     These later days marked "Opened by the Censor,"
     About his drama, asks me what I think
     About this point of view, and that approach,
     And whether to etch in his hero's soul
     By etching in his hero's enemies,
     Or luminate his hero by enshadowing
     His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him
     Which is the actual and the larger theme,
     His hero or his hero's enemies?
     And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind
     Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan
     The god misunderstood, the lover of man
     Destroyed by heaven for his love of man.
     In July, 1914, while in London
     He took me to his house to dine and showed me
     The verses as above. And while I read
     He left the room, returned, I heard him move
     The ash trays on the table where we sat
     And set some object on the table.

                                        Then
     As I looked up from reading I discovered
     A skull and bony hand upon the table.
     And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow!
     And what a hand was this! A right hand too.
     Those fingers in the flesh did miracles.
     And when I have my hero's skull before me,
     His hand that moulded peoples, I should write
     The drama that possesses all my thought.
     You'd think the spirit of the man would come
     And show me how to find the key that fits
     The story of his life, reveal its secret.
     I know the secrets, but I want the secret.
     You'd think his spirit out of gratitude
     Would start me off. It's something, I insist,
     To find a haven with a dramatist
     After your bones have crossed the sea, and after
     Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion,
     And reverent housing.

                             Dying in New York
     He lay for ten years in a lonely grave
     Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe.
     No grave yard in the city would receive him.
     Neither a banker nor a friend of banks,
     Nor falling in a duel to awake
     Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity
     Was not so much as offered. He was poor,
     And never had a tomb like Washington.
     Of course he wasn't Washington—but still,
     Study that skull a little! In ten years
     A mad admirer living here in England
     Went to America and dug him up,
     And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then
     Our country was in turmoil over France—
     (The details are so rich I lose my head,
     And can't construct my acts.)—hell's flaming here,
     And we are fighting back the roaring fire
     That France had lighted. England would abort
     The era she embraced. Here is a point
     That vexes me in laying out the scenes,
     And persons of the play. For parliament
     Went into fury that these bones were here
     On British soil. The city raged. They took
     The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison
     For crying on the streets the bones' arrival.
     I'd like to put that crier in my play.
     The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case
     I put it on a background understood,
     And showing why the fellow was arrested,
     And what a high offence to heaven it was.
     Then here's another thing: The monument
     This zealous friend had planned was never raised.
     The city wouldn't have it—you can guess
     The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand
     Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me!
     He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets.
     He had the English gift of writing pamphlets.
     He stirred up peoples with his English gift
     Against the mother country. How to show this
     In action, not in talk, is difficult.

     Well, then here is our friend who has these bones
     And cannot honor them in burial.
     And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt.
     And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver.
     Are they an asset? Our Lord Chancellor
     Does not regard them so. I'd like to work
     Some humor in my drama at this point,
     And satirize his lordship just a little.
     Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset
     If it be of a man who helped to cost you
     The loss of half the world. So the receiver
     Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer
     Took care of them. He sold them to a man
     Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin
     About this time turned up in Guilford—then
     It's 1854, the man is dead
     Near forty years, when just the skull and hand
     Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades
     All questions touching on that ownership,
     And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are—
     The rest in short.

                             And as for me—no matter
     Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me.
     Behold the good right hand, behold the skull
     Of Thomas Paine, theo-philanthropist,
     Of Quaker parents, born in England! Look,
     That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote
     The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied
     Americans against the mother country,
     With just that English gift of pamphleteering.
     You see I'd have to bring George Washington,
     And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson
     Upon the stage, and put into their mouths
     The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine,
     To get before the audience that they thought
     He did as much as any man to win
     Your independence; that your Declaration
     Was founded on his writings, even inspired
     A clause against your negro slavery—how—
     Look at this hand!—he was the first to write
     United States of America—there's the hand
     That was the first to write those words. Good Lord
     This drama would out-last a Chinese drama
     If I put all the story in. But tell me
     What to omit, and what to stress?

                                        And still
     I'd have the greatest drama in the world
     If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted,
     Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast,
     His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery.
     And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine
     Because he was too great, and by this showing
     Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers
     For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done—
     I know that; but it puzzles me to think
     That Hamilton—we'll say, is so revered,
     So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied
     On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs!
     Great genius! and so forth—and there's the Crisis
     And Common Sense which only little Shelleys
     Haunting the dusty book shops read at all.
     It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank
     Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt—
     For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed
     In money matters to another's wrong
     For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know
     The world cares more for chastity and temperance
     Than for a faultless life in money matters.
     No use to dramatize that vital contrast,
     The world to-day is what it always was.
     But you don't call this Hamilton an artist
     And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler?
     Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world
     As much as any. There is Leonardo—
     The point's not here.

                           I think it's more like this:
     Some men are Titans and some men are gods,
     And some are gods who fall while climbing back
     Up to Olympus whence they came. And some
     While fighting for the race fall into holes
     Where to return and rescue them is death.
     Why look you here! You'd think America
     Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine
     Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude.
     He's there in France's national assembly,
     And votes to save King Louis with this phrase:
     Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office.
     They think him faithless to the revolution
     For words like these—and clap! the prison door
     Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter
     To president—of what! to Washington
     President of the United States of America,
     A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven
     Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state!
     And Washington is silent, never answers,
     And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell,
     Who hears the guillotine go slash and click!
     Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama.
     Or else to show that Washington was wise
     Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas,
     And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas,
     Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas
     For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense."
     That may be just the story for my drama.
     Old Homer satirized the human race
     For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian.
     But there's not stuff for satire in a war
     Ensuing on the insult for the rescue
     Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets,
     And won a continent for the rescuer.
     That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow
     Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man.
     This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate
     Of England and her power, America's
     Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama
     As showing how the more you do in life
     The greater shall you suffer. This is true,
     If what you battered down gets hold of you.
     This drama almost drives me mad at times.
     I have his story at my fingers' ends.
     But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands.
     I think I'll have to give it up. What's that?
     Well, if an audience of to-day would turn
     From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage
     What is the use to write it, if they'd turn
     No matter how you wrote it? I believe
     They wouldn't like it in America,
     Nor England either, maybe—you are right!
     A drama with no audience is a failure.
     But here's this skull. What shall I do with it?
     If I should have it cased in solid silver
     There is no shrine to take it—no Cologne
     For skulls like this.

                           Well, I must die sometime,
     And who will get it then? Look at this skull!
     This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend:
     A man who has a theme the world despises!

     IN TIME OF WAR

     MEDICAL UNIT—

     Even as I see, and share with you in seeing,
     The altar flame of your love's sacrifice;
     And even as I bear before the hour the vision,
     Your little hands in hospital and prison
     Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes,
     So do I suffer for splendor of your being
     Which leads you from me, and in separation
     Lays on my breast the pain of memory.
     Over your hands I bend
     In silent adoration,
     Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end,
     Asking for consolation
     Out of the sacrament of our separation,
     And for some faithful word acceptable and true,
     That I may know and keep the mystery:
     That in this separation I go forth with you
     And you to the world's end remain with me.