Toward the Gulf

     How may I justify the hope that rises
     That I am giving you to a world of pain,
     And am a part of your love's sacrifices?
     Is it so little if I see you not again?
     You will croon soldier lads to sleep,
     Even to the last sleep of all.
     But in this absence, as your love will keep
     Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall,
     So I, though far away, shall kneel by you
     If the last hour approaches, to bedew
     Your lips that from their infant wondering
     Lisped of a heaven lost.
     I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost
     As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving.
     Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living
     Bearing a solace in death.
     God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,—
     You are transfigured
     Before me, and I bow my head,
     And leave you in the light that lights your way,
     And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped,
     And the hour we must obey—
     Look you, I will go pray!

     When you lie sleeping; golden hair
     Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink
     Ears that nestle, I forbear
     A moment while I look and think
     How you are mine, and if I dare
     To bend and kiss you lying there.

     A Raphael in the flesh! Resist
     I cannot, though to break your sleep
     Is thoughtless of me—you are kissed
     And roused from slumber dreamless, deep—
     You rub away the slumber's mist,
     You scold and almost weep.

     It is too bad to wake you so,
     Just for a kiss. But when awake
     You sing and dance, nor seem to know
     You slept a sleep too deep to break
     From which I roused you long ago
     For nothing but my passion's sake—
     What though your heart should ache!

     I arise in the silence of the dawn hour.
     And softly steal out to the garden
     Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.
     And a wind moves out of the south-land,
     Like a film of silver,
     And thrills with a far borne message
     The flowers of the garden.
     Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them
     To the south wind as he passes.
     But the zinnias and calendulas,
     In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly
     As the south wind whispers the secret
     Of the dawn hour!

     I stand in the silence of the dawn hour
     In the garden,
     As the star of morning fades.
     Flying from scythes of air
     The hare-bells, purples and golden glow
     On the sand-hill back of the orchard
     Race before the feet of the wind.
     But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim
     Begin to flutter and glisten.
     And in a moment, in a twinkled passion,
     The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed,
     As he fences the lilac lights of the sky,
     And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon
     Is drowned in the waste of morning!

     In the silence of the garden,
     At the dawn hour
     I turn and see you—
     You who knew and followed,
     You who knew the dawn hour,
     And its sky like a Favrile goblet.
     You who knew the south-wind
     Bearing the secret of the morning
     To waking gardens, fields and forests.
     You in a gown of green, O footed Iris,
     With eyes of dryad gray,
     And the blown glory of unawakened tresses—
     A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment,
     In the silence of the dawn hour!

     And here I behold you
     Amid a trance of color, silent music,
     The embodied spirit of the morning:
     Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun
     Caught in the twinkling oak leaves:
     Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind;
     And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas;
     The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac
     Turned white for the woe of the moon;
     And the silence of the dawn hour!

     And there to take you in my arms and feel you
     In the glory of the dawn hour,
     Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh!
     To know your spirit by that oneness
     Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion
     Of life re-lit and visioned.
     In dryad eyes beholding
     The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing
     Rapturous moment of the arisen sun;
     And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile.
     There to behold you,
     Our spirits lost together
     In the silence of the dawn hour!

     France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave!
     France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal!
     Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel
     Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave.
     Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave
     Which Germany and England joined to seal,
     And undismayed didst seek the human weal,
     Through which thou couldst thyself and others save—
     The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise!
     When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours.
     Freedom remembers, and I can forget:—
     Great are we by the faith our past betrays,
     And noble now the great Republic flowers
     Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette.

     Gourgaud, these tears are tears—but look, this laugh,
     How hearty and serene—you see a laugh
     Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes
     Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves
     When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend,
     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me
     Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy.
     Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed,
     Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves,
     Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world.
     And here we sit grown old, of memories
     Top-full—your hand—my breast is all afire
     With happiness that warms, makes young again.

     You see it is not what we saw to-day
     That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:—
     But all that I remember, we remember
     Of what the world was, what it is to-day,
     Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see
     Not in the rise of this man or of that,
     Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow
     That lifts or fells a nation—no, my friend,
     God is not there, but in the living stream
     Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows,
     Cross-currents, what you will, to that result
     Where stillness shows the star that fits the star
     Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept
     Through sorrow, blood and death,—God moves in that
     And there I find Him.

                           But these tears—for whom
     Or what are tears? The Old Guard—oh, my friend
     That melancholy remnant! And the horse,
     White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing
     The saddle and the bridle which he used.
     My tears take quality for these pitiful things,
     But other quality for the purple robe
     Over the coffin lettered in pure gold
     "Napoleon"—ah, the emperor at last
     Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks
     Over the land he loved, with what result?
     Does just the army that acclaimed him rise
     Which rose to hail him back from Elba?—no
     All France acclaims him! Princes of the church,
     And notables uncover! At the door
     A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled
     Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult,
     He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz,
     The king turns to me, hands the sword to me,
     I place it on the coffin—dear Gourgaud,
     Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh
     For thinking that the Emperor is home;
     For thinking I have laid upon his bed
     The sword that makes inviolable his bed,
     Since History stepped to where I stood and stands
     To say forever: Here he rests, be still,
     Bow down, pass by in reverence—the Ages
     Like giant caryatides that look
     With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold
     With never tiring hands the Vault of Time,
     Command your reverence.

                              What have we seen?
     Why this, that every man, himself achieving
     Exhausts the life that drives him to the work
     Of self-expression, of the vision in him,
     His reason for existence, as he sees it.
     He may or may not mould the epic stuff
     As he would wish, as lookers on have hope
     His hands shall mould it, and by failing take—
     For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye,
     A cinder for that moment in the eye—
     A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise
     Have all his work misvalued for the time,
     And pump his heart up harder to subdue
     Envy, or fear or greed, in any case
     He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes
     His soul's endowment in the vision of life.
     And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau
     He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps,
     Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican,
     Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists,
     Conspirators, and clericals may shout
     Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours
     Kicking the gravel with his little heel,
     Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud.
     Well, what was he at Waterloo?—you know:
     That piercing spirit which at mid-day power
     Knew all the maps of Europe—could unfold
     A map and say here is the place, the way,
     The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here.
     Why, all his memory of maps was blurred
     The night before he failed at Waterloo.
     The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it.
     He could not ride a horse at Waterloo.
     His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested?
     The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris,
     Now that our giant democrat was sick.
     Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris
     Helped by the Duke and Blücher, damn their souls.

     What is a man to do whose work is done
     And does not feel so well, has cancer, say?
     You know he could have reached America
     After his fall at Waterloo. Good God!
     If only he had done it! For they say
     New Orleans is a city good to live in.
     And he had ceded to America
     Louisiana, which in time would curb
     The English lion. But he didn't go there.
     His mind was weakened else he had foreseen
     The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged
     Would claw him if it got him, play with him
     Before it killed him. Who was England then?—

     An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king
     Who lost a continent for the lust that slew
     The Emperor—the world will say at last
     It was no other. Who was England then?
     A regent bad as husband, father, son,
     Monarch and friend. But who was England then?
     Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who
     Had cut his country's long before. The duke—
     Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept—
     The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows
     With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury,
     To see the Duke waylay democracy.
     The world's great conqueror's conqueror!—Eh bien!
     Grips England after Waterloo, but when
     The people see the duke for what he is:
     A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry,
     A spotless knight of ancient privilege,
     They up and stone him, by the very deed
     Stone him for wronging the democracy
     The Emperor erected with the sword.
     The world's great conqueror's conqueror—Oh, I sicken!
     Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves
     Are guarded and kept up, but falling down
     To ruin and erasure when the graves
     Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets,
     Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk
     Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor,
     Melt up true metal at your peril, poets,
     Sweet moralists, monopolists of God.
     But who was England? Byron driven out,
     And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct,
     Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey,
     The turn-coat panegyrist of King George,
     An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last;
     A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop
     The progress of democracy and chanting
     To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo,
     Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped.
     For England of to-day is freer—why?
     The revolution and the Emperor!
     They quench the revolution, send Napoleon
     To St. Helena—but the ashes soar
     Grown finer, grown invisible at last.
     And all the time a wind is blowing ashes,
     And sifting them upon the spotless linen
     Of kings and dukes in England till at last
     They find themselves mistaken for the people.
     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me—tiens!
     The Emperor is home again in France,
     And Europe for democracy is thrilling.
     Now don't you see the Emperor was sick,
     The shadows falling slant across his mind
     To write to such an England: "My career
     Is ended and I come to sit me down
     Before the fireside of the British people,
     And claim protection from your Royal Highness"—
     This to the regent—"as a generous foe
     Most constant and most powerful"—I weep.
     They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship,
     He thinks he's bound for England, and why not?
     They dine him, treat him like an Emperor.
     And then they tack and sail to St. Helena,
     Give him a cow shed for a residence.
     Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him,
     Spy on his torture, intercept his letters,
     Step on his broken wings, and mock the film
     Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ...

     One day the packet brought to him a book
     Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor."
     Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned
     Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed,
     The Emperor said—I stood near by—"Who gave you
     The right to slur my title? In a few years
     Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself
     Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered
     For your indignities to me, that's all.
     England expended millions on her libels
     To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose
     Obscure or bloody—how have they availed?
     You have me here upon this scarp of rock,
     But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun
     And like the sun it cannot be destroyed.
     Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam
     The liberal stream, but only to make stronger
     The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true?
     That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend
     And trust God as I have not trusted yet.
     And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed?
     A portion of the royal blood of Europe?
     A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood
     Is dated from the field of Montenotte,
     And from my mother there in Corsica,
     And from the revolution. I'm a man
     Who made himself because the people made me.
     You understand as little as she did
     When I had brought her back from Austria,
     And riding through the streets of Paris pointed
     Up to the window of the little room
     Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne,
     A poor boy with my way to make—as poor
     As Andrew Jackson in America,
     No more a despot than he is a despot.
     Your England understands. I was a menace
     Not as a despot, but as head and front,
     Eyes, brain and leader of democracy,
     Which like the messenger of God was marking
     The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies.
     Your England understands I had to hold
     By rule compact a people drunk with rapture,
     And torn by counter forces, had to fight
     The royalists of Europe who beheld
     Their peoples feverish from the great infection,
     Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop
     Its spread to them. Your England understands.
     Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey.
     But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors,
     My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures
     Arts, sciences I builded, democratic
     Triumphs which I won will live for ages—
     These are my witnesses, will testify
     Forever what I was and meant to do.
     The ideas which I brought to power will stifle
     All royalty, all feudalism—look
     They live in England, they illuminate
     America, they will be faith, religion
     For every people—these I kindled, carried
     Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief
     Torch bearer, soldier, representative."

     You were not there, Gourgaud—but wait a minute,
     I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now:
     Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor
     Contemptuous but not the less bewitched.
     And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled
     "You make me smile." Why that is memorable:
     It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone.
     He was a prophet, founder of the sect
     Of smilers and of laughers through the world,
     Smilers and laughers that the Emperor
     Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe,
     What were it in this day except for France,
     Napoleon's France, the revolution's France?
     What will it be as time goes on but peoples
     Made free through France?

                               I take the good and ill,
     Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed,
     Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours,
     Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched,
     His child torn from him, Josephine and wife
     Silent or separate, waiting long for death,
     Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings
     Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain
     A little sun, and crying to the sea
     With broken voice—I weep when I remember
     Such things which you and I from day to day
     Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then
     There is that night of thunder, and the dawning
     And all that day of storm and toward the evening
     He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well,
     I leave the room and say to Steward there:
     "The Emperor is dead." That very moment
     A crash of thunder deafened us. You see
     A great age boomed in thunder its renewal—
     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend.

     By the blue sky of a clear vision,
     And by the white light of a great illumination,
     And by the blood-red of brotherhood,
     Draw the sword, O Republic!
     Draw the sword!

     For the light which is England,
     And the resurrection which is Russia,
     And the sorrow which is France,
     And for peoples everywhere
     Crying in bondage,
     And in poverty!

     You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic!
     And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks;
     And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory:
     Now the leaven must be stirred,
     And the brands themselves carried and touched
     To the jungles and the black-forests.
     Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling,
     They are crying to each other from the peaks—
     They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight,
     Eager for battle!

     As a strong man nurses his youth
     To the day of trial;
     But as a strong man nurses it no more
     On the day of trial,
     But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength!
     And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth!
     You shall neither save your youth,
     Nor hoard your strength
     Beyond this hour, O Republic!

     For you have sworn
     By the passion of the Gaul,
     And the strength of the Teuton,
     And the will of the Saxon,
     And the hunger of the Poor,
     That the white man shall lie down by the black man,
     And by the yellow man,
     And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh,
     Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy.
     And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold
     Aught beside them,
     You have dedicated the earth, O Republic,
     To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy!

     By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom,
     And by the Power that makes us love our fellows,
     And by the Power that comforts us in death,
     Dying for great races to come—
     Draw the sword, O Republic!
     Draw the Sword!

     (Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke)

     Said dear old Dick
     To the colored waiter:
     "Here, George! be quick
     Roast beef and a potato.
     I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one,
     You black old scoundrel, get a move on you!
     I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun.
     This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you,
     You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon—"
     "Yas sah! Yas sah,"answered the coon.
     "Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick,
     "Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick
     With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor,
     Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick."
     And the nigger all the time was moving round the table,
     Rattling the silver things faster and faster—
     "Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able
     I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn."
     "Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone,
     You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick.

     Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick
     A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard;
     Or how would you relish some spit in your broth?
     Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard?
     Or something in your coffee to make your stomach froth?
     Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie?
     That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye/'

     Then dear old Dick made this long reply:
     "You know, I love a nigger,
     And I love this nigger.
     I met him first on the train from California
     Out of Kansas City; in the morning early
     I walked through the diner, feeling upset
     For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly.
     And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed,
     Waiting for the time to serve the omelet,
     Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers.
     And this is what he said in a fine southern way:
     'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest,
     I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.'
     Now think! here's a human who has no other cares
     Except to please the white man, serve him when he's starving,
     And who has as much fun when he sees you carving
     The sirloin as you do, does this black man.
     Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel,
     Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan?
     There's music in their soul as original
     As any breed of people in the whole wide earth;
     They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth.
     There are only two things real American:
     One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger.
     Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure
     Anything beside that is not imitation
     Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation.
     Return to this globe five hundred years hence—
     You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon
     In art, in music, has altered our tune;
     We are destined to bow to their influence;
     There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone,
     And that is America put into tone."

     And dear old Dick gathered speed and said:
     "Sometimes through Dvorák a vision arises
     To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red:
     'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow,
     I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow
     Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes
     Favorite souls and the souls of kings.'
     Now these are the words, and here is the dream,
     No wonder you think I am seeing things:
     The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam
     Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight.
     And a giant negro as black as night
     Is walking by a camel in a caravan.
     His great back glistens with the streaming sweat.
     The camel is ridden by a light-faced man,
     A Greek perhaps, or Arabian.
     And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying
     With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down.
     He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing;
     His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening
     To the negro keeping time like a tabouret.
     And what cares he for Memphis town,
     Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead,
     Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread?
     A tune is in his heart, a reality:
     The camel, the desert are things that be,
     He's a negro slave, but his heart is free."

     Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner.
     "Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner,"
     Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter.
     "Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato.
     I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do;
     Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo',
     And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took
     From a dish set by, by the git-away cook.
     I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do."
     "Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew
     His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend
     To wait on St. Peter world without end."

     I saw a room where many feet were dancing.
     The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing
     Both flames of candles and the heaven's light,
     Though windows there were none for air or flight.
     The room was in a form polygonal
     Reached by a little door and narrow hall.
     One could behold them enter for the dance,
     And waken as it were out of a trance,
     And either singly or with some one whirl:
     The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl.
     And every panel of the room was just
     A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust
     Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize
     Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease
     Of music or of dancing, save by him
     Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim
     And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors,
     And by his partner struck through by the terrors
     Of sudden loss.

                     And looking I could see
     That scarcely any dancer here could free
     His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze
     Upon himself or others, till a craze
     Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate
     The hand that took each dancer soon or late.
     Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced,
     Some stared and paled and then more madly danced.
     One dancer only never looked at all.
     He seemed soul captured by the carnival.
     There were so many dancers there he loved,
     He was so greatly by the music moved,
     He had no time to study his own face
     There in the mirrors as from place to place
     He quickly danced.

                        Until I saw at last
     This dancer by the whirling dancers cast
     Face full against a mirrored panel where
     Before he could look at himself or stare
     He plunged through to the other side—and quick,
     As water closes when you lift the stick,
     The mirrored panel swung in place and left
     No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick.
     But all his partners thus so soon bereft
     Went dancing to the music as before.
     But I saw faces in that mirrored door
     Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching
     Their faces over shoulders, even matching
     Their terror with each other's to repress
     A growing fear in seeing it was less
     Than some one else's, or to ease despair
     By looking in a face who did not care,
     While watching for the hand that through some door
     Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor
     With every time-beat of the orchestra.
     What is this room of mirrors? Who can say?

     What does one gain by living? What by dying
     Is lost worth having? What the daily things
     Lived through together make them worth the while
     For their sakes or for life's? Where's the denying
     Of souls through separation? There's your smile!
     And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings
     Half uttered nothings of delight! But then
     Now that I see you not, and shall again
     Touch you no more—memory can possess
     Your soul's essential self, and none the less
     You live with me. I therefore write to you
     This letter just as if you were away
     Upon a journey, or a holiday;
     And so I'll put down everything that's new
     In this secluded village, since you left. ...
     Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember,
     After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom.
     We had spring all at once—the long December
     Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room,
     And laid your things away. And then one morning
     I saw the mother robin giving warning
     To little bills stuck just above the rim
     Of that nest which you watched while being built,
     Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb,
     With folded wings against an April rain.
     On June the tenth Edward and Julia married,
     I did not go for fear of an old pain.
     I was out on the porch as they drove by,
     Coming from church. I think I never scanned
     A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it
     Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet—
     I went into the house to have a cry.
     A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife.
     Between housework and hoeing in the garden
     I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life.
     My heart was numb and still I had to harden
     All memory or die. And just the same
     As when you sat beside the window, passed
     Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed.
     He did not die till late November came.
     Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast,
     'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child.
     Her husband was in Monmouth at the time.
     She had no milk, the baby is not well.
     The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell.
     And after harvest Joseph Clifford tiled
     His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime
     Has shocked the village, for the monster killed
     Glendora Wilson's father at his door—
     A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled.
     I could go on, but wherefore tell you more?
     The world of men has gone its olden way
     With war in Europe and the same routine
     Of life among us that you knew when here.
     This gossip is not idle, since I say
     By means of it what I would tell you, dear:
     I have been near you, dear, for I have been
     Not with you through these things, but in despite
     Of living them without you, therefore near
     In spirit and in memory with you.

     Do you remember that delightful Inn
     At Chester and the Roman wall, and how
     We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth?
     And afterward when you and I came down
     To London, I forsook the murky town,
     And left you to quaint ways and crowded places,
     While I went on to Putney just to see
     Old Swinburne and to look into his face's
     Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on
     A finer thing than any verse he wrote?
     (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!)
     He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason
     To England's greatness. What was Camden like?
     Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink?
     And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think.
     His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh!
     Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half
     My visit, so I left.

                           The thing was this:
     None of this talk was Swinburne any more
     Than some child of his loins would take his hair,
     Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,—
     His flesh was nothing but a poor affair,
     A channel for the eternal stream—his flesh
     Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book,
     But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look
     Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh
     And liquid meaning. So I knew at last
     His real immortal self is in his verse.

     Since you have gone I've thought of this so much.
     I cannot lose you in this universe—
     I first must lose myself. The essential touch
     Of soul possession lies not in the walk
     Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk
     Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes
     Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread
     Broken together, nor the hour of love
     When flesh surrenders depths of things divine
     Beyond all vision, as they were the dream
     Of other planets, but without these even
     In death and separation, there is heaven:
     By just that unison and its memory
     Which brought our lips together. To be free
     From accidents of being, to be freeing
     The soul from trammels on essential being,
     Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed
     Into the only heaven God has made:
     That's where we know each other as we are,
     In the bright ether of some quiet star,
     Communing as two memories with each other.

     SONG OF MEN

     How beautiful are the bodies of men—
     The agonists!
     Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong
     For their strength's behests.
     Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong
     In games or tests
     When they run or box or swim the long
     Sea-waves crests
     With their slender legs, and their hips so strong,
     And their rounded chests.

     I know a youth who raises his arms
     Over his head.
     He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms
     Of flood or fire.
     He springs renewed from a lusty bed
     To his youth's desire.
     He drowses, for April flames outspread
     In his soul's attire.

     The strength of men is for husbandry
     Of woman's flesh:
     Worker, soldier, magistrate
     Of city or realm;
     Artist, builder, wrestling Fate
     Lest it overwhelm
     The brood or the race, or the cherished state.
     They sing at the helm
     When the waters roar and the waves are great,
     And the gale is fresh.

     There are two miracles, women and men—
     Yea, four there be:
     A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man,
     And God's decree.
     And a babe from the womb in a little span
     Ere the month be ten.
     Their rapturous arms entwine and cling
     In the depths of night;
     He hunts for her face for his wondering,
     And her eyes are bright.
     A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring
     Is man's delight.

     SONG OF WOMEN

     How beautiful is the flesh of women—
     Their throats, their breasts!
     My wonder is a flame which burns,
     A flame which rests;
     It is a flame which no wind turns,
     And a flame which quests.

     I know a woman who has red lips,
     Like coals which are fanned.
     Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips
     From her white-rose chin.
     Her throat curves like a cloud to the land
     Where her breasts begin.
     I close my eyes when I put my hand
     On her breast's white skin.

     The flesh of women is like the sky
     When bare is the moon:
     Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks,
     And sea-shell loins.
     I know a woman whose splendors vex
     Where the flesh joins—
     A slope of light and a circumflex
     Of clefts and coigns.
     She thrills like the air when silence wrecks
     An ended tune.

     These are the things not made by hands in the earth:
     Water and fire,
     The air of heaven, and springs afresh,
     And love's desire.
     And a thing not made is a woman's flesh,
     Sorrow and mirth!
     She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre,
     And she drips the wine.
     Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh
     As buds on the vine:
     For fire and water and air are flesh,
     And love is the shrine.

     SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT

     How beautiful is the human spirit
     In its vase of clay!
     It takes no thought of the chary dole
     Of the light of day.
     It labors and loves, as it were a soul
     Whom the gods repay
     With length of life, and a golden goal
     At the end of the way.

     There are souls I know who arch a dome,
     And tunnel a hill.
     They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome,
     And measure the sky.
     They find the good and destroy the ill,
     And they bend and ply
     The laws of nature out of a will
     While the fates deny.

     I wonder and worship the human spirit
     When I behold
     Numbers and symbols, and how they reach
     Through steel and gold;
     A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech,
     And an hour foretold.
     It ponders its nature to turn and teach,
     And itself to mould.

     The human spirit is God, no doubt,
     Is flesh made the word:
     Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael,
     And the souls who heard
     Beyond the rim of the world the swell
     Of an ocean stirred
     By a Power on the waters inscrutable.
     There are souls who gird
     Their loins in faith that the world is well,
     In a faith unblurred.
     How beautiful is the human spirit—
     The flesh made the word!

     This way and that way measuring,
     Sighting from tree to tree,
     And from the bend of the river.
     This must be the place where Black Eagle
     Twelve hundred moons ago
     Stood with folded arms,
     While a Pottawatomie father
     Plunged a knife in his heart,
     For the murder of a son.
     Black Eagle stood with folded arms,
     Slim, erect, firm, unafraid,
     Looking into the distance, across the river.
     Then the knife flashed,
     Then the knife crashed through his ribs
     And into his heart.
     And like a wounded eagle's wings
     His arms fell, slowly unfolding,
     And he sank to death without a groan!

     And my name is Black Eagle too.
     And I am of the spirit,
     And perhaps of the blood
     Of that Black Eagle of old.
     I am naked and alone,
     But very happy;
     Being rich in spirit and in memories.
     I am very strong.
     I am very proud,
     Brave, revengeful, passionate.
     No longer deceived, keen of eye,
     Wise in the ways of the tribes:
     A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes.
     A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains.
     A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries.
     A knower of harmless snakes,
     And the livid copperhead.
     Lastly a knower of the spirits,
     For there are many spirits:
     Spirits of hidden lakes,
     And of pine forests.
     Spirits of the dunes,
     And of forested valleys.
     Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields,
     And great distances.
     There are many spirits
     Under the Great Spirit.
     Him I know not.
     Him I only feel
     With closed eyes.
     Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river
     At a sky of stars,
     When the leaves of the oak are asleep.
     I will fill this birch bark full of writing
     And hide it in the cleft of an oak,
     Here where Black Eagle fell.
     Decipher my story who can:

     When I was a boy of fourteen
     Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs,
     Rose from the door of his tent
     And came to where we were running,
     Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox,
     And said to me in their hearing:
     "You are the fastest of all.
     Now run again, and let me see.
     And if you can run
     I will make you my runner,
     I will care for you,
     And you shall have pockets of gold." ...

     And then we ran.
     And the others lagged behind me,
     Like smoke behind the wind.
     But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox
     Grew dark.
     They nudged each other.
     They looked side-ways,
     Toeing the earth in shame. ...
     Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me.
     And he went here and there
     To find a match.
     And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper,
     And nuggets of gold.
     And at last the match was made.

     It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell,
     It was by a red and yellow mountain,
     It was by a great river
     That we ran.
     Hundreds of Indians came to the race.
     They babbled, smoked and quarreled.
     And everyone carried a knife,
     And everyone carried a gun.
     And we runners—
     How young we were and unknowing
     What the race meant to them!
     For we saw nothing but the track,
     We saw nothing but our trainers
     And the starters.
     And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim.
     But the Indians and the squaws saw much else,
     They thought of the race in such different ways
     From the way we thought of it.
     For with me it was honor,
     It was triumph,
     It was fame.
     It was the tender looks of Indian maidens
     Wherever I went.
     But now I know that to Tobacco Jim,
     And the old fathers and young bucks
     The race meant jugs of whiskey,
     And new guns.
     It meant a squaw,
     A pony,
     Or some rise in the life of the tribe.

     So the shot of the starter rang at last,
     And we were off.
     I wore a band of yellow around my brow
     With an eagle's feather in it,
     And a red strap for my loins.
     And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang:
     "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle,
     They are all behind you."
     And they were all behind me,
     As the cloud's shadow is behind
     The bend of the grass under the wind.
     But as we neared the end of the race
     The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians,
     And the young bucks,
     Crowded close to the track—
     I fell and lost.

     Next day Tobacco Jim went about
     Lamenting his losses.
     And when I told him they tripped me
     He cursed them.
     But later he went about asking in whispers
     If I was wise enough to throw the race.
     Then suddenly he disappeared.
     And we heard rumors of his riches,
     Of his dogs and ponies,
     And of the joyous life he was leading.

     Then my father took me to New Mexico,
     And here my life changed.
     I was no longer the runner,
     I had forgotten it all.
     I had become a wise Indian.
     I could do many things.
     I could read the white man's writing
     And write it.

     And Indians flocked to me:
     Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel,
     Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet,
     And many others.
     They flocked to me, for I could help them.
     For the Great Spirit may pick a chief,
     Or a leader.
     But sometimes the chief rises
     By using wise Indians like me
     Who are rich in gifts and powers ...
     But at least it is true:
     All little great Indians
     Who are after ponies,
     Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets
     Gain their ends through the gifts and powers
     Of wise Indians like me.
     They come to you and ask you to do this,
     And to do that.
     And you do it, because it would be small
     Not to do it.
     And until all the cards are laid on the table
     You do not see what they were after,
     And then you see:
     They have won your friend away;
     They have stolen your hill;
     They have taken your place at the feast;
     They are wearing your feathers;
     They have much gold.
     And you are tired, and without laughter.
     And they drift away from you,
     As Tobacco Jim went away from me.
     And you hear of them as rich and great.
     And then you move on to another place,
     And another life.

     Billy the Pelican has built him a board house
     And lives in Guthrie.
     Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace.
     Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News;
     He is helping the government
     To reclaim stolen lands.
     (Many have told me it was Hungry Mole
     Who tripped me in the race.)
     Big Jawed Prophet is very rich.
     He has disappeared as an eagle
     With a rabbit.
     And I have come back here
     Where twelve hundred moons ago
     Black Eagle before me
     Had the knife run through his ribs
     And through his heart. ...

     I will hide this writing
     In the cleft of the oak
     By this bend in the river.
     Let him read who can:
     I was a swift runner whom they tripped.