Young Adventure: A Book of Poems

   Black trees against an orange sky,
   Trees that the wind shook terribly,
   Like a harsh spume along the road,
   Quavering up like withered arms,
   Writhing like streams, like twisted charms
   Of hot lead flung in snow.  Below
   The iron ice stung like a goad,
   Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,
   And all the air was bitter sleet.

   And all the land was cramped with snow,
   Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan,
   Like pale plains of obsidian.
   — And yet I strove — and I was fire
   And ice — and fire and ice were one
   In one vast hunger of desire.
   A dim desire, of pleasant places,
   And lush fields in the summer sun,
   And logs aflame, and walls, and faces,
   — And wine, and old ambrosial talk,
   A golden ball in fountains dancing,
   And unforgotten hands.  (Ah, God,
   I trod them down where I have trod,
   And they remain, and they remain,
   Etched in unutterable pain,
   Loved lips and faces now apart,
   That once were closer than my heart —
   In agony, in agony,
   And horribly a part of me....
   For Lethe is for no man set,
   And in Hell may no man forget.)

   And there were flowers, and jugs, bright-glancing,
   And old Italian swords — and looks,
   A moment's glance of fire, of fire,
   Spiring, leaping, flaming higher,
   Into the intense, the cloudless blue,
   Until two souls were one, and flame,
   And very flesh, and yet the same!
   As if all springs were crushed anew
   Into one globed drop of dew!
   But for the most I thought of heat,
   Desiring greatly....  Hot white sand
   The lazy body lies at rest in,
   Or sun-dried, scented grass to nest in,
   And fires, innumerable fires,
   Great fagots hurling golden gyres
   Of sparks far up, and the red heart
   In sea-coals, crashing as they part
   To tiny flares, and kindling snapping,
   Bunched sticks that burst their string and wrapping
   And fall like jackstraws; green and blue
   The evil flames of driftwood too,
   And heavy, sullen lumps of coke
   With still, fierce heat and ugly smoke....
  ... And then the vision of his face,
   And theirs, all theirs, came like a sword,
   Thrice, to the heart — and as I fell
   I thought I saw a light before.

   I woke.  My hands were blue and sore,
   Torn on the ice.  I scarcely felt
   The frozen sleet begin to melt
   Upon my face as I breathed deeper,
   But lay there warmly, like a sleeper
   Who shifts his arm once, and moans low,
   And then sinks back to night.  Slow, slow,
   And still as Death, came Sleep and Death
   And looked at me with quiet breath.
   Unbending figures, black and stark
   Against the intense deeps of the dark.
   Tall and like trees.  Like sweet and fire
   Rest crept and crept along my veins,
   Gently.  And there were no more pains....

   Was it not better so to lie?
   The fight was done.  Even gods tire
   Of fighting....  My way was the wrong.
   Now I should drift and drift along
   To endless quiet, golden peace...
   And let the tortured body cease.

   And then a light winked like an eye.
  ... And very many miles away
   A girl stood at a warm, lit door,
   Holding a lamp.  Ray upon ray
   It cloaked the snow with perfect light.
   And where she was there was no night
   Nor could be, ever.  God is sure,
   And in his hands are things secure.
   It is not given me to trace
   The lovely laughter of that face,
   Like a clear brook most full of light,
   Or olives swaying on a height,
   So silver they have wings, almost;
   Like a great word once known and lost
   And meaning all things.  Nor her voice
   A happy sound where larks rejoice,
   Her body, that great loveliness,
   The tender fashion of her dress,
   I may not paint them.
                          These I see,
   Blazing through all eternity,
   A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!

   She stood there, and at once I knew
   The bitter thing that I must do.
   There could be no surrender now;
   Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.
   My way was wrong.  So.  Would it mend
   If I shrank back before the end?
   And sank to death and cowardice?
   No, the last lees must be drained up,
   Base wine from an ignoble cup;
   (Yet not so base as sleek content
   When I had shrunk from punishment)
   The wretched body strain anew!
   Life was a storm to wander through.
   I took the wrong way.  Good and well,
   At least my feet sought out not Hell!
   Though night were one consuming flame
   I must go on for my base aim,
   And so, perhaps, make evil grow
   To something clean by agony...
   And reach that light upon the snow...
   And touch her dress at last...
                                     So, so,
   I crawled.  I could not speak or see
   Save dimly.  The ice glared like fire,
   A long bright Hell of choking cold,
   And each vein was a tautened wire,
   Throbbing with torture — and I crawled.
   My hands were wounds.
                          So I attained
   The second Hell.  The snow was stained
   I thought, and shook my head at it
   How red it was!  Black tree-roots clutched
   And tore — and soon the snow was smutched
   Anew; and I lurched babbling on,
   And then fell down to rest a bit,
   And came upon another Hell...
   Loose stones that ice made terrible,
   That rolled and gashed men as they fell.
   I stumbled, slipped... and all was gone
   That I had gained.  Once more I lay
   Before the long bright Hell of ice.
   And still the light was far away.
   There was red mist before my eyes
   Or I could tell you how I went
   Across the swaying firmament,
   A glittering torture of cold stars,
   And how I fought in Titan wars...
   And died... and lived again upon
   The rack... and how the horses strain
   When their red task is nearly done....

   I only know that there was Pain,
   Infinite and eternal Pain.
   And that I fell — and rose again.

   So she was walking in the road.
   And I stood upright like a man,
   Once, and fell blind, and heard her cry...
   And then there came long agony.
   There was no pain when I awoke,
   No pain at all.  Rest, like a goad,
   Spurred my eyes open — and light broke
   Upon them like a million swords:
   And she was there.  There are no words.

   Heaven is for a moment's span.
   And ever.
              So I spoke and said,
   "My honor stands up unbetrayed,
   And I have seen you.  Dear..."
                                      Sharp pain
   Closed like a cloak....
                               I moaned and died.

   Here, even here, these things remain.
   I shall draw nearer to her side.

   Oh dear and laughing, lost to me,
   Hidden in grey Eternity,
   I shall attain, with burning feet,
   To you and to the mercy-seat!
   The ages crumble down like dust,
   Dark roses, deviously thrust
   And scattered in sweet wine — but I,
   I shall lift up to you my cry,
   And kiss your wet lips presently
   Beneath the ever-living Tree.

   This in my heart I keep for goad!
   Somewhere, in Heaven she walks that road.
   Somewhere... in Heaven... she walks... that... road....

     1.  Before an Examination

   The little letters dance across the page,
   Flaunt and retire, and trick the tired eyes;
   Sick of the strain, the glaring light, I rise
   Yawning and stretching, full of empty rage
   At the dull maunderings of a long dead sage,
   Fling up the windows, fling aside his lies;
   Choosing to breathe, not stifle and be wise,
   And let the air pour in upon my cage.

   The breeze blows cool and there are stars and stars
   Beyond the dark, soft masses of the elms
   That whisper things in windy tones and light.
   They seem to wheel for dim, celestial wars;
   And I — I hear the clash of silver helms
   Ring icy-clear from the far deeps of night.

     2.  Talk

   Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
   From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
   Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
   As formless as our talk.  Phil, drawling, bets
   Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
   While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
   Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
   John gives large views about the last few dances.

   And so it goes — an idle speech and aimless,
   A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
   The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
   Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
   Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold —
   Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.

     3.  May Morning

   I lie stretched out upon the window-seat
   And doze, and read a page or two, and doze,
   And feel the air like water on me close,
   Great waves of sunny air that lip and beat
   With a small noise, monotonous and sweet,
   Against the window — and the scent of cool,
   Frail flowers by some brown and dew-drenched pool
   Possesses me from drowsy head to feet.

   This is the time of all-sufficing laughter
   At idiotic things some one has done,
   And there is neither past nor vague hereafter.
   And all your body stretches in the sun
   And drinks the light in like a liquid thing;
   Filled with the divine languor of late spring.

     4.  Return — 1917

     "The College will reopen Sept. —."  `Catalogue'.

   I was just aiming at the jagged hole
   Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,
   When something threw me sideways with a wrench,
   And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll
   And disappear... and propped against the bole
   Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds
   Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,
   And I was clean again, and young, and whole.

   Lord, what a dream that was!  And what a doze
   Waiting for Bill to come along to class!
   I've cut it now — and he —  Oh, hello, Fred!
   Why, what's the matter? — here — don't be an ass,
   Sit down and tell me! —  What do you suppose?
   I dreamed I... AM I... wounded?  "YOU ARE DEAD."

   Next, then, the peacock, gilt
   With all its feathers.  Look, what gorgeous dyes
   Flow in the eyes!
   And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt
   Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest
   Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!

   A strange fowl!  But most fit
   For feasts like this, whereby I honor one
   Pure as the sun!
   Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!
   Some wine?  Your goblet's empty?  Let it foam!
   It is not often that you come to Rome!

   You like the Venice glass?
   Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,
   Neck like a girl's,
   Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?
   You start — 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!
   Ave Maria stella! — ah, it broke!

   'Tis said they break alone
   When poison writhes within.  A foolish tale!
   What, you look pale?
   Caraffa, fetch a silver cup!...  You own
   A Birth of Venus, now — or so I've heard,
   Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.

   Also a Dancing Faun,
   Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;
   Globed pearls to please
   A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn —
   How happy I could be with but a tithe
   Of your possessions, fortunate one!  Don't writhe

   But take these cushions here!
   Now for the fruit!  Great peaches, satin-skinned,
   Rough tamarind,
   Pomegranates red as lips — oh they come dear!
   But men like you we feast at any price —
   A plum perhaps?  They're looking rather nice!

   I'll cut the thing in half.
   There's yours!  Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife
   One might snuff life
   And leave one's friend with — "fool" for epitaph!
   An old trick?  Truth!  But when one has the itch
   For pretty things and isn't very rich....

   There, eat it all or I'll
   Be angry!  You feel giddy?  Well, it's hot!
   This bergamot
   Take home and smell — it purges blood of bile!
   And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,
   Think of the poor Pope in his misery!

   Now you may kiss my ring!
   Ho there, the Cardinal's litter! —  You must dine
   When the new wine
   Is in, again with me — hear Bice sing,
   Even admire my frescoes — though they're nought
   Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!

   Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!
   And take a weak man's blessing!  Help him there
   To the cool air!...
   Lucrezia here?  You're ready for the ball?
   — He'll die within ten hours, I suppose —
   MhM!  Kiss your poor old father, little rose!

   It was not when temptation came,
   Swiftly and blastingly as flame,
   And seared me white with burning scars;
   When I stood up for age-long wars
   And held the very Fiend at grips;
   When all my mutinous body rose
   To range itself beside my foes,
   And, like a greyhound in the slips,
   The Beast that dwells within me roared,
   Lunging and straining at his cord....
   For all the blusterings of Hell,
   It was not then I slipped and fell;
   For all the storm, for all the hate,
   I kept my soul inviolate!

   But when the fight was fought and won,
   And there was Peace as still as Death
   On everything beneath the sun.
   Just as I started to draw breath,
   And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself,
   — The grass began to whisper things —
   And every tree became an elf,
   That grinned and chuckled counsellings:
   Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said,
   Beating and dinning at my head.
   I could not fly.  I could not shun it.
   Slimily twisting, slow and blind,
   It crept and crept into my mind.
   Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed,
   Screamed out until my brain was daft....
   One snaky word, "WHAT IF YOU'D DONE IT?"

   And I began to think...
                              Ah, well,
   What matter how I slipped and fell?
   Or you, you gutter-searcher say!
   Tell where you found me yesterday!

   There were not many at that lonely place,
   Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
   The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
   Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race
   Unseen by any.  Toward the further woods
   A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
   — We were most silent in those solitudes —
   Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,

   The clotted earth piled roughly up about
   The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
   Short words in swordlike Latin — and a rout
   Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
   Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
   The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.

   Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
   Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
   Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
   Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
   Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
   Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
   Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
   A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!

   Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
   Then the green silence of many watercresses;
   Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
   Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
   Such are my thoughts as — clang! crash! bang! — I brood
   And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!

   (A Virginia Legend.)

     The Planting of the Hemp.

        Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
         (Black is the gap below the plank)
        From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
         (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

        His fear was on the seaport towns,
        The weight of his hand held hard the downs.
        And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black,
        For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack
        Was all of their ships that might come back.

        For all he had one word alone,
        One clod of dirt in their faces thrown,
        "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

        His name bestrode the seas like Death.
        The waters trembled at his breath.

        This is the tale of how he fell,
        Of the long sweep and the heavy swell,
        And the rope that dragged him down to hell.

   The fight was done, and the gutted ship,
   Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip,

   Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame,
   Back to the land from where she came,
   A skimming horror, an eyeless shame.

   And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck,
   And saw the sky and saw the wreck.

   Below, a butt for sailors' jeers,
   White as the sky when a white squall nears,
   Huddled the crowd of the prisoners.

   Over the bridge of the tottering plank,
   Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank,
   They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank,

   Pinioned arms and hands bound fast.
   One girl alone was left at last.

   Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord.
   He sat in state at the Council board;
   The governors were as nought to him.
   From one rim to the other rim

   Of his great plantations, flung out wide
   Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride.

   Life and death in his white hands lay,
   And his only daughter stood at bay,
   Trapped like a hare in the toils that day.

   He sat at wine in his gold and his lace,
   And far away, in a bloody place,
   Hawk came near, and she covered her face.

   He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave,
   And far away his daughter gave
   A shriek that the seas cried out to hear,
   And he could not see and he could not save.

   Her white soul withered in the mire
   As paper shrivels up in fire,
   And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth,
   And her body he took for his desire.

     The Growing of the Hemp.

   Sir Henry stood in the manor room,
   And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom.

   And he said, "Go dig me furrows five
   Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive —
   There at its edge, where the rushes thrive."

   And where the furrows rent the ground,
   He sowed the seed of hemp around.

   And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid
   At the furrows five that rib the glade,
   And the voodoo work of the master's spade.

   For a cold wind blows from the marshland near,
   And white things move, and the night grows drear,
   And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear.

        But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean,
        The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen
        Veiled with a tenuous mist of green.

   And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees,
   And many men kneel at his knees.

   Sir Henry sits in his house alone,
   And his eyes are hard and dull like stone.

   And the waves beat, and the winds roar,
   And all things are as they were before.

   And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
   And nothing changes but the grass.

        But down where the fireflies are like eyes,
        And the damps shudder, and the mists rise,
        The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies.

   And down from the poop of the pirate ship
   A body falls, and the great sharks grip.

   Innocent, lovely, go in grace!
   At last there is peace upon your face.

   And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown,
   "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

   Sir Henry's face is iron to mark,
   And he gazes ever in the dark.

   And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
   And the world is as it always was.

        But down by the marsh the sickles beam,
        Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam,
        And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream.

   And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees,
   Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas.

   Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair,
   And white as his hand is grown his hair.

   And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
   And the sands roll from the hour-glass.

        But down by the marsh in the blazing sun
        The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun,
        The rope made, and the work done.

     The Using of the Hemp.

   Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
    (Black is the gap below the plank)
   From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
    (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

   He sailed in the broad Atlantic track,
   And the ships that saw him came not back.

   And once again, where the wide tides ran,
   He stooped to harry a merchantman.

   He bade her stop.  Ten guns spake true
   From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew,
   Lacking his great ship through and through.

   Dazed and dumb with the sudden death,
   He scarce had time to draw a breath

   Before the grappling-irons bit deep,
   And the boarders slew his crew like sheep.

   Hawk stood up straight, his breast to the steel;
   His cutlass made a bloody wheel.

   His cutlass made a wheel of flame.
   They shrank before him as he came.

   And the bodies fell in a choking crowd,
   And still he thundered out aloud,

   "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"
   They fled at last.  He was left alone.

   Before his foe Sir Henry stood.
   "The hemp is grown, and my word made good!"

   And the cutlass clanged with a hissing whir
   On the lashing blade of the rapier.

   Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck.
   As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck,

   Pouring his life in a single thrust,
   And the cutlass shivered to sparks and dust.

   Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck,
   And set his foot on his foe's neck.

   Then from the hatch, where the rent decks slope,
   Where the dead roll and the wounded grope,
   He dragged the serpent of the rope.

   The sky was blue, and the sea was still,
   The waves lapped softly, hill on hill,
   And between one wave and another wave
   The doomed man's cries were little and shrill.

   The sea was blue, and the sky was calm;
   The air dripped with a golden balm.
   Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun,
   A black thing writhed at a yard-arm.

   Slowly then, and awesomely,
   The ship sank, and the gallows-tree,
   And there was nought between sea and sun —
   Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea.

        But down by the marsh where the fever breeds,
        Only the water chuckles and pleads;
        For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat,
        And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.

   Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk,
   The tiresome noises, all the common things
   I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke.
   I longed for the cool quiet and the dark,
   Under the common sod where louts and kings
   Lie down, serene, unheeding, careless, stark,
   Never to rise or move or feel again,
   Filled with the ecstasy of being dead....

   I put the shining pistol to my head
   And pulled the trigger hard — I felt no pain,
   No pain at all; the pistol had missed fire
   I thought; then, looking at the floor, I saw
   My huddled body lying there — and awe
   Swept over me.  I trembled — and looked up.
   About me was — not that, my heart's desire,
   That small and dark abode of death and peace —
   But all from which I sought a vain release!
   The sky, the people and the staring sun
   Glared at me as before.  I was undone.
   My last state ten times worse than was my first.
   Helpless I stood, befooled, betrayed, accursed,
   Fettered to Life forever, horribly;
   Caught in the meshes of Eternity,
   No further doors to break or bars to burst!

   Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright
   As the blank windows set in glaring brick,
   When the wind strengthens from the sea — and night
   Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;

   By the deserted paths, the vacant halls,
   One may see figures, twisted shades and lean,
   Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen,
   Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.

   Turn the knob gently!  There's the Thumbless Man,
   Still weaving glass and silk into a dream,
   Although the wall shows through him — and the Khan
   Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.

   A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door —
   — Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod —
   Come — lift the curtain — and be cold before
   The silence of the eight men who were God!

   (France — Ancient Regime.)

     I.

   Go away!

      Go away; I will not confess to you!

   His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers
     the beads shiver and click,
   As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
   I will not confess!...

   Is he there or is it intenser shadow?
   Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths,
   Black, formless shadow,
   Shadow.
   Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry
     of rats.

   Orange light drips from the guttering candles,
   Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed
   Stirring the monstrous tapestries,
   Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy
   With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold,
   Lipping my hands,
   Then
   Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences
   Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer
   Who sees before him Horror
   Behind him darkness,
   Shadow.

   The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.
   Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth,
   Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony
     have you relentlessly measured,
   Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

   I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.
   You hear, Father?  Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

   Over me too steals sleep.
   Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods
     on the ceiling;
   Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed,
   Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors,
   Death.

   Father, Father, I must not sleep!
   It does not hear — that shadow crouched in the corner...
   Is it a shadow?
   One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax,
     that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.

     II.

   Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me.
   It is the white time before dawn.
   Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world.
   The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky.
   The night dew has fallen;
   An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken,
   Glint on the sighing branches.
   All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion.

   Suddenly a peacock screams.

   My heart shocks and stops;
   Sweat, cold corpse-sweat
   Covers my rigid body.
   My hair stands on end.  I cannot stir.  I cannot speak.
   It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens
   And the eyeless face no man may see and live!
   Ah-h-h-h-h!
   Father, Father, wake! wake and save me!
   In his corner all is shadow.

   Dead things creep from the ground.
   It is so long ago that she died, so long ago!
   Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her.
   Fiends, do you not know that she is dead?...
   "Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords
     on the polished floor.
   Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold
     of candelabra,
   From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men...
   All life was that dance.
   The mocking, resistless current,
   The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness —
   As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals,
   Turning, swaying in beauty,
   A lily, bowed by the rain, —
   Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam,
   And her eyes stars.
   Oh the dance has a pattern!
   But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols,
   Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed,
   And, as we ended,
   She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom —
   And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair.

   Underneath the window a peacock screams,
   And claws click, scrape
   Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone.

   Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly,
     divinely appeased!
   The aching presence of the beloved's beauty!
   The wisdom, the incense, the brightness!

   Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon
   But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles.
   Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box.
   Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms,
   And embrace her, dear and startled.

   By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver
   And her head was on his breast.
   She did not scream or shudder
   When my sword was where her head had lain
   In the quiet moonlight;
   But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted,
   All her satins fiery with the starshine,
   Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
   Like the quivering plumage of a peacock...
   Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair,
   Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! —
   Bending her white neck back....

   Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood....
   Stupidly agaze
   At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight,
   Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted,
   Palely, and was still
   As the face of chalk.

   The buhl clock strikes.
   Thirty years.  Christ, thirty years!
   Agony.  Agony.

   Something stirs in the window,
   Shattering the moonlight.
   White wings fan.
   Father, Father!

   All its plumage fiery with the starshine,
   Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
   It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed,
   To the tap of little satin shoes.
   Gazing with infernal eyes.
   Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson...
   Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy.
   The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs;
   The wax face lifts; the eyes open.

   A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet
     and spreads to a pool on the floor.

   (For D. M. C.)

   The little man with the vague beard and guise
   Pulled at the wicket.  "Come inside!" he said,
   "I'll show you all we've got now — it was size
   You wanted? — oh, dry colors!  Well" — he led
   To a dim alley lined with musty bins,
   And pulled one fiercely.  Violent and bold
   A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins
   Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold
   Of tins and picture-frames.  I held my breath.
   He tugged another hard — and sapphire skies
   Spread in vast quietude, serene as death,
   O'er waves like crackled turquoise — and my eyes
   Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!
   "We're selling that lot there out cheap!" said he.

   I am a shell.  From me you shall not hear
   The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
   The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,
   Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
   Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
   A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
   The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
   The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

   Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,
   Making even Love in music audible,
   And earth one glory.  I am but a shell
   That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;
   Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,
   A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

   Eternally the choking steam goes up
   From the black pools of seething oil....
                                                How merry
   Those little devils are!  They've stolen the pitchfork
   From Bel, there, as he slept... Look! — oh look, look!
   They've got at Nero!  Oh it isn't fair!
   Lord, how he squeals!  Stop it... it's, well — indecent!
   But funny!...  See, Bel's waked.  They'll catch it now!

  ... Eternally that stifling reek arises,
   Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,
   Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things
   Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands,
   Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles
   Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick
   Man piled to smite the sun.  And all around
   Are devils.  One can laugh... but that hunched shape
   The face one stone, like those Assyrian kings!
   One sees in carvings, watching men flayed red
   Horribly laughable in leaps and writhes;
   That face — utterly evil, clouded round
   With evil like a smoke — it turns smiles sour!
  ... And Nero there, the flabby cheeks astrain
   And sweating agony... long agony...
   Imperishable, unappeasable
   For ever... well... it droops the mouth.  Till I
   Look up.
             There's one blue patch no smoke dares touch.
   Sky, clear, ineffable, alive with light,
   Always the same...
                         Before, I never knew
   Rest and green peace.
                          She stands there in the sun.
  ... It seems so quaint she should have long gold wings.
   I never have got used — folded across
   Her breast, or fluttering with fierce, pure light,
   Like shaken steel.  Her crown too.  Well, it's queer!
   And then she never cared much for the harp
   On earth.  Here, though...
                                 She is all peace, all quiet,
   All passionate desires, the eloquent thunder
   Of new, glad suns, shouting aloud for joy,
   Over fresh worlds and clean, trampling the air
   Like stooping hawks, to the long wind of horns,
   Flung from the bastions of Eternity...
   And she is the low lake, drowsy and gentle,
   And good words spoken from the tongues of friends,
   And calmness in the evening, and deep thoughts,
   Falling like dreams from the stars' solemn mouths.
   All these.
               They said she was unfaithful once.
   Or I remembered it — and so, for that,
   I lie here, I suppose.  Yes, so they said.
   You see she is so troubled, looking down,
   Sorrowing deeply for my torments.  I
   Of course, feel nothing while I see her — save
   That sometimes when I think the matter out,
   And what earth-people said of us, of her,
   It seems as if I must be, here, in heaven,
   And she —
             ... Then I grow proud; and suddenly
   There comes a splatter of oil against my skin,
   Hurting this time.  And I forget my pride:
   And my face writhes.
                         Some day the little ladder
   Of white words that I build up, up, to her
   May fetch me out.  Meanwhile it isn't bad....

   But what a sense of humor God must have!

   The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
   The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
   The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
   Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.

   There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
   The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
   His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
   A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.

   Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
   Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
   And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
   But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.

   He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
   Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
   Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
   With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.

   Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
   On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
   Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.

   Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
   And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
   As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.

   Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
   And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
   In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.

   Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
   Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
   See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.

   You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
   Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
   Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.

   On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
   In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
   Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.

   Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
   Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
   Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!

   My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
   A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
   Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
   And propped it open.
                         Whitely without rest,
   His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
  ... And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
   Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
   An army stormed the bastions of the air!
   Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
   Marching together as the lightnings march,
   And swift as storm-clouds.  Brazen helms and cars
   Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
   Above the screaming horns.  In state they passed,
   Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast —
   Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
   The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
   The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture
   To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;
   Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,
   And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;
   That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,
   From the loose net of words to deeds again
   And to all courage!  Perilous and sharp
   The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!
  ... And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,
   "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.