Say what you will, Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits, Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite, You call the State, has fashioned life aright— The secret is abroad, from eye to eye The secret passes from poor eyes that wink In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength Roped down or barred, that what the human heart Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out, Is love for body and for spirit, love To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it, This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow Where spirits are left free a little while Within a little space, so long as strength, Flesh, blood increases to the day of use As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast, Society may feed himself and keep His olden shape and power?

Fools go crop The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself For what you want, and count it righteousness, No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing, Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries, Inhaling from a bottle what was lived These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny That what we men desire are horses, dogs, Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change, Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change, And re-adjusted order.

As I turned From painting and from art, yet found myself Full of all lusts while bound to menial work Where my eyes daily rested on this woman A thought came to me like a little spark One sees far down the darkness of a cave, Which grows into a flame, a blinding light As one approaches it, so did this thought Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? What was there to oppose possession? Will? Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will Deserves achievement? Which has rights above The other? I desire her, her desire Is not toward me, which of these two desires Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers For her, at least the stronger must prevail, And wreck itself or bend all else before it. That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain To overwhelm her will with gold, and I With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, And what's the difference?

But as I said I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came And gazed upon me from her window. I Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. Then in a concentration which was blindness To all else, so bewilderment of mind, I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames Consumed her ravished beauty.

So I looked, And trembled, then returned perhaps to find Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate, And radiate with lashes of surprise, Delight as when a star is still but shines. And on this night somehow our natures worked To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner To show more back and bosom than before. And as I served her, her down-looking eyes Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. Before I could begin to bend she leaned And let me see—oh yes, she let me see The white foam of her little breasts caressing The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore Of bright carnations. It was from such foam That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave The napkin to her she pushed out a foot, And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she Concealed a smile—and you, you jailers laugh Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger.

I go on, Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. I finding errands in the hallway hear The desultory taking up of books, And through her open door, see her at last Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps The light on where the onyx tub and walls Dazzle the air. I enter then her room And stand against the closed door, do not pry Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance To fly me, fight me standing face to face. I hear her flounder in the water, hear Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute She stands with back toward me in the doorway, A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. She turned toward her dresser then and shook White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts, Touching them under with soft tapering hands To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, The thought ran through me, for her joy alone And not for mine?

So I stood there like Zeus Coming in thunder to Semele, like The diety of Watteau. Correggio Had never painted me a satyr there Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, My will subdued in worship of her beauty To obey her will.

And then she turned and saw me, And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried To hide it from me, faced me immovable A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. And let me plead my cause, make known my love, Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. Let me approach her till I almost touched The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid— Oh no, it cannot be—what would they say?" Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go—you beast." My dream went up like paper charred and whirled Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone Amid her room and saw my life, our life Embodied in this woman lately there Lying and cowardly. And as I turned To leave the room, her father and the gardener Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs And turned me over, stunned, to you the law Here with these others who have stolen coal To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty To keep from freezing in this arid country Of winter winds on which the dust of custom Rides like a fog.

Now do your worst to me!



THE LANDSCAPE

You and your landscape! There it lies Stripped, resuming its disguise, Clothed in dreams, made bare again, Symbol infinite of pain, Rapture, magic, mystery Of vanished days and days to be. There's its sea of tidal grass Over which the south winds pass, And the sun-set's Tuscan gold Which the distant windows hold For an instant like a sphere Bursting ere it disappear. There's the dark green woods which throve In the spell of Leese's Grove. And the winding of the road; And the hill o'er which the sky Stretched its pallied vacancy Ere the dawn or evening glowed. And the wonder of the town Somewhere from the hill-top down Nestling under hills and woods And the meadow's solitudes.

* * * * *

And your paper knight of old Secrets of the landscape told. And the hedge-rows where the pond Took the blue of heavens beyond The hastening clouds of gusty March. There you saw their wrinkled arch Where the East wind cracks his whips Round the little pond and clips Main-sails from your toppled ships. ...

Landscape that in youth you knew Past and present, earth and you! All the legends and the tales Of the uplands, of the vales; Sounds of cattle and the cries Of ploughmen and of travelers Were its soul's interpreters. And here the lame were always lame. Always gray the gray of head. And the dead were always dead Ere the landscape had become Your cradle, as it was their tomb.

* * * * *

And when the thunder storms would waken Of the dream your soul was not forsaken: In the room where the dormer windows look— There were your knight and the tattered book. With colors of the forest green Gabled roofs and the demesne Of faery kingdoms and faery time Storied in pre-natal rhyme. ... Past the orchards, in the plain The cattle fed on in the rain. And the storm-beaten horseman sped Rain blinded and with bended head. And John the ploughman comes and goes In labor wet, with steaming clothes. This is your landscape, but you see Not terror and not destiny Behind its loved, maternal face, Its power to change, or fade, replace Its wonder with a deeper dream, Unfolding to a vaster theme. From time eternal was this earth? No less this landscape with your birth Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay Finds till the twilight of your day. It bore you, moulds you to its plan. It ends with you as it began, But bears the seed of future years Of higher raptures, dumber tears.

* * * * *

For soon you lose the landscape through Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true To the naked limbs which show Buds that never more may blow. Now you know the lame were straight Ere you knew them, and the fate Of the old is yet to die. Now you know the dead who lie In the graves you saw where first The landscape on your vision burst, Were not always dead, and now Shadows rest upon the brow Of the souls as young as you. Some are gone, though years are few Since you roamed with them the hills. So the landscape changes, wills All the changes, did it try Its promises to justify?...

* * * * *

For you return and find it bare: There is no heaven of golden air. Your eyes around the horizon rove, A clump of trees is Leese's Grove. And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond? A wallow where the vagabond Beast will not drink, and where the arch Of heaven in the days of March Refrains to look. A blinding rain Beats the once gilded window pane. John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread Tempts other feet that path to tread Between the barn and house, and brave The March rain and the winds that rave. ... O, landscape I am one who stands Returned with pale and broken hands Glad for the day that I have known, And finds the deserted doorway strown With shoulder blade and spinal bone. And you who nourished me and bred I find the spirit from you fled. You gave me dreams,'twas at your breast My soul's beginning rose and pressed My steps afar at last and shaped A world elusive, which escaped Whatever love or thought could find Beyond the tireless wings of mind. Yet grown by you, and feeding on Your strength as mother, you are gone When I return from living, trace My steps to see how I began, And deeply search your mother face To know your inner self, the place For which you bore me, sent me forth To wander, south or east or north. ... Now the familiar landscape lies With breathless breast and hollow eyes. It knows me not, as I know not Its secret, spirit, all forgot Its kindred look is, as I stand A stranger in an unknown land.

* * * * *

Are we not earth-born, formed of dust Which seeks again its love and trust In an old landscape, after change In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange? What though we struggled to emerge Dividual, footed for the urge Of further self-discoveries, though In the mid-years we cease to know, Through disenchanted eyes, the spell That clothed it like a miracle— Yet at the last our steps return Its deeper mysteries to learn. It has been always us, it must Clasp to itself our kindred dust. We cannot free ourselves from it. Near or afar we must submit To what is in us, what was grown Out of the landscape's soil, the known And unknown powers of soil and soul. As bodies yield to the control Of the earth's center, and so bend In age, so hearts toward the end Bend down with lips so long athirst To waters which were known at first— The little spring at Leese's Grove Was your first love, is your last love!

* * * * *

When those we knew in youth have crept Under the landscape, which has kept Nothing we saw with youthful eyes; Ere God is formed in the empty skies, I wonder not our steps are pressed Toward the mystery of their rest. That is the hope at bud which kneels Where ancestors the tomb conceals. Age no less than youth would lean Upon some love. For what is seen No more of father, mother, friend, For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind In death, a something which assures, Comforts, allays our fears, endures. Just as the landscape and our home In childhood made of heaven's dome, And all the farthest ways of earth A place as sheltered as the hearth.

* * * * *

Is it not written at the last day Heaven and earth shall roll away? Yes, as my landscape passed through death, Lay like a corpse, and with new breath Became instinct with fire and light— So shall it roll up in my sight, Pass from the realm of finite sense, Become a thing of spirit, whence I shall pass too, its child in faith Of dreams it gave me, which nor death Nor change can wreck, but still reveal In change a Something vast, more real Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees, Or even faery presences. A Something which the earth and air Transmutes but keeps them what they were; Clear films of beauty grown more thin As we approach and enter in. Until we reach the scene that made Our landscape just a thing of shade.



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY

Well, then, another drink! Ben Jonson knows, So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye, To-morrow lacks two days of being a month— Here is a secret—since I made my will. Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? That I should make a will! Yet it may be That then and jump at this most crescent hour Heaven inspired the deed.

As a mad younker I knew an aged man in Warwickshire Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall, With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain And with doleful suspiration kept This habit of his grief. And on a time As he stood looking at the flying clouds, I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,' Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off And left me empty there.

Now here am I! Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled, And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, Slaved by a mood which must have breath—"Tra-la! That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" The moment I break sleep to see the day. At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?" Then I bethought me of that aged man Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: "Perhaps I am so happy when awake The song crops out in slumber—who can say?" And Anne arose, began to keel the pot, But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman?

To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide, What soul would interdict the poppied way? Heroes may look the Monster down, a child Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see Such bland unreckoning of his strength—but I, Having so greatly lived, would sink away Unknowing my departure. I have died A thousand times, and with a valiant soul Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. But in this death that has no bottom to it, No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink From that inane which gulfs us, without place For us to stand and see it.

Yet, dear Ben, This thing must be; that's what we live to know Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens Spout learnedly of war, who never saw A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day, Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile, And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast They cart you off. What matter if your thought Outsoared the Phoenix? Like a beast you rot. Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow, To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow Creeps in this petty pace—O, Michael Drayton, Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing And weariness of going on we lie Upon these thorns!

These several springs I find No new birth in the Spring. And yet in London I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford; It's April and the larks are singing now. The flags are green along the Avon river; O, would I were a rambler in the fields. This poor machine is racing to its wreck. This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. Come Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits Some woman there who will make new the earth, And crown the spring with fire."

So back I come. And the springs march before me, say, "Behold Here are we, and what would you, can you use us? What good is air if lungs are out, or springs When the mind's flown so far away no spring, Nor loveliness of earth can call it back? I tell you what it is: in early youth The life is in the loins; by thirty years It travels through the stomach to the lungs, And then we strut and crow. By forty years The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh. By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot. At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty The life is in the seed—what's spring to you? Puff! Puff! You are so winged and light you fly. For every passing zephyr, are blown off, And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la," "Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you. Puff! Puff! away you go!

Another drink? Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink The better I see that this is April time. ...

Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything: "Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed. And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens Of spring or June show life within the loins, And all the world is fair, for now the plant Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk The stalk to penury, then slumber comes With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned germ, An old life and a new life all in one, A thing of memory and of prophecy, Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear. What has been ours is taken, what was ours Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring, Fees in possession and enjoyment too. ...

The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives And dies in us, makes April and unmakes, And leaves a man like me at fifty-two, Finished but living, on the pinnacle Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances Would shape again to something better—what? Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick Out of this April, by this larger art Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard, Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds Of that eternity which comes in sleep, Or in the viewless spinning of the soul When most intense. The woman is somewhere, And that's what tortures, when I think this field So often gleaned could blossom once again If I could find her.

Well, as to my plays: I have not written out what I would write. They have a thousand buds of finer flowering. And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh. Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl And would break through and enter. But, fair friends, What strength in place of sex shall steady me? What is the motive of this higher mount? What process in the making of myself— The very fire, as it were, of my growth— Shall furnish forth these writings by the way, As incident, expression of the nature Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves?...

Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this, Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme, And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best Is just another delving in the mine That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets? If you have genius, write my tragedy, And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford," Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls, And had to live without it, yet live with it As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived. Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare, This moment growing drunk, the famous author Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays, With this machine too much to him, which started Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall, You shake me down, my timbers break apart. Why, if an engine must go on like this The building should be stronger."

Or to mix, And by the mixing, unmix metaphors, No mortal man has blood enough for brains And stomach too, when the brain is never done With thinking and creating.

For you see, I pluck a flower, cut off a dragon's head— Choose twixt these figures—lo, a dozen buds, A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy, Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world. And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest, As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees, Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours In common talk with people like the Combes. All this to get a heartiness, a hold On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules, Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff And bear me off or strangle.

Good, my friends, The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice That calls me to performance—what I know not. I've planned an epic of the Asian wash Which slopped the star of Athens and put out, Which should all history analyze, and present A thousand notables in the guise of life, And show the ancient world and worlds to come To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed Of growth to be. With visions such as these My spirit turns in restless ecstacy, And this enslaved brain is master sponge, And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet. While my poor spirit, like a butterfly Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings, And cannot rise.

I'm cold, both hands and feet. These three days past I have been cold, this hour I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. God did do well to give us anodynes. ... So now you know why I am much alone, And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, And do not have them here, dear ancient friends, Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. Love is not love which alters when it finds A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch Of hands of flesh.

I am most passionate, And long am used perplexities of love To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder, Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? Well, hark you; Anne is sixty now, and I, A crater which erupts, look where she stands In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, As years go, but I am a youth afire While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! I want them not, I want the love which springs Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body Is piled in reckless generosity. ... You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, And think me nature's child, scarce understand How much of physic, law, and ancient annals I have stored up by means of studious zeal. But pass this by, and for the braggart breath Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated, Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman, According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry— Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I?— Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it: I believe and say it as I would lightly speak Of the most common thing to sense, outside Myself to touch or analyze, this mind Which has been used by Something, as I use A quill for writing, never in this world In the most high and palmy days of Greece, Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed, Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails Of passions curious, countless lives explored As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this? Since I know them by what I am, the essence From which their utterance came, myself a flower Of every graft and being in myself The recapitulation and the complex Of all the great. Were not brains before books? And even geometries in some brain Before old Gutenberg? O fie, Ben Jonson, If I am nature's child am I not all? Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, And say that reason in me was a fume. But if you honor me, as you have said, As much as any, this side idolatry, Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be In your regard, have come to fifty-two, Defeated in my love, who knew too well That poets through the love of women turn To satyrs or to gods, even as women By the first touch of passion bloom or rot As angels or as bawds.

Bethink you also How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process Working in man's soul from the woman soul As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh, Even as a malady may be, while this thing Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. Till it become a vision paradisic, And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost Rung a place for stepping into heaven. ...

This I have know, but had not. Nor have I Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay What grew within me, while I saw the blood Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel With my own blood stained.

As a virgin shamed By the swelling life unlicensed needles it, But empties not her womb of some last shred Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, And weakness to the last of life, so I For some shame not unlike, some need of life To rid me of this life I had conceived Did up and choke it too, and thence begot A fever and a fixed debility For killing that begot.

Now you see that I Have not grown from a central dream, but grown Despite a wound, and over the wound and used My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever Which longed for that which nursed the malady, And fed on that which still preserved the ill, The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Has left me. And as reason is past care I am past cure, with ever more unrest Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are, And my discourse at random from the truth, Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair And thought her bright, who is as black as hell And dark as night.

But list, good gentlemen, This love I speak of is not as a cloak Which one may put away to wear a coat, And doff that for a jacket, like the loves We men are wont to have as loves or wives. She is the very one, the soul of souls, And when you put her on you put on light, Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, Which if you tear away you tear your life, And if you wear you fall to ashes. So 'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost, And broken hope that we could find each other, And that mean more to me and less to her. 'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me Without a sense of loss, without a tear, And make me fool and perjured for the oath That swore her fair and true. I feel myself As like a virgin who her body gives For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite For other conquests. For I gave myself, And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss Of myself never to myself restored. The urtication of this shame made plays And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, But, better, love.

To hell with punks and wenches, Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. I think I have a fever—hell and furies! Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. Ben, if I die before you, let me waste Richly and freely in the good brown earth, Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil I take the veil and hide, and like great Casar Who drew his toga round him, I depart.

Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever. After a little walk, and by your pardon, I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, I pass you like an orange to a child: I can no more with you. Do what you will. What should my care be when I have no power To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me As little as I need you: go your way! Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek And clap their gushing wounds—but I shall sleep, Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators Shall fulmine over London or America Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters And cut each others' throats when reason fails— But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep— Let's walk and hear the lark.



SWEET CLOVER

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.



SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL

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.



FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE

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!



POOR PIERROT

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.



MIRAGE OF THE DESERT

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!

* * * * *



DAHLIAS

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.



THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES

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!



DELILAH

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.



THE WORLD-SAVER

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!



RECESSIONAL

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.

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *



THE AWAKENING

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!

* * * * *



IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR

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

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.



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES

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 Blucher, 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.



DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC!

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!



DEAR OLD DICK

(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 Dvorak 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."



THE ROOM OF MIRRORS

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?



THE LETTER

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.