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

* * * * *

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



CANTICLE OF THE RACE

SONG OF MEN

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

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

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

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

SONG OF WOMEN

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

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

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

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

SONG OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT

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

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

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

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



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



MY LIGHT WITH YOURS

I

When the sea has devoured the ships, And the spires and the towers Have gone back to the hills. And all the cities Are one with the plains again. And the beauty of bronze, And the strength of steel Are blown over silent continents, As the desert sand is blown— My dust with yours forever.

II

When folly and wisdom are no more, And fire is no more, Because man is no more; When the dead world slowly spinning Drifts and falls through the void— My light with yours In the Light of Lights forever!



THE BLIND

Amid the din of cars and automobiles, At the corner of a towering pile of granite, Under the city's soaring brick and stone, Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. And an old woman holds the cup for you, Wherein a curious passer by at times Casts a poor coin.

You are so blind you cannot see us men As walking trees! I fancy from the tune You play upon the flute, you have a vision Of leafy trees along a country road-side, Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks Rise singing in the sun-shine! In your darkness You may see such things playing on your flute Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago!

And here's another on a farther corner, With head thrown back as if he searched the skies, He's selling evening papers, what's to him The flaring headlines? Yet he calls the news. That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, Or play the flute in blindness.

Yet I think It's neither news nor music with these blind ones— Rather the hope of re-created eyes, And a light out of death! "How can it be," I hear them over and over, "There never shall be eyes for me again?"



"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU"

—His Own Words

IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL

* * * * *

Eagle, whose fearless Flight in vast spaces Clove the inane, While we stood tearless, White with rapt faces In wonder and pain. ...

Heights could not awe you, Depths could not stay you. Anguished we saw you, Saw Death way-lay you Where the storm flings Black clouds to thicken Round France's defender! Archangel stricken From ramparts of splendor— Shattered your wings! ...

But Lafayette called you, Rochambeau beckoned. Duty enthralled you. For France you had reckoned Her gift and your debt. Dull hearts could harden Half-gods could palter. For you never pardon If Liberty's altar You chanced to forget. ...

Stricken archangel! Ramparts of splendor Keep you, evangel Of souls who surrender No banner unfurled For ties ever living, Where Freedom has bound them. Praise and thanksgiving For love which has crowned them— Love frees the world! ...



CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT

Who is that calling through the night, A wail that dies when the wind roars? We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, It faded out at Comingoer's.

Along five miles of wintry road A horseman galloped with a cry, "'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, "When I heard clattering hoofs go by."

"I flung the winder up to listen; I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle When he went over Houghton's Bridge."

Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' A heifer in the barn, and then My boy says: 'Pap, that's Billy Paris.' 'There,' says my boy, it is again."

"Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy I seed go home with Emily.'

"'He is too old for galavantin' Upon a night like this,' says I. 'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty, Good-natured huskiness in that cry.'

"'It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, 'I never thought—it makes me shiver, And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'"

Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's."

Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle And held it up to the winder pane. But when I heerd again the holler 'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane."

Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed I thought he'd thump the door away. I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' 'O, Emily,' I heard him say.

"And there stood Billy Paris tremblin', His face so white, he looked so queer. 'O Andy'—and his voice went broken. 'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.'

"'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, 'What brings you here?—I would be told.' Says he. 'My hand just ... happened near hers, It teched her hand ... and it war cold.

"'We got back from the Christmas doin's And went to bed, and she was sayin', (The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.'

"'My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, And then I thought I heerd her moan. It war the wind, I guess, for Emily War lyin' dead. ... She's thar alone.'

"I left him then to call my woman To tell her that her mother died. When we come back his voice was steady, The big tears in his eyes was dried.

"He just sot there and quiet like Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had, And said for her to die on Christmas Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad.

"He grew so cam he almost skeered us. Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman That ever walked this Vale of Care.'

"Says he: 'She allus laughed and sang, I never heerd her once complain.' Says he: "It's not so bad a Christmas When she can go and have no pain.'

"Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' Says he: ... 'Not very good for me.' He hid his face then in his muffler And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'"



WIDOW LA RUE

I

What will happen, Widow La Rue? For last night at three o'clock You woke and saw by your window again Amid the shadowy locust grove The phantom of the old soldier: A shadow of blue, like mercury light— What will happen, Widow La Rue?

* * * * *

What may not happen In this place of summer loneliness? For neither the sunlight of July, Nor the blue of the lake, Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, Nor the song of larks and thrushes, Nor the bravuras of bobolinks, Nor scents of hay new mown, Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, Nor the snow of nodding yarrow, Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest Of the bluff by the lake Can take away the loneliness Of this July by the lake!

* * * * *

Last night you saw the old soldier By your window, Widow La Rue! Or was it your husband you saw, As he lay by the gate so long ago? With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue, And specks of blood on his face, Like a wall specked by a shake a brush; And something like blubber or pinkish wax, Hiding the gash in his throat—— The serum and blood blown up by the breath From emptied lungs.

II

So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend For the afternoon and the night, Where the phantom will not come, Where the phantom may be forgotten. And scarcely has she turned the road, Round the water-mill by the creek, When the telephone rings and daughter Flora Springs up from a drowsy chair And the ennui of a book, And runs to answer the call. And her heart gives a bound, And her heart stops still, As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses Quick as poison through all her frame. And something like bees swarming in her breast Comes to her throat in a surge of fear, Rapture, passion, for what is the voice But the voice of her lover? And just because she is here alone In this desolate summer-house by the lake; And just because this man is forbidden To cross her way, for a taint in his blood Of drink, from a father who died of drink; And just because he is in her thought By night and day, The voice of him heats her through like fire. She sways from dizziness, The telephone falls from her shaking hand. ... He is in the village, is walking out, He will be at the door in an hour.

III

The sun is half a hand above the lake In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness. On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's end. A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. Over the olive green of the darkening forest A thin moon slits the sky and down the road Two lovers walk.

It is night when they reappear From the forest, walking the hay-field over. And the sky is so full of stars it seems Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, And in the silence of the scented hay-field Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water A hundred feet below. And at last they sit by a cock of hay, As warm as the nest of a bird, Hand clasped in hand and silent, Large-eyed and silent.

* * * * *

O, daughter Flora! Delicious weakness is on you now, With your lover's face above you. You can scarcely lift your hand, Or turn your head Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. You dare not open your moistened eyes For fear of this sky of stars, For fear of your lover's eyes. The trance of nature has taken you Rocked on creation's tide. And the kinship you feel for this man, Confessed this night—so often confessed And wondered at— Has coiled its final sorcery about you. You do not know what it is, Nor care what it is, Nor care what fate is to come,— The night has you. You only move white, fainting hands Against his strength, then let them fall. Your lips are parted over set teeth; A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body Maddens your lover, And in a swift and terrible moment The mystery of love is unveiled to you. ...

Then your lover sits up with a sigh. But you lie there so still with closed eyes. So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of stars. A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, But you do not move. And the sun comes up at last Finding you asleep in his arms, There by the hay cock. And he kisses your tears away, And redeems his word of last night, For down to the village you go And take your vows before the Pastor there, And then return to the summer house. ... All is well.

IV

Widow La Rue has returned And is rocking on the porch— What is about to happen? For last night the phantom of the old soldier Appeared to her again— It followed her to the house of her friend, And appeared again. But more than ever was it her husband, With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue. And while she thinks of it, And wonders what is about to happen, She hears laughter, And looking up, beholds her daughter And the forbidden lover.

* * * * *

And then the daughter and her husband Come to the porch and the daughter says "We have just been married in the village, mother; Will you forgive us? This is your son; you must kiss your son." And Widow La Rue from her chair arises And calmly takes her child in her arms, And clasps his hand. And after gazing upon him Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked Upon returning Agamemnon, With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, She kissed him, And in a calm voice blessed them. Then sent her daughter, singing, On an errand back to the village To market for dinner, saying: "We'll talk over plans, my dear."

V

And the young husband Rocks on the porch without a thought Of the lightning about to strike. And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue Enters the house. And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic rapture, The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room By a window back of the chair where he rocks, And drawing the shade She speaks:

"These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the old soldier Who haunts the midnights Of this summer loneliness. And I knew that a doom was at hand. ... You have married my daughter, and this is the doom. ... O, God in heaven!" Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness Winds out of the July glare And stops the flow of his blood, As he hears from the re-echoing room The voice of Widow La Rue Moving darkly between banks Of delirious fear and woe!

"Be calm till you hear me through. ... Do not move, or enter here, I am hiding my face from you. ... Hear me through, and then fly. I warned her against you, but how could I tell her Why you were not for her? But tell me now, have you come together? No? Thank God for that. ... For you must not come together. ... Now listen while I whisper to you: My daughter was born of a lawless love For a man I loved before I married, And when, for five years, no child came I went to this man And begged him to give me a child. ... Well then ... the child was born, your wife as it seems. ... And when my husband saw her, And saw the likeness of this man in her face He went out of the house, where they found him later By the entrance gate With the iris of his eyes so black, And the white of his eyes so china-blue, And specks of blood on his face, Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. And something like blubber or pinkish wax Hiding the gash in his throat— The serum and blood blown up by the breath From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand? Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! Leap from the bluff to the rocks on the shore! Take down the sickle and end yourself! You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. ... And her father died when she was a baby. ... And you were four when your father died. ... And her father died on the very day That your father died, At the verv same moment. ... On the very same bed. ... Don't you understand?"

VI

He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, He runs and stumbles to reach the road. He yells and curses and tears his hair. He staggers and falls and rises and runs. And Widow La Rue With the eyes of Clytemnestra Stands at the window and watches him Running and tearing his hair.

VII

She seems so calm when the daughter returns. She only says: "He has gone to the meadow, He will soon be back. ..." But he never came back.

And the years went on till the daughter's hair Was white as her mother's there in the grave. She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left And didn't say good-bye.



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE

I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed To deities or devils. To resume We find it caused by morphological Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, More times, indeed, the anatomical Basis, if one be, escapes detection. For many functions of the cortex are Unknown, as I have said.

And now remember Mercier's analysis of heredity: Besides direct transmission of unstable Nervous systems, there remains the law Hereditary of sanguinity. Then here's another matter: Parents may Have normal nervous systems, yet produce Children of abnormal nerves and minds, Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. Let me repeat before I leave the matter The factors in a perfect organization: First quality in the germ producing matter; Then quality in the sperm producing force, And lastly relative fitness of the two. We are but plants, however high we rise, Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream We are but plants, and all we are and do Depends upon the seed and on the soil. What Mendel found in raising peas may lead To perfect knowledge of the human mind. There is one law for men and peas, the law Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men And mind of certain matter, all depends Not on a varying law, but on a law Varied in its course by matter, as The arm, which is a lever and which works By lever principle cannot make use And form cement with trowel to the forms It makes of paint or marble.

To resume: A child may take the qualities of one parent In some respects, and of the other parent In some respects. A child may have the traits Of father at one period of his life, The mother at one period of his life. And if the parents' traits are similar Their traits may be prepotent in a child, Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. So if you take a circle and draw off A line which would become another circle If drawn enough, completed, but is left Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind Of cumulative heredity. Take John, My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, John has a mind which is a perfect circle. A perfect circle can be small, you know. And so John has good sense within his sphere. But if some force began to work like yeast In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line To make a larger thinking circle, say About a great invention, heaven or God, Then John would be abnormal, till this line Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. This is the secret of eccentric genius, The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. He's like a plant mutating, half himself Half something new and greater. If we looked To John's heredity we'd find this change Was manifest in mother or in father About the self-same period of life, Most likely in his father. Attributes Of fathers are inherited by sons, Of mothers by the daughters.

Now this morning I take up paranoia. Paranoics Are often noted for great gifts of mind. Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, Cellini, many others. All who think Themselves inspired of God, and all who see Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects Of prophecies are paranoics. All Who visions have of God or archangels, Hear voices or celestial music, these Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise Enough above the earth to look along A longer arc and see realities, Or see strange things through atmospheric strata Which build up or distort the things they see Remains the question. Let us wait the proof.

Last week I told you I would have to-day The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here, And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look After the lecture at the brain and skull. There's nothing anatomical at fault With this fine brain, so far as I can find. You'll note how deep the convolutions are, Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note, The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. But this is scarce significant. Let me tell How Jacob Groesbell looked:

The man was tall, Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, And ran back at an angle, temples full. His nose was long and fleshy at the point, Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, The iris flecked. They looked as if a light As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears Were very large, projected at right angles. His neck was slender, womanish. His skin Of finest texture, white and very smooth. His voice was quiet, musical. His manner Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. His parents, as I learned through inquiry, Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. The mother healthy both in mind and body. The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. They were first cousins.

I knew Jacob Groesbell Ten years before he died. I knew him first When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then As time went on I saw him when he came At my request to do my carpentry. I grew to know him, and by slow degrees He told me of his readings in the Bible, And gave me his interpretations. At last Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach, Which took him off. He sent for me, and said He wished me to attend him, which I did. He told me I could have his body and brain To lecture on, dissect, since some had said He was insane, he told me, and if so I should find something wrong with brain or body. And if I found a wrong then all his visions Of God and archangels were just the fancies That come to madmen. So he made provision To give his brain and body for this cause, And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic.

As I have said before, in making tests And observations of the patient, have His conversation taken stenographically, In order to preserve his speech exactly, And catch the flow if he becomes excited. So we determine if he makes new words, If he be incoherent, or repeats. I took my secretary once to make A stenographic record. Strange enough He would not talk while she was writing down. And when I asked him why, he would not tell. So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, And put in it a dictaphone, and when A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put My hand among my bottles in the satchel, As if I was compounding medicine, Instead I'd put another cylinder on. And thus I got his story in his voice, Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all, Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone The students in the farthest gallery Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me, And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain Here in this jar beside me. Listen now To Jacob Groesbell's voice:

"Will you repeat From the beginning connectedly the story Of your religious life, illumination, Vhat you have called your soul's escape?"

"I will, Since I shall never tell it again."

"I grew up Timid and sensitive, not very strong, Not understood of father or of mother. They did not love me, and I never felt A tenderness for them. I used to quote: 'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' At school I was not liked. I had a chum From time to time, that's all. And I remember My mother on a day put with my luncheon A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came I missed it, found some boys had taken it, And when I asked for it, they made the cry: 'Bottle of milk, bottle of milk/ and I Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour It hurts me to remember it. Such days, All misery! For all my clothes were patched. They hooted at me. So I lived alone. At twelve years old I had great fears of death, And hell, heard devils in my room. One night During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains, And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day As I was walking on the village street Close to the church I heard a voice which said 'Behold, my son'—and falling on my knees I prayed in ecstacy—but as I prayed Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. But something left me in the ceremony, I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back Into the trap. I took to wandering In solitary places, could not bear To see a human face. I slept for nights In still ravines, or meadows. But one time Returning to my home, I found the room Filled up with visitors—my heart stopped short, And glancing at the faces of my parents I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, Which cursed my youth and made me miserable, Something I fought but could not overcome. And pondering on the Scriptures I could see How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, How even as my brothers called me mad They called our Saviour so.

"At fourteen years My father taught me carpentry, his trade, And made me work with him. I seemed to be The butt for jokes and laughter with the men— I know not why. For now and then they'd drop A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, God was not with me though I sought Him ever And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights, Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, Clouds, trunks of trees,—illusions of the devil. I was turned twenty years when on an evening Calm, beautiful in June, after a day Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, The sun just sinking, at my left I heard A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. I ran into my room and seized a pistol To end my life. God willed it otherwise. I fainted and awoke upon the floor After some hours. To heap my suffering full A few days after this while in the village I went into a store. The friendly clerk— I knew him always—said 'What will you have? I wait first always on the little boys.' I laughed and went my way. But in an hour His saying rankled, I began to brood On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin, So devil tangled, tortured—which not prayer Nor watching could deliver. So I thought To save my soul from murder I must fly— I felt an urging as one does in sleep Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, My Bible in my pocket, secretly I disappeared. Next day took up my life In Barrington, a village thirty miles From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, Reached by a road that crossed a bridge Over a little bay, the bridge's ends Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here Night after night I fished, or stood and watched The star-light on the water.

I grew calmer Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived Under a widow's roof, who was devout And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, To every word: I was now twenty-five, In perfect health, no longer persecuted, At peace with all the world, if not my soul Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell It had an ache which sometimes I could feel, And yet I had this soul awakening. I know I have been counted mad, so watch Each detail here and judge.

At four o'clock The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, My kit upon my back I walked this road Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, The ripple of the water at my feet, The rythmic babble of the little boats Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down Over the waters gloriously to rest. So as I stared upon the sun on the water, Some minutes, though I know not for how long, Out of the splendor of the shining sun Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow, His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise And come with me.'

"And in an instant there Something fell from me, I became a cloud, A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. And in that glory I perceived all things: I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns And I knew God, and knew all things as God: The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, Truth, love and purity. And in that instant Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, And how they are arranged order to order, With no break in the order, one harmonious Whole of universal life all blended And interfused with universal love. And as it was with Shelley so I cried, And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose And started back to climb the hill again, Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, Nor where I went, and thinking if this be A fancy only of the Saviour then He will not follow me, and if it be Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall After the revelation. As I reached The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, Who knowest me, when they who walked with me Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, Who knew me not till I brake bread and then, As after thought could say, Did not our heart Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed With visions and my Father's love, this walk Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, Expounding all the scriptures, telling me About the race of men who live and move Along a life of meat and drink and sleep And comforts of the flesh, while here and there A hungering soul is chosen to lift up And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet Must seek and must find God to keep the race Awake to the divine and to the orders Of universal and harmonious life, All interfused with Universal love, Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, Which sees no order, reason, no intent Beat down the race to welter in the mire When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, The leaders of the race from age to age Are chosen for their separate work, each work Fits in the given order. All who suffer The martyrdom of thought, whether they think Themselves as servants of my Father, or even Mock at the images and rituals Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize The mystery they sensed, or whether they be Spirits of laughter, logic, divination Of human life, the human soul, all men Who give their essence, blindly or in vision In faith that life is worth their utmost love, They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' So Jesus told me as we took my walk Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned And walked through heading rye and purple vetch Into an orchard where great rows of pears Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, And a half moon was hanging just above The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! We came back to the boats at last and loosed One of them and rowed out into the bay, And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said 'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' A haziness came on me now. I seem To find myself alone there in that boat. At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk, The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home Back to the village in a silence, peace, A happiness profound.

"And the next morning I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet With spiritual vision so intense I looked Through things material as if they were But shadows—old things passed away or grew A lovelier order. And my heart was full. Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. My landlady looked at me sharply, asked What hour I entered, where I was so late. I only answered fishing. For I told No person of my vision, went my way At carpentry in silence, in great joy. For archangels and powers were at my side, They led me, bore me up, instructed me In mysteries, and voices said to me 'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. I wrote and printed and the village read, And called me mad. And so I grew to see The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, The geniture of all things, of the Word Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages, Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained, And how the search for something (it is God) Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth At harvest time have praise or reverence. I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, Resists the current and makes human thought. As the electric current is not light But heat and power as well. Our little brains Resist God and make thought and love as well. But God is more than these. Oh I heard much Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. That is the axis of profoundest life Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, The epochs of this earth as it were the feet Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew The agony of genius and the woe Of prophets and the great.

"From that next morning I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal Than I had ever done. I could not open Its pages anywhere but I could find Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. I could not doubt my destiny was bound With man's salvation. Jeremiah said 'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words To me were spoken, and to no one else. And so I searched the scriptures. And I found I never had a thought, experience, pang, A state in human life our Saviour had not. He was a carpenter, and so was I. He had his soul's illumination, so had I. His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. For I could, I can feel my way along Death's stages as a man can reach and feel Ahead of him along a wall. I know This body is a shell, a butterfly's Excreta pushed away with rising wings.

"I searched the scriptures. How should I believe Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see At mid-day in the way a light from heaven Above the brightness of the sun and hear The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake Such words as none but men inspired can speak, As well as words of truth and soberness, Such as myself speak now.

"And from the scriptures I passed to studies of the men who came To great illuminations. You will see There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, The understanding, one is of the soul. The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men In their illumination see the frame-work Of life or see its spirit, so align Themselves with Science, Satire, or align Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. So being Aristotle, Rabelais, Paul, Swedenborg.

"And as the years Went on, as I had time, was fortunate In finding books I read of many men Who had illumination, as I had it. Read Of Dante's vision, how he found himself Saw immortality, lost fear of death. Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven Before he quitted life and saw behind The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest My manhood's visionary meditations Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue skies, and in the mind of man— A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought And rolls through all things.'

"And at last they called me The mad, and learned carpenter. And then— I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold ..."

At this point He fainted, sank into a stupor. There I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. There was some other talk, but not of moment. I had to change the cylinder—the talk Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things, Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. He died next morning.

Students who desire To examine the skull and brain may do so now At their convenience in the laboratory.



FRIAR YVES

Said Friar Yves: "God will bless Saint Louis' other-worldliness. Whatever the fate be, still I fare To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. If I survive, I shall return With precious things from Palestine— Gold for my purse, spices and wine, Glory to wear among my kin. Fame as a warrior I shall win. But, otherwise, if I am slain In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn Immortal life washed white from sin."

Said Friar Yves: "Come what will— Riches and glory, death and woe— At dawn to Palestine I go. Whether I live or die, I gain To fly the tepid good and ill Of daily living in Champagne, Where those who reach salvation lose The treasures, raptures of the earth, Captured, possessed, and made to serve The gospel love of Jesus' birth, Sacrifice, death; where even those Passing from pious works and prayer To paradise are not received As those who battled, strove, and lived, And periled bodies, as I choose To peril mine, and thus to use Body and soul to build the throne Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care Lay Jesus under a granite stone."

Then Friar Yves buckled on His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, With crossboy, halberd took his way, Walked without resting, without pause, Till the sun hovered at midday Over a tree of glistening leaves, Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. "If I," he sighed, "could only gain, Like yonder spring, an inner source Of life, and need not dew or rain Of human love, or human friends, And thus accomplish my soul's ends Within myself! No," said the friar; "There is one water and one fire; There is one Spirit, which is God. And what are we but streams and springs Through which He takes His wanderings? Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; Show me the way!" the friar prayed. "Where do I flow and to what end? Am I of Thee, or do I blend Hereafter with Thee?"

Yves heard, While praying, sounds as when the sod Teems with a swarm of insect things. He dropped his halberd to look down, And then his waking vision blurred, As one before a light will frown. His inner ear was caught and stirred By voices; then the chestnut tree Became a step beside a throne. Breathless he lay and fearfully, While on his brain a vision shone. Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: "The time has come when I must take The form of man for mankind's sake. This drama is played long enough By creatures who have naught of me, Save what comes up from foam of the sea To crawling moss or swimming weeds, At last to man. From heaven in flame, Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly, And take a mortal's form and name, And labor for the race's needs." Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky Flushed like a bride's face rosily, And shot to lightning from its bloom. The world leaped like a babe in the womb, And choral voices from heaven's cope Circled the earth like singing stars: "O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, O passion realized at last; O end of hunger, fear, and wars, O victory over the bottomless, vast Valley of Death!"

A silence fell, Broke by the voice of Gabriel: "Music may follow this, O Lord! Music I hear; I hear discord Through ages yet to be, as well. There will be wars because of this, And wars will come in its despite. It's noon on the world now; blackest night Will follow soon. And men will miss The meaning, Lord! There will be strife 'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, 'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. There will be war to win the place Where you bend death to sovereign life. Armed kings will battle for the grace Of rulership, for power and gold In the name of Jesus. Men will hold Conclaves of swords to win surcease Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. The seed is good, Lord, make the ground Good for the seed you scatter round!"

Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: "The gardener sprays his plants and trees To drive out lice and stop disease. After the spraying, fruit is grown Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes Of men can see this end, although Leaves wither or a whole tree dies From what the gardener does to grow Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. The gardener lives outside the tree; The gardener knows the tree can see What cure is needed, plans afresh An end foreseen, and there's the will Wherewith the gardener may fulfil The orchard's destiny."

So He spake. And Friar Yves seemed to wake, But did not wake, and only sunk Into another dreaming state, Wherein he saw a woman's form Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. Her body was virginal, white, and straight, And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, Behind a robe of writhing green: As when a rock's wall makes a screen Whereon the crisscross reflect moves Of circling water under the rays Of April sunlight through the sprays Of budding branches in willow groves— A liquid mosaic of green and gold— Thus was her robe.

But to behold Her face was to forget the youth Of her white bosom. All her hair Was tangled serpents; she did wear A single eye in the middle brow. Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough O'ershadowed her the while she gripped A pail in either hand. One dripped Clear water; one, ethereal fire. Then to the Graia spoke the friar: "Have mercy! Tell me your desire And what you are?"

Then the Graia said: "My body is Nature and my head Is Man, and God has given me A seeing spirit, strong and free, Though by a single eye, as even Man has one vision at a time. I lift my pails up; mark them well. With this fire I will burn up heaven, And with this water I will quench The flames of hell's remotest trench, That men may work in righteousness. Not for the fears of an after hell, Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless The soul with when the mountains nod And the sun darkens, but for love Of Man and Life, and love of God. Now look!"

She dashed the pail of fire Against the vault of heaven. It fell As would a canopy of blue Burned by a soldier's careless torch. She dashed the water into hell, And a great steam rose up with the smell Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch All things which on the good earth grew. "Now," said the Graia, "loiterer, Awake from slumber, rise and speed To fight for the Holy Sepulcher— Nothing is left but Life, indeed— I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell."

Friar Yves no longer slept; Friar Yves awoke and wept.



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE

June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, And every day it rained. And every morning I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. Try as I would my spirits grew no better. What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind? I spent the whole day working with my hands, For there was brush to clear and corn to plant Between the gusts of rain; and there at night I sat about the room and hugged the fire. And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered For cold and it was June. I ached all through For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body, Or soul if it were soul?

But there at night As I sat aching, worn, before the hour Of sleep, and restless in this interval Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap Of cards upon a table by a boarder Who passed the time in playing solitaire, Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, And scrape away the dust of long past years To show me what had happened in his life. And as he smoked and talked his aged wife Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches Formed by a slender island, flow together. Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, An episode or version. And sometimes He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend While she went on to what she wished to finish, When he'd resume. They talked together thus. He found the story and began to tell it, And she hung on his story, told it too.

This night the rain came down in buckets full, And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath Between the opening of the outer door And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. And my host who had hoed the whole day long, Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe Reading the organ of the Adventists, His wife beside him knitting.

On the table Are several magazines with their monthly grist Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! Who writes these stories? How does it happen people Are born into the world to read these stories? But anyway the lamp is very bad, And every bone in me aches—and why always Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? Why not sit quietly and think?

At last Between the clicking needles and the slap Of cards upon the table and the swish Of rain upon the window my host speaks: "It says here when the Germans are defeated, And that means when the Turks are beaten too, The Christian world will take back Palestine, And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back From Jaffa if the Allies win."

To me The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, But his trunk never came."

And then the husband: "What are you saying, mother, you go on As if our friend here knew the story too. And then you talk as if our hope of the war Was centered on recovering that trunk."

"Oh, not at all But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there In Jaffa you might get it back. You know You'll never get it back while infidels Rule Palestine."

The husband says to me: "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine, Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, Is in existence yet, when chances are They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, Or threw it away."

"They never threw it away. Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, And knitted him a lot of lovely socks, And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained Everything that a man might need in absence A year from home. And yet they threw it away!"

"They might have done so."

"But they never did, Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" "They were too valuable."

"Too valuable, Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes."

"Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: To work at cabinet making while observing Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready To drive the Turks from Palestine."

What's this? I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. And in a moment Turks and Palestine, And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise And show me how the world is small, and a man Native to Illinois may travel forth And mix his life with ancient things afar. To-day be raising corn here and next month Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycena, Digging for Grecian relics.

So I asked "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, Had planned to meet in Switzerland."

"Montreaux" The wife broke in.

"Montreaux" the husband added. "You said you two had planned it," she went on. Now looking over specks and speaking louder: "The bishop came to him, he planned it out. My husband didn't plan the trip at all. He knows the bishop planned it."

Then the husband: "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, And I acceded and we worked it out. He was to go ahead of me, I was To come in later, soon as I could raise What funds my congregation could afford To spare for this adventure."

"Guess," she said, "How much it was."

I shook my head and she Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come Scarcely before the plan could be put through Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum Had never been made up and put in gold For him to carry in a chamois belt."

And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. Go on," she said.

And so he started over: "The bishop came to me and said he thought The Advent would be June of seventy-six. This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. He said he had a dream; and in this dream An angel stood beside him, told him so, And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, And live there, learn the people and the country, We were to live disguised the better to learn The people and the country. I was to work At my trade as a cabinet maker, he At carpentry, which was his trade, and so No one would know us, or suspect our plan. And thus we could live undisturbed and work, And get all things in readiness, that in time The Lord would send us power, and do all things. We were the messengers to go ahead And make the ways straight, so I told her of it."

"You told me, yes, but my trust was as great As yours was in the bishop, little the good To tell me of it."

"Well, I told you of it. And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so You must obey.' And so she knit the socks And made that trunk of things, as she has said, And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia."

"'Twas nearer two months," said the wife.

"Perhaps, Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop Left Springfield in a month from our first talk. I knew, for I went over when he left. And I remember how his poor wife cried, And how the children cried. He had a family Of some eight children."

"Only seven then, The son named David died the year before."

"Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then. The oldest was not more than twelve, I think, And all the children cried, and at the train His congregation almost to a man Was there to see him off."

"Well, one was missing. You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly.

"I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still. Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks, Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now I must tell you my dream. The night before I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream: I saw the bishop on the station platform His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing His gold head cane. And sure enough next day As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong, And still I didn't act upon the thought."

"I should say not," the wife broke in again.

"Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought More clearly than I did that things were wrong. You can't uproot the confidence of years Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms I knew his face was red, but didn't know, Or think just then, that brandy made it red. And so I went up to the house he lived in— A mansion beautiful, and we sat down. And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker, Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me Silently for a moment, when he said: 'What money did you bring?' And so I told him. And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So I took my belt off, counted out the gold And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it With this hand in this pocket, that in that, And sat there and said nothing more, just looked! And then before a word was spoke again I heard a step upon the stair, the stair Came down into this room where we were sitting. And I looked up, and there—I rubbed my eyes— I looked again, rose from my chair to see, And saw descending the most lovely woman, Who was"—

"A lovely woman," sneered the wife "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop, That's what she was."

"Affinity is right— You see she was the leader in the choir, And she had run away with him, or rather Had gone abroad upon another boat And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time For forty hours or so all is a blank. I just remember trying to speak and choking, And flying from the room, the bishop clutching At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that I can't recall a thing until I saw A little cottage way up in the Alps. I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick, The door was opened and they took me in, And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me In a good bed where I slept half a week. It seems in my bewilderment I wandered, Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes."

"He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed.

"These were the kindest people in the world, A French family. They gave me splendid food, And when I left two francs to reach the place Where lived the English Consul, who arranged After some days for money for my passage Back to America, and in six weeks I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains."

"Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said.

And I who heard this story through spoke up: "The thing about this that I fail to get Concerns this woman, the affinity. If, as seems evident, she and the bishop Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith, And you, the congregation to get money To do it with, or used you in particular To get the money for themselves to live on After they had arrived there in Montreaux, If all this be" I said, "why did this woman Descend just at the moment when he asked you For the money that you had. You might have seen her Before you gave the money, if you had You might have held it back."

"I would indeed, You can be sure I should have held it back."

And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting.

"Now, James, you let me answer that, I know. She was done with the bishop, that's the reason. Be still and let me answer. Here's the story: We found out later that the bishop's trunk And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa There to Montreaux, were there that very day, Which means the bishop never meant to go To Palestine at all, but meant to meet This woman in Montreaux and live with her. Well, that takes money. So he used my husband To get that money. Now you wonder I see Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme, Descend into the room before my husband Had given up this money, and this money, You see, was treated as a common fund Belonging to the church and to be used To get back Palestine, and so the bishop As head of the church, superior to my husband, Could say 'give me the money'—that was natural, My husband could not be surprised at that, Or question it. Well, why did she descend And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat! I know what she did, as well as I had seen Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing. And when she heard my husband tell the sum Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her, And Satan entered in her heart, and she Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets Clink with the double eagles, then descended To expose the bishop and disgrace him there And everywhere in all the world. Now listen: She got that money or the most of it In spite of what she did. For in six weeks After my husband had returned, she walked, The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon The bishop died and all the papers printed The story of his shame."

She had scarce finished When the man at solitaire threw down the deck And make a whacking noise and rose and came Around in front of us and stood and looked The old man and old woman over, me He studied too. Then in an organ voice: "Is there a single verse in the New Testament That hasn't sprouted one church anyway, Letting alone the verses that have sprouted Two, three or four or five? I know of one: Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"? Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept." With that he went out in the rain and slammed The door behind him.

The old clergyman Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said, "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid."



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle. I stand a moment listening, then my friend Who studies all religions, finds a wonder In orphic spectacles like this, lays hold Upon my arm and draws me to a door Through which we look and see a room of seats, A platform at the end, a table on it, And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting," And "God is Love."

We enter, take a seat. The band comes in and fills the room to bursting With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard, The crowd has followed, half the seats are full. After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts The platform by the table and begins: "Praise God so many girls are here to-night, And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you." So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform, A woman nearing forty, one would say. Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last. She was a pretty woman in her time, 'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence From living in the world shines in her face. We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey And in a moment she begins:

"Young girls: I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me, I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour. No woman ever stained with redder sins. Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus! Praise God for blood that washes sins away! I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean. My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls, If there be one before me who can sing Beware the devil and beware your voice That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan."

"I had a voice, was leader of the choir, But Satan entered in my voice to tempt The bishop of the church, and in my heart To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path. He fell from grace for listening. And I Whose voice had turned him over to the devil Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him. No use to make it long, one word's enough: Old Satan is the first word and the last, And all between is nothing. It's enough To say the bishop and myself eloped Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children. And I poor silly thing with promises Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost Good name and all. And he lost all as well. Good name, his soul I fear, because he took The church's money saying he would use it To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact Intending all the while to use the money For travel and for keeping up a house With me as soul-mate. For he never meant To let me go to Paris for my voice, He never got enough to pay for that. On that point he betrayed me, now I see 'Twas God who used him to deceive me there, And leave me to return to Springfield broken, An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned."

"We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough As we looked at it passing, but within 'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire: Engravings on the wall and marble mantels, Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs, Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china, Soft beds with canopies of figured satin, The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms. A little garden, vines against the wall. There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled. And every time his face came close to mine I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped Its venomed tail against his peace of mind. And so he took the brandy to benumb The sting of conscience and to dull the pain. He told me he had business in Montreaux Which would require some weeks, would there be met By people who had money for him. I Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling In Paris—oh 'twas music, as I said.". ...

"At last one day he said a friend was coming, And he went to the station. Very soon I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend. They entered. I was curious and sat Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear. And this is what I heard. The bishop asked: 'You've brought some money, how much have you brought?'

The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop Putting it in his pocket.'

"God forgive me, I never was so angry in my life. The bishop had been talking in big figures, We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see The American who brought the money—well, No matter what it was, I walked in view Upon the landing, stood there for a moment And saw our visitor, a clergyman From all appearances. He stared, grew red, Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose, Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door, Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked The door ajar, with open mouth backed out Upon the street and ran. I heard him run A square at least."

"The bishop looked at me, His face all brandy blossoms, left the room, Came back at once with brandy on his breath. And all that day was tippling, went to bed So drunk I had to take his clothing off And help him in."

"Young girls, beware of music, Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. Beware the theatre and dancing hall. Take lesson from my fate.

"The morning came. The bishop called me, he was very ill And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. Satan had used him and abandoned him. And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, Was standing by the bed. He called to me, And said to me:

"'That money's in that drawer. Use it to reach America, but use it To send my body back. Death's in the corner Behind that cabinet—there—see him look! I had a dream—go get a pen and paper, And write down what I tell you. God forgive me— Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman, To lie here dying and to know that God Has left me—hell awaits me—horrible! Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money, This man and I were walking from Damascus, And in a trice came down to Olivet. Just then great troops of men sprang up around us And hailed us as expecting our approach. And there I saw the faces—hundreds maybe, Of congregations who had trusted me In all the long past years—Oh, sinful woman, Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, 'And wreck my ministry.'

"'And so these crowds Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general, And shouted forward. So we ran like mad And came before a building with a dome— You know—I've seen a picture of it somewhere. And so the crowds yelled: let the bishop enter And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard. They pushed me in. But when I was inside There was no dome, above us was the sky, And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence. Before us was a stable with a stall Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall. "Where is the holy sepulchre?" I asked— "My army's at the door." He kept at work And never raised his eyes and only said: "Don't know; I haven't time for things like that. You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that. We don't know where it is, nor do we care. We live here and we knew him, so we feel Less interest than you. But have you thought If you should find it it would only be A tomb like other tombs? Why look at this: Here is the very manger where he lay— What is it? Just a manger filled with straw. These cows are not the very cows you know— But cows are cows in every age and place. I think that board there has been nailed on since. Outside of that the place is just the same. Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother Lay in that corner there, what if she did? That lantern on the wall's the very one They came to see the child with from the inn— What of it? Take your army and go on, And leave me with my barn and with my cows."

"'So all the glory vanished! Devil magic Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing, No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling, No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic Blood for sins' remission—just a barn, A stall, two cows, a lantern—all the glory— Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment: My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream, Which seems as real as life—to lie here dying Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there Behind that cabinet—there—see him look— By God forsaken—all theology, All mystery, all wonder, all delight Of spiritual vision swept away as clean As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see While dying, just a manger, and two cows, A lantern on the wall.

"'And thus to see, For blasphemy that duped an honest heart, And took the pitiful dollars of the flock To win you with—oh, woman, woman, woman, A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear In such a daylight of clear seeing senses That all the splendor, the miraculous Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child, The star that followed till it rested over The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked, All blotted from belief, all snatched away From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding The robes of God.'

"And so the bishop raved While I stood terrified, since I could feel Death in the room, and almost see the monster Behind the cabinet.

"Then the bishop said: "'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard And passed into a place of tombs. And look! Before I knew I stepped into a hole, A sunken grave with just a slab at head, And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else, No date, no birth, no parentage.'"

"'I lie Tormented by the pictures of this dream. Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven. The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with Are worth the care of all the days of life. All life should be directed to this end, Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop, And with their wings blot out the sun of faith, And with their croakings drown the voice of God.'

"He ceased, became delirious. So he died, And I still unrepentant buried him There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained Went on to Paris.

"See how I was marked For God's salvation.

"There I went to see The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch, Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes, And face impassive, let me sing a scale, Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought, Came in just then. They talked in French, and I, Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored, Left standing like a fool, passed from the room. So music turned on me, but God received me, And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord Made life too hard for me without the fold. I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers. Thus being in conviction, after struggles, And many prayers I found salvation, found My work in life: which is to talk to girls And stand upon this platform and relate My story for their good."

She ceased. Amens Went up about the room. The big drum boomed, And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals, The silver triangle and the singing voices.

My friend and I arose and left the room.



NEANDERTHAL

"Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry I woke from deeper slumber—was it sleep?— And saw a hooded figure standing by The bed whereon I lay.

"Why do you keep, O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard, As that unearthly shape was veiled to you At Casa Magni?"

Then the room was starred With light as I was speaking, and I knew The god, my brother, from whose face the veil Melted as mist.

"What mission fair and true, While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale Amid this solemn stillness, for your face Unutterably majestic."

As when the dale At midnight echoes for a little space, The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come," And nothing more. I left my bed apace, And followed him with wings above the gloom Of clouds like chariots driven on to war, Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and swum.

A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near As we passed over pines, where many a star And heaven's light made every frond as clear As through a glass or in the lightning's flash. ... Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear, A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash My breast or side—which was myself, it seemed, The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash And violent, a brain soul unredeemed, Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath Said to the body, as it were a thing Separate and indifferent: "How uneath That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling Close to him, both another and the same." Now was this mood reversed: That self must wing Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim With fleshly hands my better, stronger part, As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. ... But as we passed o'er empires and athwart A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes And running tides which made the sinking heart Rise up again for breath, I felt how close The god, my brother, was, who would sustain My wings whatever dangers might oppose, And knowing him beside me, like a strain Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet Was spoken by him.

When as out of rain Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see The Dussel river from a parapet Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously, As reaching, in a moment with his hand He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key Of harder granite, and at his command, When he had made an opening, I slid And sank, down, down through the Devonian land Until with him I reached a cavern hid From every eye but ours, and where no light But from our faces was, a pyramid Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night. Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful, He bent again and raked, and to my sight Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull— Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess. Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull Too fine and large to house the nakedness Of a beast's mind.

But as I looked the god Began these words: "Before the iron stress Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made A granary for the east, or ere the clod In Babylon or India baked was laid For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears, Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept, Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears, And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept In terms of thought or vision as the proof Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead Even to lower ethers, no behoof Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought, Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs Of hunger or of thirst."

As you have sought The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs In waking or in slumber just above The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs With poison of despair all moods but love, Behold its secret lettered on this brow Placed by your own!

This is the word thereof: Change and progression from the glazed slough, Where life creeps and is blind, ascending up The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup Of martyrdom for truth's sake.

It may be Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup, Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history Records the earliest day, and that the race Is what it was in virtue, charity, And nothing better. But within this face No light shone from that realm where Hindostan, Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace And inspiration to explore the plan Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test Is not five thousand years, which leave the van Just where it was, but this change manifest In fifty thousand years between the mind Neanderthal's and Shelley's.

Man progressed Along these years, found eyes where he was blind, Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave, And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave To mind a touch of divinity, making whole An undeveloped growth.

As ships that brave Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed Somewhere with lightning and became a soul. Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed Than breath of life itself, and by a leap, As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed In man from the beginning broke the sleep That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes Awakened saw himself, out of the deep And wonder of the self caught the surmise Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through The flow of living.

And so man shall rise From this illumination, from this clue To perfect knowledge that this Power exists, And what man is to this Power, even as you Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists And ignorance of centuries untold. What would you say if learned geologists Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold The skulls of greater races, records, books To shame us for our day, could we behold Therein our retrogression? Wonder looks In vain for these, discovers everywhere Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks Far down and far away; a stalk more fair Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk The eye may see, at last the flowering flare Of man to-day!

I see the things which balk, Retard, divert, draw into sluices small, But who beholds the stream turned back to mock, Not just itself, but make equivocal A Universal Reason, Vision? No. You find no proof of this, but prodigal Proof of ascending Life!

So life shall flow Here on this globe until the final fruit And harvest. As it were until the glow Of the great blossom has the attribute In essence, color of eternal things, And shows no rim between its hues which suit The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings A gleaned and stricken field amid the void What matters it to you, a soul with wings, Whether it be replanted or destroyed? Has it not served you?"

Now his voice was still, Which in such discourse had been thus employed. And in that lonely cavern dark and chill I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke To find the moonlight on the window sill That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak, Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade. And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned The voice which left me calm and unafraid.



THE END OF THE SEARCH

_There's the dragon banner, says Old King Cole, And the tiger banner, he cries. Pantagruel breaks into a laugh As the monarch dries his eyes.—The Search

"The tiger banyer, that is what you call much Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer. That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call Nature. See! Nature!"—King Joy_

* * * * *

Said Old King Cole I know the banner Of dragon and tiger too, But I would know the vagrant fellows Who came to my castle with you.

* * * * *

And I would know why they rise in the morning And never take bread or scrip; And why they hasten over the mountain In a sorrowed fellowship.

* * * * *

Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not? One said he goes to Spain. One said he goes to Elsinore, And one to the Trojan plain.

* * * * *

Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole, There is a word that's more: Who is it goes to Spain and Troy? And who to Elsinore?

* * * * *

One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel, Out for the final joust. One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel And one I think is Faust.

* * * * *

Whoever they be, said Pantagruel, Why stand at the window and drool? Let's out and catch the runaways While the morning hour is cool.

* * * * *

Pantagruel runs to the castle court, And King Cole follows soon. The cobblestones of the court yard ring To the beat of their flying shoon.

* * * * *

Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle, And King Cole clutches his crown. They throw the bolt of the castle gate And race them through the town.

* * * * *

They cross the river and follow the road, They run by the willow trees, And the tiger banner and dragon banner Wait for the morning breeze.

* * * * *

They clamber the wall and part the brambles, And tear through thicket and thorn. And a wild dove in an olive tree Does mourn and mourn and mourn.

* * * * *

A green snake starts in the tangled grass, And springs his length at their feet. And a condor circles the purple sky Looking for carrion meat.

* * * * *

And mad black flies are over their heads, And a wolf looks out of his hole. Great drops of sweat break out and run From the brow of Old King Cole.

* * * * *

Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, From the holy bottle, I pray. My breath is short, my feet run blood, My throat is baked as clay.

* * * * *

Anon they reach a mountain top, And a mile below in the plain Are the glitter of guns and a million men Led by an idiot brain.

* * * * *

They come to a field of slush and flaw Red with a blood red dye. And a million faces fungus pale Stare horribly at the sky.

* * * * *

They come to a cross where a rotting thing Is slipping down from the nails. And a raven perched on the eyeless skull Opens his beak and rails:

* * * * *

"If thou be the Son of man come down, Save us and thyself save." Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven: "How now blaspheming knave!"

* * * * *

"Come down and of my bottle drink, And cease this scurvy rune." But the raven flapped its wings and laughed Loud as the water loon.

* * * * *

Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, I faint, a drink in haste. But when he drinks he pales and mutters: "The wine has lost its taste."

* * * * *

"You have gone mad," said Pantagruel, "In faith 'tis the same old wine." Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle But the flavor is like sea brine.

* * * * *

And there on a rock is a cypress tree, And a form with a muffled face. "I know you, Death," said Pantagruel, "But I ask of you no grace."

* * * * *

"Empty my bottle, sour my wine, Bend me, you shall not break." "Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time Before I come and take."

* * * * *

"You have lost everything in life but the bottle, Youth and woman and friend. Pass on and laugh for a little space yet The laugh that has an end."

* * * * *

Pantagruel passes and looks around him Brave and merry of soul. But there on the ground lies a dead body, The body of Old King Cole.

* * * * *

And a Voice said: Take the body up And carry the body for me Until you come to a silent water, By the sands of a silent sea.

* * * * *

Pantagruel takes the body up And the dead fat bends him down. He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys With body, bottle and crown.

* * * * *

And the wastes are strewn with skulls, And the desert is hot and cursed. And a phantom shape of the holy bottle Mocks his burning thirst.

* * * * *

Pantagruel wanders seven days, And seven nights wanders he. And on the seventh night he rests him By the sands of the silent sea.

* * * * *

And sees a new made fire on the shore, And on the fire is a dish. And by the fire two travelers sleep, And two are broiling fish.

* * * * *

Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping, And Faust is stirring the fire. But the fourth is a stranger with a face Starred with a great desire.

* * * * *

Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts, Pantagruel falls to his knees. He flings down the body of Old King Cole As a man throws off disease.

* * * * *

And rolls his burden away and cries: "Take and watch, if you will. But as for me I go to France My bottle to refill."

* * * * *

"And as for me I go to France To fill this bottle up." He felt at his side for the holy bottle, And found it turned a cup.

* * * * *

And the stranger said: Behold our friend Has brought my cup to me. That is the cup whereof I drank In the garden Gethsemane.

* * * * *

Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus Who dips it in sea brine. This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth, Whereof I make your wine.

* * * * *

And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth, And his lips wear a purple stain. And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel With the dregs for him to drain.

* * * * *

Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber, And Jesus strokes his hair. And Faust sings a song of Euphorion To hide his heart's despair.

* * * * *

And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth, And they walk by the purple deep. Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers, And some grow tired and sleep."



BOTANICAL GARDENS

He follows me no more, I said, nor stands Beside me. And I wake these later days In an April mood, a wonder light and free. The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill, And watch the lights which fingers from the waters Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across The waste of bays and marshes to the woods, Under the prism colors of the air, Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds, Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky In terrible glory.

And earth charmed I lie Before the staring sphinx whose musing face Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them: Since I have ceased to tease her.

Then behold A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed, And as I see the multitudinous leaves Fluttered against the water and the light, And see this light unveil itself, reveal An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor, I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels; And I have fears of dieties shown or spun From nothingness. But when I look again The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake, The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm A hand I know, and hear a voice I know— He has returned and brought with him the thought And the old pain.

The voice says: "Leave the sphinx. The garden waits your study fully grown." And I arise and follow down a slope To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone, And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love, As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow. And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat With feet of a Babylonian lion amid This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems, Though here is our western moon as white and thin As an abalone shell hung under the boughs Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky between His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. ... We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs, That yield to trees beyond the levels, where The beech and oak have triumph; for along This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses, That builds the soil against the water's hands, All things are fierce for place and garner life From weaker things.