Part 2

The knight of battered and unblazoned arms Reined up before the haster from the South Whose red shield bore the crookt beast Glatysaunt, (Also a scroll with “Pray for me!” entwined With flowers and poison-leaves and Iseult’s name) And cried “Where lies the sea-road?”; but the other Seeming as mad as his own crest, replied “Has the beast quested past you? have its dogs Given sharp tongue along these drooping woods? For I must follow them until I fall Dead in some cleft of rock, and let the crabs Hack at my armor till the Judgement Day!” The first—“Whence come you, and for what your quest?” “Palomides am I from Camelot, Wretched Palomides whom dreams torment Forever—of a cold proud little head, A friendly hand that gives me the same love It would to a familiar dog, a body For which Sir Tristram and King Mark contend, Wolves over a spilled bone ... and yet this name, This “Iseult” is a good thing for the sword, And makes it cut through many helms and makes Death very visible to heathen men ... ... And I could sit with her on a green cliff And watch the world die—if she were but tired And soon would rest her head against my heart; Not caring for the roughness of my mail Not aught at all save that I held her close And she and her child’s love at last had peace.... So, Lord, what need were Heaven, Hell or quest? No! I must follow winter! She will be Doubtless betrayed and hurt—and I not there To comfort her in any measure—well Pray God some ax beat through my warding soon!— I beg your grace, sir Knight—my dreams—you said?—

“I heard the quarrel and loud noise of hounds More to the westward, by a little inn That’s badged with a dry bush.” “I must ride on! Your road lies thither!” Like a pawing storm His horse beat down the valley and was gone The stranger’s face within the vizor wore The look of one who, having had a gem Some twelvemonth, finds it out of fashion, dulled By others’ praise perhaps—at any rate Its turn gone past—a new stone to be found, New tiger-hues.... Palomides was far. And, settling well his harp upon his back, With something of amusement in his mouth, Tristram rode southward to the Breton ships.

SIR JOHN RIMBECK TO THE PRINCESS OF ACRE

Death comes like a glimpse of thin blue sky through the fog of fight, And the trident-flame of the mind fails, and the soul drinks night. But on shores unknown it arises! it is white of its ancient scars. Arrayed with stars as a garment, beneath night’s thick stars!

And now I must have died I think—and had this grace, To look with new eyes for a moment, and to see one face That fills my heart like a feasting where mailed kings break bread, You are kind as a poor man’s alms, Lord, if I take this to the dead!

Slowly the lights, the noise return, but they touch not me. I, who knew not my chains at all, stand here free! Sound the assay, white bugles! Shields, clash loud! Fate and one face I follow, through a gate grown proud!

THREE DAYS’ RIDE

“_From Belton castle to Solway side, Hard by the bridge, is three days’ ride._”

We had fled full fast from her father’s keep, And the time was come that we must sleep.

The first day was an ecstasy, A golden mist, a burgeoning tree; We rode like gods through a world new-made, The hawthorn scented hill and glade, A faint, still sweetness in the air— And, oh, her face and the wind in her hair! And the steady beat of our good steeds’ hooves, Bearing us northward, strong and fast, To my high black tower, stark to the blast, Like a swimmer stripped where the Solway moves! And ever, riding, we chanted a song, Challenging Fortune, loud and long, “_From Belton Castle to Solway side, Strive as you may, is three days’ ride!_”

She slept for an hour, wrapped in my cloak, And I watched her till the morning broke; The second day—and a harsher land, And gray bare hills on either hand; A surly land and a sullen folk, And a fog that came like bitter smoke. The road wound on like a twisted snake, And our horses sobbed as they topped the brake. Till we sprang to earth at Wyvern Fen, Where fresh steeds stamped, and were off again. Weary and sleepless, bruised and worn, We still had strength for laughter and scorn; Love held us up through the mire and mist, Love fed us, while we clasped and kissed, And still we sang as the night closed in, Stealthy and slow as a hidden sin, “_From Belton Castle to Solway side, Ride how you will, is three days’ ride._”

My love drooped low on the black mare’s back, Drowned in her hair ... the reins went slack ... Yet she could not sleep, save to dream bad dreams, And wake all trembling, till at last Her golden head lay on my breast.

At last we saw the first faint gleams Of day. Dawn broke. A sickly light Came from the withered sun—a blight Was on the land, and poisonous mist Shrouded the rotting trees, unkissed By any wind, and black crags glared Like sightless, awful faces, spared From death to live accursed for ay.

Dragging slow chains the hours went by. We rode on, drunk and drugged with sleep, Too deadly weary now to say Whether our horses kept the way Or no—like slaves stretched on a heap Of poisoned arrows. Every limb Shot with sharp pain; pain seemed to swim Like a red cloud before our eyes....

The mist broke, and a moment showed, Pricked clear against a splash of woad, The spear-points where the hot chase rode.

Idly I watched them dance and rise Till white wreaths wiped them out again ... My love jerked at the bridle rein; The black mare, dying, broke her heart In one swift gallop; for my part I dozed; and ever in my brain, Four hoofs of fire beat out refrain, A dirge to light us down to death, A silly rhyme that saith and saith, “_From Belton Castle to Solway side, Though great hearts break, is three days’ ride!_” The black mare staggered, reeled and fell, Bearing my love down ... a great bell Began to toll ... and sudden fire Flared at me from the road, a pyre It seemed, to burn our bodies in ... And I fell down, far down, within The pit’s mouth ... and my brain went blind....

I woke—a cold sun rose behind Black evil hills—my love knelt near Beside a stream, her golden hair Streaming across the grass—below The Solway eddied to and fro, White with fierce whirlpools ... my love turned.... Thank God, some hours of joy are burned Into the mind, and will remain, Fierce-blazing still, in spite of pain! They came behind us as we kissed, Stealthily from the dripping mist, Her brothers and their evil band. They bound me fast and made me stand. They forced her down upon her knees. She did not strive or cry or call, But knelt there dumb before them all— I could not turn away my eyes— There was no fear upon her face, Although they slew her in that place. The daggers rent and tore her breast Like dogs that snarl above a kill, Her proud face gazed above them still, Seeking rest—Oh, seeking rest! The blood swept like a crimson dress Over her bosom’s nakedness, A curtain for her weary eyes, A muffling-cloth to stop her sighs ... And she was gone—and a red thing lay Silent, on the trampled clay.

Beneath my horse my feet are bound, My hands are bound behind my back, I feel the sinews start and crack— And ever to the hoof-beats’ sound, As we draw near the gallows-tree, Where I shall hang right speedily, A crazy tune rings in my brain, Four hoofs of fire tramp the refrain, Crashing clear o’er the roaring crowd, Steadily galloping, strong and loud, “_From Belton Castle to Solway side, Hard by the bridge, is three days’ ride!_”

THE PLOW

(_A New England Tragedy_)

I

_Habberton’s plow! John made it, William stayed it, Sharp the blade it bears till now!_

Wind shadowed billows of rippling grass, Under a sky as clear as glass.

And a road that wound like a crooked arm Over a hill to Habberton’s Farm!

Two stone posts and a gate between, A well sweep, dripping and cool and green.

And a girl who strained in the August sun For the thud of hoofs where the path lay dun;

For a cloud that grew in a moment’s course To the sweat and speed of a flying horse.

Though the dust lay white upon spur and shoe, On the steaming flanks, and the trooper’s blue,

When the ride was done and the reins hung slack, And he swung her up to the bay’s wet back And kissed her brows in an arch of black!

Clung together, she heard him say, “Three months more till our wedding day!

“Three months more and this purse’ll buy The next two farms by the Mill Brook dry.

“And then long years of the kindly sun, Children and work and the wild times done; —And an end in peace that our hands have won.

“Here I’ll bide till the morning comes, Then go back for the last of the drums.”

... The wind whined round them like a ghoul. Into the doorway, still and cool, They sank, a stone in a plumbless pool.

II

William Habberton drank his ale; An iron man! An iron man! —Without the first stars, cold and pale, Streaked heaven with radiance milky-wan.

William Habberton sat at meat; He frowned an oaken frown and stark. The lovers cursed at Time, the fleet, And stumbled, kissing, towards the dark.

And as they went the purse chinked thrice, In chiming notes like clinking ice.

William Habberton eyed his guest; Like stubborn flint was grown his stare.

He drew a parchment from his breast, And looked, and saw his ruin there.

His fields beneath another’s plow, Another’s seal stamped on his brow.

Black hound, Disaster, at his heel ... Hand crept to sheath and found the steel.

Out of the night the lovers came, Their cheeks on fire, their lips like flame.

And twined once more, mouth fused to mouth, Before the bitter three months’ drouth.

She passed. Her candle shot with flares The creaking mystery of the stairs.

The trooper watched each darling tread. “A good night’s rest!” the farmer said.

“And where sleep I?” his guest spoke free, Oh white was William Habberton! “Soft, soft and deep your bed shall be! And you shall wake when day’s begun!”

“Rest in the Blue Room as you may; I’ll light you on your lonely way.”

The lantern like a secret fear, Whispered and guttered at his ear.

The shadows mouthed at him to stay, He staggered upward on his way.

Below, the house grew black and still, As listening stood Habberton. The moonlight’s daggers stabbed the sill. The dark wind rustled and was gone.

Then slowly, slowly, up the stair One trod as if he trod on air.

The wavering silence closed around A ghost that shook at every sound.

Up to the Blue Room’s door he passed, Gripping the blade unsheathed at last.

· · · · ·

Dawn filled the air with fire and foam When William Habberton came home.

But sun had warmed the drowsy flies Before he met his daughter’s eyes.

A new-got purse knocked at his side; Oh rich was William Habberton! “You’ve mounted roses like a bride. Take heed they be not withered soon.”

· · · · ·

The dry leaves whirled in yellow and brown Like the tattered rags of a beauty’s gown.

And a chattering wind piped loud of snows As the year went out as a sunset goes.

But Habberton’s farm was heavy with dread, And Elsie Habberton lay in bed, And fought for breath with the gloom o’erhead.

For fever came, and a shadow came; Her hot lips writhed to speak its name; Till the sick fit passed and left her lame.

Bent as a windblown tree and weak, But her soul was steel and her eyes were bleak.

“Wait you no more for hoofs to near?” Thus mockingly spoke Habberton, “And where’s the picture of your dear That kissed you in the August sun?”

Her breast her shaking hands did feel, Where something stung them like a weal, —She ground the picture under heel.

And the glad wind, and the loud rain Beat at the shuttering eaves in vain, And the aching summer comes again.

The grain stands high in the meadow now, Save for one spot untouched by plow Where two rocks meet on the hillside’s brow.

“Habberton, lend me your powder horn! For barren rocks I’ll promise you corn!”

Answered Habberton, heavy of hand, “I do as I please with my own land!”

And he strikes the stones with his oaken stick, And a strange sound rings—and his smile turns sick.

III

The new years pass like a quick-turned page, And Habberton’s daughter links hands with Age.

Dusk and dawn, and new tasks are hers, And the hot thoughts fade and remembrance blurs, And her hate is starving and scarcely stirs.

For after the dust of twenty years Her eyes have begun to remember tears.

The air was heavy with rain and Spring, Still strong was William Habberton, The black steeds made the coulters ring, Plowing beneath a watery sun.

And at sunset Habberton stands alone, And strains at the weight of a buried stone.

“Corn shall sprout from the stubborn clay, For the rest has moldered with years away.”

The stones are rolled to the edge of the fen. He turns to the stilts of the plow again.

His daughter nears where the earth lies red, And swiftly the furrow drives ahead.

Till the sharp blade crashes through crunching bone. And a white thing rolls where the clods are thrown.

And crackling under the leader’s shoe Is a tarnished button, a scrap of blue.

Like icy wind his daughter spoke, “Your plow is chained to a deadly yoke!”

Her fingers clawed within his coat. His own knife gripped him at the throat.

“Rusty and dull, drive true, drive true! You shall drink long for the work you do!”

She flung him at the horses’ feet. “Lie there who dared to touch my sweet!”

The whip slashed down as she whispered low, “And now the plow, and now the plow!”

And over him, struggling, mad and seared, The horrible mace of the plow upreared.

... Dumb she drove to the western gate. “Fate and the furrow have cloven straight.”

“Long to wait for the sheriff’s men. I will go back to my youth again.”

Up to the curb she reeled and sank. And the red knife nuzzled and tore and drank.

... A sallow moon swam over the rise ... And the horses stamped and rolled their eyes At the coming and going of the flies.

_Habberton’s plow. John made it William stayed it. Sharp the blade it bears till now!_

THE TALL TOWN

COLLOQUY OF THE STATUES

(_The Avenue. Night Before Pershing’s Parade_)

Goddess, goddess, dream you or drowse you? Horned Diana of Madison Square, Bending your bow at the stars that house you Hunt you the Hyades, way up there?

_Over my chase curves the moon-ship, cruising, Flapping the skies like a cloud-white drake; Cellarer Mars and his stars are bousing Glories of light at her cruddled wake._

_Sherman, Sherman, where are you riding? Winds atoss in your brazen hair, Down where the buildings are giants striding, Where are you riding, away down there?_

Ride? I would stir not for twenty stallions. Yet, when your braggarts of planets fade, I shall march with the young battalions, Leading the van of the long parade!

_Steed of the Pentecost what are you thinking? Golden charger whose eyeballs glare. Snuffing the smoke that is wine for your drinking What are you thinking, away down there?_

Musing, I wait till the torrented forces Shake the black crowd to a crash of cheers At the measured trample of Liberty’s horses, The iron eyes of her cannoneers!

_Whose is your guerdon now, bright palm-bearer? Courier of Valor none gainsayeth, For the old great cause, or a new cause fairer, Angel of Courage and Love and Death?_

Freedom’s my guerdon. Her least word spoken Is a wind to shuffle the kings to sand, And the chains of oppression are utterly broken When she smites men’s hearts with her fiery hand!

Her old cause sleeps. To her new cause splendid I carry my palm like a flag unfurled; To the march that ends and is never ended! To Freedom’s drums in the blood of the world!

_So was it once when my Father thundered. So shall it be until Man is grass. Peace, old friends, for the night is sundered, And with morn the leaping bayonets pass!_

LUNCH-TIME ALONG BROADWAY

Twelve-thirty bells from a thousand clocks, the typewriter tacks and stops, Gorged elevators slam and fall through the floors like waterdrops, From offices hung like sea-gulls’ nests on a cliff the whirlwinds beat, The octopus-crowd comes rolling out, his tentacles crawl for meat.

He snuffles his way by restaurants where lily-voiced women feast, He pokes his muzzle through white-tiled caves, and gulps like a hungry beast, He roots into subterranean holes, he sweeps hell’s tables bare, His suckers settle and fix and drink like wasps on a bursting pear.

The wildcat quarrel of traffic soothes to a smooth rolling of tires And the waterflow sound of the feeding brute as he pads by the cooking-fires, His body shoulders the canyoned streets, his gluttonous mouths expand And he laps the fat and flesh of the earth as a cat laps milk from a hand.

Slowly the greedy claws curl back, the feelers recoil and close, The flood is setting the other way with the avalanche pound of snows, Heavy and hot as a sated bee, enormous, slower than oil, The beast comes shuffling to lair again, his lips still wet with his spoil.

THE WALKERS

(_Strike Pickets—Lower Fifth Ave._)

It is past day and its brilliance, it is not yet sumptuous night For the moon to shine on gardened roofs like a white nut peeled of its husk, The march of the ant-hill crowds below is like sand falling from a height, And the lost horns of the taxis cry hooting through the dusk.

Gray as rain in an autumn wood when the skies are pale with cloud Are the light and the street and the faces where the elephant busses roll, Dark motors shine like a seal’s wet skin, and they and their rich are proud, But the walkers are dim and aimless on a dolorous way of the soul.

I watch, and my soft, pleased body cries for the rooms with lights like flowers, For the delicate talk of women, and music’s deep-perfumed smart, And I sweat at the walkers crushed by machining, implacable hours, And in torment I turn away—but their march is over my heart.

They are helpless as drifting weed, they are stung with insane impatience

At themselves and their lords and their hunger no toil can feed till it sleeps. They are racked earth hating the plow, they are dung at the roots of the nations, They are wheat that will not be bread and burns at the scythe that reaps.

Ensigns of honor they bear not, their songs are ignorant clamors. I hate their joy and their fear. I am bitter afraid of pain. But the pitiful tune of their feet is trampling my soul with hammers, And I must follow them out in the desolate face of the rain.

From the silken-furnitured halls, from the golden and pleasant places To the lurching and crippled march that an idiot voice proclaims! To Man’s face suddenly made from a million poor men’s faces! And each walker arrayed with suns that are burning celestial flames! Ask not watchword nor sign—there is neither tocsin nor clarion; Only the strength of the flood, the might of the falling snow, The cry of the bitter clay to the God who devised it carrion, The purblind silence of sleep, as night to the night we flow.

8:30 A. M. ON 32ND STREET

_The wind sniffed like a happy cat At scuttling beetle-people, The sunshine would have roused a flat To try and be a steeple._

_My breakfast in me warm and staunch, Your letter in my pocket, The world’s a coon that’s climbed a branch And I am David Crockett._

Time hoards our lives with griping care And barren is his bursary, But he’ll make diamonds of the air Upon one anniversary!

Five years ago I saw you first And knew in every part The flagrant and immortal thirst Love salts into the heart.

Five years ago the Pleiad crew Sang in their starry hive, Because a miracle like you Could dare to be alive!

Five years, and still, through earth’s degrees You, like a pageant, pass; Courageous as invading seas And careless as the grass.

Pauper poets of rimes grown thin Mutter their madhouse wrongs. I have aeons to love you in, Ages to make you songs!

Pour your rain on the bitter tree! Harrow the soil with spears! I shall grow you Felicity, After a million years!

_The street-signs winked like smiles at me, The wind pawed by enchanted! The sun swung high for all to see I’d stop him if I wanted!_

CHANSON AT MADISON SQUARE

You live in the Terminal Building, I In the Metropolitan Tower. This is what I send you every night, A flash of red and a flash of white, The red for our hearts and their pulse that is Delight, The white for power.

You have hung your home with crimson lamps, Apples swinging on a tree, They band like a ring round that tall stone thumb, They ladder up its sides like the spillings of a plum, I must climb and pick them all ere our double kingdom come Where the motors roar like sea.

You have crowned your hall with granite thorns, Mine stands huge as steam. It carries all Time like a watch upon its side, And the slow hands sway like the cautious feet of Pride, Doling out mortality to Moloch and his bride, And to us the clear Edens of our dream.

The city lies at ease and her lazy paws of light Claw idly up and down the sky, She strikes peacock-Night on his phosphorescent fans, And he shudders into jewels and his eyed and blinking vans Shake their ocean-nurtured purple on the turrets that are Man’s, And I love you and we cannot die.

Shut your eyes—you are tired—let the blue bed of air Be your pillow through the hot short night. We are children lost together in a wood turned rock. We are gods whose eyes are Wisdom, and Olympus is our mock. Drowse into your Paradise! I say above the clock “_White—red—white—red—white!_”

HYMN IN COLUMBUS CIRCLE

(_After Seeing a Certain Window Display_)

Man in his secret shrine Hallows a wealth of gods, Black little basalt Baals Wood-kings heard in the pine, Josses whose jade prevails Breaking Disaster’s rods; Prayers have made each one shine.

Man’s is a pious race. Once he knelt to the moss, Ra, Astarte or Jove, Deities great and base, —Once his questionings clove To the stubborn arms of the Cross That smote all lies in the face.