Part 4
Sooth, Citizens! there are few hours to dawn Of a red day and black gun-horrored night. The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawn Of golden-balled and silver-webbed light. Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite-- To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.
Americans! How stand we? Does the Dream Still hold? Once more the robust States declare Against the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem, Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we share The same proud purpose to defend the Scheme, Under the flag our lofty standards bear?
Americans! Look we with fearless eyes Loyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her, Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies, Will our set faces prove our calibre-- Our Destiny all penalties incur, So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.
Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formed For War, or Peace in solid moveless Race! We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmed To cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face. We are Souls, standing in our rightful place, Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.
Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowers Portentously the brooding Europe pall. Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours, When our World-Dream must either stand or fall-- Arm ye with Loyalty!--Hark, hear the call! Democracy still trumpets on the towers!
PENMARCH--BRITTANY
At the time of the “Pardon,” 1914.
The Penmarch roads are sandy white; By the old church the blue nets dry, Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright, Tremulous scarlet splashes high On tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes, Stiff snowy caps and ribbon hues Go clattering to the market place. ’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace, (And little Bretons form a ring, And pause to hear a Lady sing.)
What does she sing, this Lady, who Is like embodied song, her eyes, Clear with the light of faith where through Looks sweetness of her soul’s surmise? What are the words she sings, her smile So Mother-merry? What the wile That draws the small coifs nearer, near, And charms away the peasant fear (Shy little Bretons keep their ring, And stay to hear the Lady sing.)
Blue sky is part, blue sea is part; Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain; Her wide eyes deepen with her art Like gentian flowers after rain. ’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay-- Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play. No wonder wooden shoes keep time To magic of her lilting rhythm. (Gay little Bretons hold their ring, Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”)
That was one summer. Now a dirge Breaks on that coast in bitter wail, And news told by the ocean surge Makes Breton-maids and mothers quail. O holy Fires of fisher-lights. Gleam out no more on Pardon nights! The great red sails hang listless, torn The empty blue nets trail forlorn. And yet I think that little feet Sometimes on Penmarch beaches meet, And Penmarch children cease their play To talk of how She sang that day, And that once more a happy ring Is formed to hear a Lady sing!
TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER GOING INTO ACTION
_France, August, 1918._
Today’s your turn to take the road of fire; Your turn to rally at the gates of hell; Your turn for steel and gas and blood and mire, In shell-holes and through mazes of barbed wire, Where men before you fought and bled and fell.
And we go with you, we, who know your face-- Its dear and merry shining, and intent; Follow you blindly to this testing place. Breathless, with you at this, the ultimate pace Your fleet strong spirit takes for its ascent.
Whatever agony is yours is ours, Whatever thing the soul of you endures; We are the witness of your manhood’s powers; Not one of us who has your measure cowers-- What we know of you all our thought insures.
Go you, then, to the Front! May God be good! Whatever face you raise to Him will be The face of one, who for our Hope has stood, Manly and resolute, whose spirit would Be at the Front, and elsewhere could not be!
RESURGENCE
To C. L. B.
Down the glad morning lane a lucent veil Of dogwood wavers like a windblown screen Revealing vistas lit by golden trail Of netted water-brooks that intervene Where ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen; Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhale On the spring world; a buoyant path of green Makes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grail Of exquisite re-capture of the frail Fresh renascence of all that fair has been. Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyes That watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom! Are ours the only forms that may not rise Out of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom? Nay--burst we forth out of the moment’s doom, Instinct toward suns of flowering destinies, Lifting glad lips to deep full-breasted skies, Branching like stars where radiant dreams resume.
GARDEN ADVENTURES
NO. 1--AERIAL.
Down the long garden path the message came, Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed; “My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame, Yet do I know defeat and barren shame; Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?”
A lily-bell hung in her curving spire; Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail; Womanly roses opened; did this fire, This wordless furthering of deep desire Waft from their midst down to the meadow-rail?
Who took the message? Did the iris there, Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls. Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flare Concentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dare To think that it might answer to the call?
Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship, Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way, Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tip Shoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slip Impatiently from honeyed bud and spray.
Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow; Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they see The yellow tulip near them suddenly grow Quivering, tremulous? Does the tulip know What meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?
NO. 2--INVASION.
In wooded depths the lilies grew, Nunlike in canopies of green. Hanging white bells of paladin In Gothic ferns beneath the yew-- A sanctuary, with the dew Telling its beads by leafy screen.
And where the dandelion ranks, Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield, Was far away in sedgy field-- Too dense with spears of thistle hordes To menace distant lily chords, Or chapel treasure all unsealed;
And all day nettle airships sail, And on the moonlight thistle swords Leap from their scabbards, flashing towards The priestly yew that guards the vale; Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail, And violets rush borderwards.
Alas! By stealth th’ invader came, Intrenched near lily convents, where A startled fragrance fills the air. Green cells are pierced by nettle spike, And dandelions, shield and pike Ravish white bells that rang to prayer!
NO. 3--DIPLOMATS
Archippus, ambassador To the poppy emperor, Enters with his wings extended, Orange, black and samite blended, Bows o’er cups of columbines, And at taste of royal wines Flashes spangled semaphore Message--“To the end of the war.”
Philemon, black, green and pearl Wavers to syringa whirl; Lightly shod, his errant feet Win the white pavilions sweet; As he flits to salvia cells, Dipping into ruby wells His antennae, as he goes Wig-wag--“Beauty has no foes.”
Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned, Flutters to the brilliant band; He confers with larkspur sages, Loiters with the pansy pages, Tells his heraldry and crest To the rose’s burning breast; Soon doth Turnus flutter free, Wing-endorsing “Liberty.”
Protoparce, grey and blunt, Enters on his stealthy hunt; Tongue protuding from his head, Heavy wings and brutal tread, Bulging eyes and savage thirst, Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst; See him prowling, full of schemes, Subtle midst the flower-dreams! Valiant tulips, trust no more! Close your helmets. This is war!
NO. 4--SPIES
Ask me no questions. Fireflies last night Went over all the ground with searching light, And only found that, where the peony-head Hung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red.
Tell me not why. I only know that since I paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince, A group of tents, some warlike grey, some white Cover the ground, pitched in a single night.
No explanation gives me peace of mind, When long battalioned caravans I find Crossing my garden walk; and when I see Under-ground trenches grow unceasingly.
Give me no reasons for squat forms that pass Lurking at twilight near the ribbon grass. Only the owl and I our vigil keep, With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.
NO 5--RENDEZVOUS
Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night, She spreads illumined petals, and her white Mystical raying disk spills frankincense From her stored sweet and balmy opulence.
Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines, Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines, Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent, Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent.
What secret doth she hold? What visions stir At the slow calm awakening of her? Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread, And to the encircling dark she leans her head.
Then, who can tell what fragrant message strays O’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways? To what green tent her sighing languors steal? What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel?
Till--Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wings Floats from his moonlit forest wanderings, And by enchantment led, there plights his troth To the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth.
Now, while the garden drowses, and the cool Of passing midnight deepens in the pool, While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep-- Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep.
The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old; And all the simple forms and feasts are cold. But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith, The Forest knows,--the flowers keep their Faith.
CAMOUFLAGE
Here is the waving river line, and here A rail-road made (And here float lilies white as those that were Where Marsyas played.)
The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planes For air ship raid (Yet--still steals up the hidden cirrus lanes The Huntress Maid!)
The country road is gashed with lurid signs Of commerce-gods: (Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantines Hang votive pods!)
The man who walks in front of me to work Has pointed ears (He speaks with modern emphasis and jerk _So it appears_)--
But where he toils the chimneys range their pipes In Syrinx form (Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what types Of dancers swarm?)
Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say “No one escapes----” (Ye Gods, _Who_ is that smiling such a way Among the grapes?)
HOME-SICK
He sees the white moon climb the city skies, Far over rank, black roofs and balconies, And with her spectral radiance anoint The slender lance of every steeple point.
Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge, And through the avenues the people surge. Behind him are his walls where, numb and old His books and pictures seem aloof and cold.
Below, he hears the gong and shout and call; Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall, And bows himself upon the window sill, In a communion motionless and still.
He leaves the temples where the merchants trade, Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade, And hand and hand with the white moon he strays Away to leafy lanes and country ways.
He vizualizes green of plashy mead Of kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed, Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloom And purple lilacs bursting into plume.
Electric beads may dot the cities plain, But in his heart old candles flare again; Old doors stand open, and beside old stiles He leans, and listens as in other whiles.
So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home, To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam; So hand in hand with the young moon he strays Out of the city gates to the old days.
THE INTERPRETER
Last night I heard Masefield, Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tomb Reading old plays and masques And gipsy drama of old England.
I saw strange eyes flickering--sad, Set in a face recording vigils, Moody, unfellowed prowlings Vague contemplations and wanderings.
I saw his face, dream-magnetic, Pale, withheld, until he told Stories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest; Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow, And a smile like water shook on his face.
I heard the grind of creaking anchor chains Felt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull, Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoops Slink as some halliard parted, and was caught.
I heard dead seamen’s lips Recounting heaps of gold in sunken ships; I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women, Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes.
Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voice Droned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace, Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms, England--before the War!
Last night I heard Masefield. He stood downcast on a little platform, While I careened, helm up, full canvassed Close-hauled on happy seas.
He stood limply on a little platform World-blind before the rows of set, still, faces, Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word “Beauty.”
KLEPHTIC
“It would be strange if with such ample survival of the ancient polytheism in modern law there were no reminiscence of the Fauns, the Satyrs, the Pans of the olden world."--RENNELL RODD.
Far in the mountains, The mountains of Greece, The cone fires burn. Mid the pines and rocks, And the tall shepherds wear The curly white fleece, And a man, with a beard, Like a horse’s mane, Plays a small pipe, A carvéd pipe, Till the goats come straggling in, And the bees come drowsing by, And the olives come dropping down; And he will be playing like that, And they will be coming like that, Long after our solemn mummings cease In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
Far in the mountains, The mountains of Greece, The values are strange-- The worth of a tree, The strength of a rock, The health of a sheep, The length of a brook, The dip of a bird, The wisdom of mules. They will offer you grapes, Or a horn-spoon of curd, Or wine in a cup, Or honey and bread; And they will keep all these values, These dear simple values Long after our silly values cease, In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
In the mountains, the mountains of Greece They lie in a cave, And hark to wood-sounds, Perhaps cross themselves, Saying, aghast! “There be wild things, Hidden things, dread things. Strange things, weird things, great things.” (They quake, and are not very brave,) But when they sleep and dream, They dream as far as they please. As grand and great as they please-- Of miles of red-fezzed Turks Done to death by one Greek, Of clouds that turn into men, Of fountains with golden rain, Of seas and golden ships, Of reveling women and maids, And hosts of little boys Dressed in skins of fur, Dancing and playing pipes;
And of Someone very strange, With horns perhaps, but a smile, A smile like hot sweet fire-- And they will be dreaming like that, And thinking like that, Long after our stupid teachings are dead. Yea--Yea--Yea-- Long after we are dead, In the mountains, The mountains of Greece.
AT THE FEAST OF LIFE
You, who sit opposite and move your lips, And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon, And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips-- Why do you pause, for it is afternoon. What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mist Before your sweet eyes, as the hours creep? While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast, A fast you keep.
Where dwells who now should come and feast with you? Where fares he, years off--leagues off? Thirsts and prays For the one sign to make his life come true? For the one clue to lead him to your ways? Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls? Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait? What if, in vain your tender name he calls-- Entering late?
If he should fail, I see you still serene, Leaving the tables where the garlands die, Passing the fountained courts that intervene To the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye. O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascend I see you toil; your pallid candle shakes; The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend, Drops--faded flakes.
DEATH WITHIN DEATH
Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel? Prone on his little couch he lies, With the death-shadow in his eyes. He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell. Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel?
Thou must not smite him, Israfel. For all his race throbs in his fame, The sole hope of a noble name; That small hand like a tinted shell Holds high tradition, Israfel.
Thou canst not smite him, Israfel. He turns his asking eyes on me. I am his sun and moon and sea; My life tides in his life-tides swell. Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.
Since thou hast smitten, Israfel, Know this, thy sword so bitter keen Destroys a thing that might have been; Yet, smiting him, it was as well To kill my Soul, thou Israfel!
AT THE FLOWER-SHOW
A rosy haze misted the air, perfume Of flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings, Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom, Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings. Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom; Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled strings Sprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room.
So quietly the human throng moved by, It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest face Was wistful, pensive, reverent of eye Wandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace; And there were soft communings, whispers shy-- Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace. Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry, And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place.
“We are the most like you,” the young girls said. “Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers; Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed; Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.” Then was I, listening, rare astonished, Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers, Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head. “_You are not very like us_,” sighed the flowers.
Then there came women made of night and stars, Women of dusky eye and cirrus tress From whom men rush to wreckage and to wars, Frenzied of their inscrutable caress. “We are like you,” they said, “competitors For admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers” Negation from green-hooded councilors, “_You are not like us_,” soft condemned the flowers.
And then there drifted by hard graceless forms, Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no sense Of umbelled mysteries, of disks, and norms Of myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense; Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms, Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers, Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms. “_These surely are not like us_” breathed the flowers.
Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise. Creeping in slow persistance like a vine; And there were wells of light within her eyes; Her hair was milk-weed white. By every sign Of age, dried stalk of past fecundities. She was the silvern wraith of fair Design. “Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours; Mine has been Love and many children mine.” “_Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us_,” smiled the flowers!
TALISMANS
Just now the Mother left me, and I stand Holding her trove, a sheaf of shining curl-- All that is left of “Once a little girl,” Alive and warm and glowing in my hand.
Like to a Seer gazing into space, I muse upon this silken treasure, where The coiled lights quicken, and I see the fair Woman-ward leaning of a childish face.
I see that face gaze down the crowded years, Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stir To find the deep maternal heart of Her, Who gazes back all undeterred by tears.
I see the child eyes give their radiant speech Once more to mother-eyes that never failed; I see a heart that never yet has quailed Answer those eyes over the long years’ reach....
The Winter sun goes down; quick chills the air Outside my window.... While the West grows old, I stand in Sanctuary, for I hold Undying Faith, enshrined in golden hair.
SUBLIMINAL
I should like to be very lonely indeed-- Much lonelier than I am; With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed, And simplicity like the sun, and no other need But to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.
And then I should like to think such silent things, As only the flowers think; I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine, And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine, As a flower floats over a brink.
I should like to be very lonely indeed-- So the world would draw around me, Like a green cave flower lit, echo and shadow keyed, With a door that to naught but a path of clouds would lead, Or the bed in a blossoming tree.
And then I would pipe my thoughts so shyly out, And watch them dance, dryad dressed; I would talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout; I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out, And bathe in the Sea of the West!
THE WALLED CITY
Here is the mass, you see it astray and astruggle, Deafened with noise, pushing and jestling along; Pleasure and envy and greed, in a feverish juggle, Outside the City of Song.
There are the Vapid, watching their hookah’s smoke-bubble; There are the slothful, drunk at the wells of wrong; At a scarlet booth is a Gypsy pleasing the rabble. Outside the City of Song.
Here are the credulous, cheated to death by a thimble; Here are the hungry stumbling on to the gong; Here stands a lover grasping a treacherous symbol, Outside the City of Song.
Whirl of pretense, of gilding, of tinsel, of glitter; Strange that its patter and laughter can keep up so long; Echo on echo of mocking and cat-call and twitter, Outside the City of Song.
Long is the road, that they travel and know not the turning; Black is the pit at the end, and the fear and the wrong; But bitterest, blackest, their last inescapable yearning For the lost City of Song.
While in its courts, where the fountains leap up to the zenith, Dreamers and poets and lovers go all the day long, Dazzled, and raptured with pondering all that it meaneth, To dwell in the City of Song.
ON LILY STREET, NANTUCKET
On Lily Street, where drowsy crickets hum, And two and two the summer lovers come, Straying so happily their island paths, Where the white candle flickers at a low-hung door, I see soft hooded figures cross a bit of moor-- Hurrying, eager, they-- To hear you play.
Now as the moonlight slants on whitened roof, And old New England still gives austere proof Of bygone things in narrowed window glass, The guests sit quiet in the panelled rooms Content with half lights and half tinted glooms, Because they know that they-- Shall hear you play.
And I who lean upon the leafy sill Feel moonlight dreaming change to vagrom thrill, And looking forth as on some lantern screen, See, flitting o’er the stark old house-wall nigh. Soft shadows of your vivid melody. So--in an eerie way I hear you play.
Till, on the house wall opposite my place I see wild Carmen’s bright poinsettia face; I see Grieg’s “Day break,” streaming up the sky. Upon the old Nantucket houses blank I watch Tannhouser’s Pilgrims climb in solemn rank, --Past windows grey--the while you play.