Part 2

I am she Thou knewest those mad years in Galilee When we were young. And now thy tale is told, And I await death, shivering wretchedly, A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. They call thee god. Paul, when his choleric face Enkindles from his ever-blazing eyes, Swears thou art god, and blusters of a place-- A city that the man calls Paradise,-- Wherein thou reignest. Dear, am I not wise That deem thee worthy of idolatry. Yet man,--man whom I loved, and verily Man whom I love, for all that I behold Thy face no more, beloved, and I be A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. Yet westerly, where golden clouds enlace Earth’s rim with heaven’s, kindlier kingdoms rise; For there the fortunate Far Islands face The ends of Ocean, and the sacrifice Burns ever to Dis’ Queen, and no man sighs In vain for quietude,--where even we May win such grace of grave Persephonê As to obliterate woes manifold In dragging days that fretted sordidly A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. Man whom I loved, my heart cries out to thee, _All that thou wert I loved!_--and so, let be To dream of maids immortal arms enfold, Nor rank with Dryopê or Danaë A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. 6 MARCUS AURELIUS: A SUPPRESSED “MEDITATION” “_L’impératrice a les beaux yeux_” --ANTOINE RICZI.

Bright eyes in truth Faustina hath: They are colored like that restive path Which sunset cleaves across the sea; They are as chill; it well may be Their splendors, also, do but screen Waste wreckage and coiled, slow, obscene, Vague, ravenous things. It is of this I think whenever her lips kiss. She is brightly colored and soft and frail; Her beauty like a tinctured veil Hides and divides her heart from me. Nor would I vex your secrecy, Grave eyes, that screen her unguessed heart, Wherein I ask not any part; It is enough that ye are bright. I praise you; and am expedite Once more to touch Faustina’s hair Caressingly, one instant, where Her face lifts now, and shows how fair That body is which Parcæ planned, And fashioned fitly, to command Such love as all men understand. Grant her unfaithful, and wherein Am I less favored by Faustine Than were her heart all faithfulness? Fools in their folly face distress; But wisdom muffles wisdom’s sight And looks for naught more recondite In any woman’s grace than this-- Fair flesh, bright hair, and lips that kiss So winsomely that thereupon Man’s wisdom wins oblivion, And right and reason, swooning, seem Faint figments of a fool’s fond dream. 7 AMAIMON VISITS THE THEBAID “_Quam luna adest video nocte illusiones dæmonum_” --ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI. Each night at moonrise is let forth from hell In a fair woman’s shape--yea, I know well How fair it is!--Amaimon; and thus stands A darkling shade against stilled seas of sands Made wonderful with moonlight; and speaks not.

What need?--Amaimon knows I have forgot No one of those soft curves Amaimon wears. So have I need of penance and long prayers: Because since ever time began to be, No woman, living, was lovelier than she, Nor statelier,--yea, buoyant with that power Her beauty loaned, she moved as moves a flower, Mire-rooted, nodding by a pool wherein Its double drowns, and dancing when its twin Struggles in wind-stirred waters. Nay, most sweet Of women, I serve that Man whose tortured feet Spurned Zeus from heaven, and for human sake Trod evil down, even as folk tread a snake And end all, once for all; by night and day My prayers assail the ears of God, nor stay For any bodily weakness till I gain Surety of pardon through my body’s pain. Hath God not pardoned me? Men tell of them That bent with sickness touched my cassock’s hem And straight were hale. They tell how these poor hands Raised dead folk even. Throughout distant lands My fame is spread, where emperors quake to tell Their harlots of some recent miracle Which I--nay, which High God performed through me That God’s sole glory be proclaimed, and be A scourge to scoffers. So, being fain to die, I bide that day when High God lifts on high My soul, and sets me with His cherubim, Remembering how I have striven for Him And smitten heresy--yea, with sword and flame Laid waste how many homes!--in His dear name, Whose wrath is quenchless.

It is well with me: O woman the fiend mimics, how is it with thee? --With thee, enswirled in some unending sweep Of ageless flame, whose fires forever leap Like adders round the damned their coils consume Not ever, nor relinquish! These illume Bright tender bodies, such as Cæsar kissed But yesterday, and now long torments twist.... Ey, what a host of women howl in hell Who were when they wore flesh so lovable, And whom men loved as I-- But thou art dead, Rotted, and damned, long since. When I am sped To heaven’s loftiest courts, and thereamong Made free of heaven, how shall I force my tongue To honor Him that damned thee? and how be Content with heaven? What, through eternity Hear thy voice--thine, my lost love, loved in vain, And lost, lost, lost, with only heaven to gain!-- Hear thy voice call in agony to God, Who likewise hears--and heeds not! Ey, once shod With gold and clad in fair white linen cloth, Shall I then be quite changed? and not be wroth With God? but be as God is? and never know Regret for thee, nor pity for the woe Of shrieking fire-wrapped folk swept to and fro Where Satan gibes at them and the worm stings? Lust, who is overlord of living things; Lust, by the heavings of whose leathery wings The flames of hell are fanned to signal-fires That mark each haven each human heart desires; Lust, who with ceaseless and illusive snares Derides our dreams and prompts us in our prayers; Lust, who is strong and patient and cautelous, And whom fiends name Amaimon in Satan’s house: Plays thus at dice, our stake being my soul’s bliss. _Nay, God is love_ (Amaimon whispers this), _Nor pedant-like peers from far heaven’s vault To estimate His children’s least light fault As folk weigh gold, to the last hair-breadth’s worth. Grant that this woman, living upon earth, A little leaned to Marcion’s mad creed, That High God grieves when unbelievers bleed And Holy Church’s servants, or with rod Or rack or rope, attest the might of God_:-- “Because a father’s love, pre-eminent In Him, contrives no curious punishment, But, even as earthly fathers check a child, Reproves, and for love’s sake is reconciled”:-- _Thus runneth Marcion’s foul heresy.

This woman, then, must burn. It yet may be All need not burn for all eternity; And God at last may pardon Donatists, And Athanasians, and Tritheists-- Ho, even Marcionites!--as lacking wit Always to read aright God’s holy writ, And, therefore, worthier of pity than hate. For God is love; and love or soon or late Forgives,--yea, even pardons thy dread to see In God some burlier counterpart of thee._ Such blasphemies Amaimon whispers me Nightly at moonrise: and I answer not. What need?--Amaimon knows I have forgot No one of those soft curves Amaimon wears. So have I need of penance and long prayers. 8 DAME VENUS IN THURINGIA “_Icy je regne, et je m’assemble tous les hommes_” --THÉODORE PASSERAT. Even to the Hörselberg they follow me, These men Thou couldst not save: the hollow hill Is thronged with them that have abandoned Thee To follow her that yet endures, and will Outlive all tenets. Canst Thou ever still Our revelry, O Christ? or canst Thou stay These lips that on my lover’s lips I lay, Deriding Thee unpunished? Nay, God wot, Here rest no pilgrims on Thy bloodless way, Where in the Hörselberg we know Thee not!

We have no ending to our revelry; Of lust and drunkenness we have our fill: Thou hast the uplands, and the sun-bathed sea-- My mother sea!--is subject to Thy will, Poor foolish Christ, that hadst not wit to kill Her whom Thou hadst discrowned. I may not stray Amid the fields of Paphos, and men pray No more to me in Eryx; yet no jot Of lust’s old worship dwindles, even to-day, Where in the Hörselberg we know Thee not. Wilt Thou not slay me for much blasphemy? Strike and have done! Whom kindlier shouldst Thou kill Than one begotten of the restive sea, Thus penned, and turned a potent poison till Man’s folly fail him?--I with futile skill Snare ceaselessly; and never see the day Smite huddling golden waves; nor feel the spray Make glad my lips. My godhood is forgot. I tread a hill more drear than Golgotha, Where in the Hörselberg we know Thee not. Christ, curse me not with immortality!

I once was Aphroditê; must I be A thing unclean, and unto fools allot All fools may crave, even for eternity, Where in the Hörselberg we know Thee not? II EPISTROPHIA “_Pour son amour eut cest essoyne_” 9 ONE END OF LOVE “_Yolande dit, en soupirant_” --ALPHONSE MOREAU. _It is long since we met_,--she said. I answered,--_Yes._ She is not fair, But very old now, and no gold Gleams in that scant gray withered hair Where once much gold was: and, I think. Not easily might one bring tears Into her eyes, which have become Like dusty glass. _’Tis thirty years_, I said.--_And then the war came on Apace, and our young King had need Of men to serve him oversea Against the heathen. For their greed, Puffed up at Tunis, troubles him_-- She said:--_This week my son is gone To him at Paris with his men._ And then:--_You never married, John?_ I answered,--_No._ And so we sate Musing a while. Then with his guests Came Robert; and his thin voice broke Upon my dream, with the old jests, No food for laughter now; and swore We must be friends now that our feud Was overpast. _We are grown old,-- Eh, John?_--he said. _And, by the Rood! ’Tis time we were at peace with God Who are not long for this world._ --_Yea_, I answered;--_we are old._ And then, Remembering that April day At Calais, and that hawthorn field Wherein we fought long since, I said:-- _We are friends now._ And she sate by, Scarce heeding. Thus the evening sped. And we ride homeward now, and I Ride moodily: my palfrey jogs Along a rock-strewn way the moon Lights up for us; yonder the bogs Are curdled with thin ice; the trees Are naked; from the barren wold The wind comes like a blade aslant Across a world grown very old. 10 VILLON QUITS FRANCE “_Demain tous nous mourrons; c’est juste notre affaire_” --THÉODORE PASSERAT.

We hang to-morrow, then? That doom is fit For most of us, I think. Yet, harkee, friend, I have a ballad here which I have writ Of us and our high ending. Pray you, send The scrawl to Cayeux, bidding him commend François to grace. Old Colin loves me well, For no good reason, save it so befell We two were young together.... When I am hung, Colin will weep--and then will laugh, and tell How many pranks we played when we were young. Dear lads of yesterday!... We had not wit To live always so we might not offend, Yet--how we laughed!

I marvel now at it, Because that merry company will spend No more mad nights together. Some are penned In abbeys, some in dungeons, others fell In battle.... Time assesses death’s _gabelle_,-- Salt must be taxed, eh?--well, we ranked among The salt of earth, once, who are old and tell How many pranks we played when we were young. Afraid to die, you ask?--Why, not a whit. Ah, no! whole-heartedly I mean to wend Out of a world I have found exquisite By every testing. For I apprehend Life was not made all lovely to the end That life ensnare us, nor the miracle Of youth devised but as a trap to swell Old Legion’s legions; and must give full tongue To praise no less than prayer, when bidden tell How many pranks we played when we were young. Nay, cheerily we of the Cockle-shell, And all whose youth was nor to stay nor quell, Will dare foregather when earth’s knell is rung, And Calvary’s young conqueror bids us tell How many pranks we played when we were young. 11 INVOCATION: TO THE DARK VENUS “_Audite litaniam, quam dulce in noctibus quondam_” --? ARCHILOCHUS OF SICYON.

Hearken and heed, Melænis! For all that the litany ceased When time had pilfered the victim, And flouted thy pale-lipped priest, And set astir in the temple Where burned the fires of thy shrine The owls and wolves of the desert-- Yet hearken, (_the issue is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine! For I have followed, nor faltered-- Adrift in a land of dreams Where laughter and pity and terror Commingle as confluent streams, I have seen and adored the Sidonian, Implacable, fair and divine,-- And bending low, have implored thee To hearken, (_the issue is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine! There are taller lads than Atys, And many are wiser than he,-- How should I heed them?--whose fate is Ever to serve and to be Ever the lover of Atys, And die that Atys may dine, Live if he need me--Then heed me, And speed me, (_the moment is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine! HIC TONAT: DEA ADEST Fair is the form unbeholden, And golden the glory of thee Whose voice is the voice of a vision, Whose face is the foam of the sea, And the fall of whose feet is the flutter Of breezes in birches and pine, When thou drawest near me, to hear me, And cheer me, (_the moment is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine! * * * * * Long I besought thee, nor vainly, Daughter of Water and Air,-- Charis! Idalia! Hortensis! Hast thou not heard the prayer, When the blood stood still with loving, And the blood in me leapt like wine, And I cried on thy name, Melænis?-- That heard me, (_the glory is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine!

Falsely they tell of thy dying, Thou that art older than death; And never the Hörselberg hid thee, Whatever the slanderer saith; For the stars are as heralds forerunning. When laughter and love combine At twilight, in thy light, Melænis-- That heard me, (_the glory is thine!_) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine! 12 RONSARD RE-VOICES A TRUISM “_Quand vous seres bien vieille, et quand je serais mort_” --THÉODORE PASSERAT. When you are very old, and I am gone, Not to return, it may be you will say-- Hearing my name and holding me as one Long dead to you,--in some half-jesting way Of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of May Rumored in woods when first the throstles sing:-- _He loved me once._ And straightway murmuring My half-forgotten rhymes, you will regret Evanished times when I was wont to sing So very lightly, _Love runs into debt._ I shall not heed you then. My course being run For good or ill, I shall have gone my way, And know you, love, no longer,--nor the sun, Perchance, nor any light of earthly day, Nor any joy nor sorrow,--while at play The world speeds merrily, nor reckoning Our coming or our going. Lips will cling, Forswear, and be forsaken, and men forget Where once our tombs were, and our children sing-- So very lightly!--_Love runs into debt._ If in the grave love have dominion Will that wild cry not quicken the wise clay, And taunt with memories of fond deeds undone-- Some joy untasted, some lost holiday,-- All death’s large wisdom? Will that wisdom lay The ghost of any sweet familiar thing Come haggard from the Past, or ever bring Forgetfulness of those two lovers met When all was April?--nor too wise to sing So very lightly, _Love runs into debt!_ Yea, though the years of vain remembering Draw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the spring We meet and kiss, whatever hour be set Wherein all hours attain to harvesting,-- So very lightly Love runs into debt. 13 JAUNTS FROM STRATFORD --“LOIN DE STRATFORD”: PAUL VERVILLE. III--IN VERONA “_Il m’étonne de voir que le vieux Capulet_” I had not thought the house of Capulet Might boast a daughter of such colorful grace As this whole-hearted girl, with flower-soft face Round which the glory of her hair is set Like some great golden halo;--and, as yet, Love is to her a word that, spoken, spurs Wonder alone, since love administers In nothing to the mirth of Juliet. What if some day I woke this heart unharried As yet by love, and won these lips more red Than rain-tossed cherries?--_Look, the dancers go.

What’s he that would not dance? If he be married My grave is like to be my wedding-bed._ --God rest you, sweet! the knave is Romeo. XII--IN TROY “_Le Scamandre engourdi, qui la lune illumine_” Stagnant Scamander, which the moon--a slight Frail-seeming crescent toiling through gaunt trees Mid stars that follow her like golden bees,-- Makes glittering; beyond its marge a white Glitter of tossed bleached bones where camp-dogs fight For offal, and a glitter of panoplies Where sentinels prowl; and partly shrouding these, Thin fever-breeding mists and dubious night. And one clear song--fond, as all love-songs be-- From Troilus’ fevered lips that give fond vent To love and wonder and idolatry, Snapped short; and mutterings of thunder, blent With cries of mourners, and the garrulous glee Of Cressida in Diomedes’ tent. 14 INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE “_Quand le poëte d’Angleterre disait que ce monde_” --PAUL VERVILLE. _The world’s a stage?_--Well, faith! it may have seemed so In days less bleak, when Arden’s brakes were green, And Rosalind’s low insolent fond laughter Woke mirth to charm that planet which to-day Seems all one vast decorous hospital,-- Germless, immaculate, well-ventilated, Whitewashed, and odorful with antiseptics. And we that toss upon the softest beds, While yet our fever lasts, are impotent Beneath this dreary burden of right angles And blank white walls. And so, we twist, and murmur, And groan, and twitch the coverlets awry, Which Mrs. Grundy, head-nurse of our ward, Pats straight again, in curtseying to the doctor. Lean Dr.

Death, who never lost a case, Comes thus; and daily pauses by one’s bed; Fingers the pulse; declares the fever abating; Writes a prescription for the apothecary, Old Time; then cuts a jest or so,--departing With dubious promises of one’s discharge Next year, next month, next week, may be. Ha, neighbor, Slim pale-haired woman with opal-colored eyes, Why bide his pleasure? Nay, let us steal out Together, and--blithe mariners faring forth On chartless seas,--seek out a vessel bound For some politer port, made point-device By Fragonard, Watteau, or whom you will So the contriver of this hospital Be not the architect. Oh, dimly gleams Our haven; for its ways are vaporous With smouldering incense, mid whose loitering spirals Frail cupids weave, eternally, long garlands Of ribbons and pale roses,--weave unvexed By any garish sunlight, since one star Alone peeps out of heaven. See, the moon Shows like a silver sickle to the west, But casts no shadows yet; and twilight dims All glow of color where resistless gallants, Sleek abbés, and false subtle lovely women Pass to the sound of tinkling mandolines And hushed contralto laughter. We will make Rondeaux of life and triolets of death; And be at peace; and never laugh aloud; And grieve not though he mar those stately hedges Wherethrough he leers--gaunt sensual Pierrot!-- To note the ankles of young Columbine. Yes, we will smile to see her pirouette With Harlequin in shadowed avenues,-- Yew-shadowed statue-haunted avenues, Where pensive gods incuriously remember Put-off omnipotence,--with Harlequin While tricked Pierrot sings at her father’s window.... Smile, it may be, but never laugh aloud.

And in the autumn Columbine will die, And Harlequin be sad a whole half-hour. But Pierrot’s heart will break; and he will grieve That so much earth lies heavily on her Who trod the earth so lightly!--and will weep Big facile tears, and babble to the moon. Will you not go?--Then come. Give me your hand,-- That firm small slender hand. Tread quietly, For Mrs. Grundy nods now, who will wake Full-cry when all our fellow-patients chatter And drone and bustle like fat surfeited flies Round our dead reputations. Let us go. 15 STORY OF THE FLOWERY KINGDOM “_La belle Sou-Chong-Thé, au clair de pleine lune_” --PAUL VERVILLE. Fair Sou-Chong-Tee, by a shimmering brook Where ghost-like lilies loomed tall and straight, Met young Too-Hi, in a moonlit nook, Where they cooed and kissed till the hour was late: Then, with lanterns, a mandarin passed in state, Named Hoo-Hung-Hoo of the Golden Band, Who had wooed the maiden to be _his_ mate,-- For these things occur in the Flowery Land.

Now, Hoo-Hung-Hoo had written a book, In seven volumes, to celebrate The death of the Emperor’s thirteenth cook: So, being a person whose power was great, He ordered a herald to indicate He would blind Too-Hi with a red-hot brand And marry Sou-Chong at a quarter-past-eight,-- For these things occur in the Flowery Land. Whilst the brand was heating, the lovers shook In their several shoes,--when by lucky fate A Dragon came, with his tail in a crook,-- A Dragon out of a Nankeen Plate,-- And gobbled the hard-hearted potentate And all of his servants, and snorted, _and_ Passed on at a super-cyclonic rate,-- For these things occur in the Flowery Land. The lovers were wed at an early date, And lived for the future, I understand, In one continuous tête-à-tête,-- For these things occur ... in the Flowery Land. 16 THE HOIDENS “_Au point du premier jour, dans l’enfance du tout_” --ANTOINE RICZI. When the Morning broke before us Came the wayward Three astraying, Chattering in babbling chorus, (Obloquies of Æther saying),-- Hoidens that, at pegtop playing, Flung their Top where yet it whirls Through the coil of clouds unstaying; For the Fates are captious girls. CLOTHO _Why, upon that Toy before us Insects cluster! Hear them saying, In the quaintest shrillest chorus_:-- ‘Life affords no time for playing! And for each that goes astraying, Featly as a planet whirls Drops the stroke of doom unstaying, For the Fates are captious girls.’ LACHESIS _La, I thought it reeled before us Tumbling, lurching, stumbling, straying, In some sort of mumbling chorus! Now I see them at their playing-- I too see,--and hear them saying_:-- ‘Note with what fixed aim life whirls Onward to set goals unstaying, For the Fates are captious girls.’ ATROPOS _Sisters, I am tired of straying.