Part 4

AH, NEVER A GUIDE OR EVER A CHART MAY SAFELY LEAD YOU ABOUT THIS LAND,-- THE LAND OF THE HUMAN HEART! 34 SCHOOL-SONG “_Je fais attention aux maîtres_” --ALPHONSE MOREAU. _I have to heed my teachers, And try to trust my school, And yet no less, through awkwardness, Infringe on every rule._ Dim laws I may not understand I strive to keep--and break, Somehow. I see forbidden me Much that I want--and take Sometimes,--not meaning to do wrong, Nor meaning to deny Due weight to rules one ridicules Somewhat, yet lives thereby. If teachers could but recollect The lads they used to be, I think that all could half-recall, Somewhere, someone like me. (_The lads they were!_ What looking-glass Shows me a lad to-day? With little learned, much half-discerned, I toil already gray). Yet honor, ruefully, the rule-- All teachers must be sure That each mistake their pupils make Was never made before: And honor, tacitly, the rule-- No pupil ever thrives Who questions _Why?_ of laws whereby We lead our ordered lives. _For we must heed our teachers, And try to trust our school, Until they teach the reason each Infringes every rule._ 35 “AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING--” --After NICOLAS DE CAEN. Man’s love hath many prompters, But a woman’s love hath none; And he may woo a nimble wit Or hair that shames the sun, Whilst she must pick of all one man And ever brood thereon,-- And for no reason, And not rightly,-- Save that the plan was foreordained (More old than Chalcedon, Or any tower of Tarshish Or of gleaming Babylon), That she must love unwillingly And love till life be done,-- He for a season, And more lightly. 36 BALLAD OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL “_Les Dieux, qui trop aiment ses facéties cruelles_” --PAUL VERVILLE. In the beginning the Gods made man, and fashioned the sky and the sea, And the earth’s fair face for man’s dwelling-place; and this was the Gods’ decree:-- _Lo, We have given to man five wits: he discerneth folly and sin; He is swift to deride all the world outside, and blind to the world within: So that man may make sport and amuse Us, in battling for phrases or pelf, Now that each may know what forebodeth woe to his neighbor, and not to himself._ Yet some have the Gods forgotten,--or is it that subtler mirth The Gods extort of a certain sort of folk that cumber the earth? FOR THIS IS THE SONG OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL, DISTORTEDLY TWO IN ONE,---- OF THE WEARIED EYES THAT STILL BEHOLD THE FRUIT ERE THE SEED BE SOWN, AND DERIVE AFFRIGHT FOR THE NEARING NIGHT FROM THE LIGHT OF THE NOONTIDE SUN.

For, one that with hope in the morning set forth, and knew never a fear, They have linked with another whom omens bother; and he whispers in one’s ear. And one is fain to be climbing where only angels have trod, But is fettered and tied to another’s side who fears that it might look odd. And one would worship a woman whom all perfections dower, But the other smiles at transparent wiles; and he quotes from Schopenhauer. Thus two by two we wrangle and blunder about the earth, And that body we share we may not spare; but the Gods have need of mirth. SO THIS IS THE SONG OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL, DISTORTEDLY TWO IN ONE,-- OF THE WEARIED EYES THAT STILL BEHOLD THE FRUIT ERE THE SEED BE SOWN, AND DERIVE AFFRIGHT FOR THE NEARING NIGHT FROM THE LIGHT OF THE NOONTIDE SUN. 37 WHEN TRAVELLERS RETURN --A fancy from ALPHONSE MOREAU. There is more in this room than is corporal,-- Grieved, silent, and striving in nameless ways, While I read, with my back against the wall, And nothing happens, and naught betrays Unseen sad eyes that are weighing me Somehow. They trouble me, too, although By rule and reason this should not be.... But a woman died here, years ago, Who loved me much:--and what if the dead Were doomed to this as their punishment-- That with those whom, living, they loved they tread Forever, and are omniscient? 38 ANNALS I--“QUIS DESIDERIO?” (May 15th, 1913) There is no room for grief when harvest nears And, labor done, fit wages are received,-- No room for grief now that she wins full-sheaved Her harvest, and no need of any tears.

She goes to garner honorable years; She was a little wearied by long strife, And still alert, and still in love with life-- As ever--would ascend to her compeers. There is no room for grief; as to its nest A seabird moves on pinions sure and strong, Her sturdy spirit mounts when sturdiest, And life ends nobly like a rounded song. There is no room for grief; she is at rest To whom rest was a stranger overlong. II--“SED RISIT MIDAS” (1915: Somewhere in the United States) _Let all I touch be gold!_ King Midas cried Of old in Phrygia. Jove heard the prayer, And Midas laughed; for gold gleamed everywhere His fingers reached; and iron gleamed outside. Within, no friendly handclasp might abide That touch which turned all gold, and made his food Chill metal on his lips; chill amplitude Derided him. So Midas laughed, and died. To-day who follows Midas?--_Nay, let be To whisper of lost friends I knew of old When England gave me life which France made free!

I trade unbiased; and my guns are sold-- Whoever buys--now all need buy of me, And all I touch or handle turns to gold!_ III--“APRILIS GESTA” (Easter, 1865--Easter, 1915: Richmond, Virginia) _A long half-century since when April reigned, As now, our cause was lost because unjust-- Else wherefore lost?--when level with the dust Fell citadels our fathers’ faith maintained Till that old April_,--hath the fool ordained. Imprisoned by his bookshelves; and forgets Truth is not lightly slain with bayonets, Or warfare lost whence honor comes unstained. And April craved her jest ere time began,-- So time anew brings April, to deride More changeful, strife-drowned Earth, wherein to span The surge of war’s inexorable tide Attends the wit of a Virginian, And men acclaim the Christ men crucified. IV--“LEX SCRIPTA EST” (February 14th, 1916) Time rounds a twelvemonth since you died,--most dear And brave of women!--and he thrives as yet Whose craven heart found courage to beget The lie that slew you;--who, with fame made clear And past his poison, rest till High God hear Our prayer, and smite with godlike plenitude This lean gray snake, and spill the venom spewed In vain to guard his lewd blood-brother’s bier. Not yet--most dear and brave!--may faith foretell Fate’s fixed inevitable hour, nor be Rewarded by its advent, to compel This liar’s exile from all less vile than he, And startle in the loneliest nook of hell Iscariot and Cain with company. 39 “--AND EVER SHALL BE” --After ALPHONSE MOREAU. Sad hours and glad hours, and all hours, pass over; One thing unshaken stays: Life, that hath Death for spouse, hath Chance for lover; Whereby decays Each thing save one thing:--mid this strife diurnal Of hourly change begot, Love, that is God-born, bides as God eternal, And changes not;-- Nor means a tinseled dream pursuing lovers Find altered by and by, When, with possession, time anon discovers Trapped dreams must die,-- For he that visions God, of mankind gathers One manlike trait alone, And reverently imputes to Him a father’s Love for his son. 40 THE PERFECT REASON “_Le Roy Jésus crucifié_” --ANTOINE RICZI. King Jesus hung upon the Cross, _And have ye sinned?_--quo’ He,-- _Nay, Dysmas, ’tis no honest loss When Satan cogs the dice ye toss, And thou shalt sup with Me,-- Sedebis apud angelos, Quia amavisti!_ At Heaven’s Gate was Heaven’s Queen, _And have ye sinned?_--quo’ She,-- _And would I hold him worth a bean That durst not seek, because unclean, My cleansing charity?-- Speak thou, that wast the Magdalene, Quia amavisti!_ VI SCOTEIA “_Or il est mort, passé trente ans_” 41 TWO IN TWILIGHT “_Ave, Maria, que l’amour Divine inspire_” --ANTOINE RICZI. I--ALBA _Ave, Maria! whom Love did move To triumph over earthly love._ Mother and Maid, now that wan stars take flight, And larks with song assail high heaven’s height, Unwillingly we lose the kindly night That sheltered us when we were fain thereof.

For we are frail, and know not of His aim, Yet Whosoever made us--were His name Jove or Jehovah,--should we dare to blame Our Maker that He made us fit for love?-- Were we not modeled by an Artizan That to His liking shaped the soul of man, And fashioned all things after His own plan. Divulging nothing of the aims thereof?-- Is it by His grace we grow adventurous, And, laughing, say:--_Love proves victorious,-- Who made love potent? if love hoodwink us How may we dare reprove Him That made love_? MATER, ORA FILIUM, UT POST HOC EXILIUM NOBIS DONET GAUDIUM BEATORUM OMNIUM! II--SERENA _Ave, Maria! now cry we so That see night wake and daylight go._ Mother and Maid, in nothing incomplete, This night that gathers is more light and fleet Than twilight trod alway with stumbling feet, _Agentes semper uno animo_. Ever we touch the prize we dare not take! Ever we know that thirst we dare not slake! Yet ever to a dreamed-of goal we make-- _Est tui cœli in palatio!_ Long, long the road, and set with many a snare; And to how small sure knowledge are we heir That blindly tread, with twilight everywhere! _Volo in toto; sed non valeo!_ Long, long the road, and very frail are we, That may not lightly curb mortality, Nor lightly tread together steadfastly, _Et parvum carmen unum facio_:-- MATER, ORA FILIUM, UT POST HOC EXILIUM NOBIS DONET GAUDIUM BEATORUM OMNIUM! 42 “IN FINE,--” _Good and evil, blending_,-- Everywhere men say,-- _Obscurely work at sending Rewards on Judgment Day_. _Good and evil, blending_,-- Elsewhere others bray,-- _Take no thought of ending, Keep no ordered way,-- Eternally at play, Aim but at inter playing_.... Thirdly, some offend Ineffably by saying, Not without shrugs, _My friend, Good and evil blend_. 43 STY-SONG --After NICOLAS DE CAEN.

As with her dupes dealt Circê, Life deals with hers, for she Reshapes them without mercy, And shapes them swinishly, To wallow swinishly, And for eternity;-- Though, harder than the witch was, Life, changing not the whole, Transmutes the body, which was Proud garment of the soul, And briefly drugs the soul, Whose ruin is her goal;-- And means by this thereafter A subtler mirth to get, And mock with bitterer laughter Her helpless dupes’ regret, Their swinish dull regret For what they half forget. 44 THE TOY-MAKER From the dawn of the day to the dusk he toiled, Shaping fanciful playthings with tireless hands,-- Useless trumpery toys; and, with vaulting heart, Gave them unto all peoples--who mocked at him, Trampled on them, and soiled them, and went their way. Then he toiled from the morn to the dusk again, Gave his gimcracks to people who mocked at him, Trampled on them, deriding, and went their way. Thus he labors, and loudly they jeer at him;-- That is, when they remember he still exists. _Who_, you ask, _is this fellow?_--What matter names? He is only a scribbler who is content. 45 THE CASTLE OF CONTENT --PROVENÇAL BURDEN. Through the mist of years does it gleam as yet-- That fair and free extent Of moonlit turret and parapet, Which castled, once, Content? _Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, With drowsy music drowning merriment Where Dreams and Visions held high carnival, And frolicking frail Loves made light of all,-- Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_ Such toll we took of his niggling Hours That the troops of Time were sent To seize the treasures and fell the towers Of the Castle of Content. _Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, With flaming roof and tumbling battlement Where Time hath conquered, and the firelight streams Above sore-wounded Loves and dying Dreams,-- Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_ The towers are fallen; no laughter rings Through the rafters, charred and rent; The ruin is wrought of all goodly things In the Castle of Content. _Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content, Razed in the Land of Youth, where mirth was meant!

Nay, all is ashes there; and all in vain Hand-shadowed eyes turn backward, to regain Disastrous memories of that dear domain,-- Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_ 46 THE PARODIST --After PAUL VERVILLE. I hear proud singing at times; And when that singing is ended I mimic, with arduous rhymes, A song which I knew to be splendid, And make of what I comprehended-- I singly,--a thing so absurd That rightly is reason offended. What matter?--My rhymes are blurred Because I wept when I heard Proud singing whereof these rhymes Iterate never a word; And safely I treasure the times Wherein is a song that climbs, And my heart singly is stirred. 47 THE DARK COMPANION “_Nous sommes unités à cette fin_” --CHARLES GARNIER. I AND MY SHADOW ARE SO MADE ONE THAT WERE WE PARTED EACH LIFE WERE DONE. Throughout the flight of the blithe bright day Always he follows me, doggedly; But I need not heed him,--because my way Is flecked with sunlight,--and shrug to see How fondly my Shadow follows me. When dying day grows chill and stark, And vigilant stars troop each to his place, He rises,--being free in the dark, He rises and grins,--being freed for a space, He rises to talk with me face to face. Then he tells me of much I am loth to hear, For he whispers of all that we two have seen, And loved, and squandered. _At forty year, My master, how wide is the gulf between That which we are and what might have been!_ And he whispers of dreams that the years degrade, And of lust made lord over love’s demesne, And of chances wasted, and faith betrayed. _My master, how wide is the gulf between That which we are and what might have been!_ Even thus he whispers; and he and I Sit thus, alone, till the night’s defeat Is signaled eastward, and chance thereby Wins room for a morrow, fair and fleet, That finds my Shadow beneath my feet. I AND MY SHADOW ARE SO MADE ONE THAT WERE WE PARTED EACH LIFE WERE DONE. 48 SEA-SCAPES I lie and dream in the soft warm sand; and the thunder and surge and the baffled roar Of the sea’s relentless and vain endeavors are a pleasant lullaby, here on shore.

Since a little hillock screens yonder ageless tenacious battlings (which shatter, and pass In foam and spume), I appraise, half-nodding, much sand and sky and gaunt nodding grass. And I am content to lie and dream; and I am too drowsy to rise, and see If it be worth breasting--that ocean yonder, which a little hillock hides from me. VII VERTICORDIA “_A vous parle, compaings de galles_” 49 THE AGELESS MAID “_Amors, qu’a escien m’a donat tal voler_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Man’s Love, that leads me day by day Through many a screened and scented way, Finds to assuage my thirst No love that may the old love slay, None sweeter than the first. Fond heart of mine, that beats so fast As this or that fair maid trips past, Once, and with lesser stir, We viewed the grace of love, at last, And turned idolater. Lad’s Love it was, that in the spring When all things woke to blossoming, Was as a child that came Laughing, and filled with wondering, Nor knowing his own name. And still--whatever years impend To witness time a fickle friend And youth a dwindling fire,-- I must adore till all years end My first love, Heart’s Desire. I may not hear men speak of her Unmoved, and vagrant pulses stir To greet her passing-by, And I, in all her worshipper, Must serve her till I die.

For I remember: this is she That reigns in one man’s memory Immune to age and fret, And stays the maid I may nor see Nor win to, nor forget. 50 FROM AFAR “_Domna, si no us vezon mei heulh_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. I Félise, whose will, yet undiscerned, commands My willing heart, stayest thou unmoved to see How Love, forlorn and reft of empery, Strains toward thy free heart with bleeding hands? Now the last hour of day runs leaden sands Hast thou indeed, Félise, no thought of me, As all my thoughts take wing and throng to thee Athwart the long leagues of dividing lands? Félise, I am long sick with long delay, Brain-wearied with long dreaming of thy grace, Heart-hungered with long waiting in this place Of days that are so long, whilst Love’s own day, Longed-for so long, draws on with leisured pace To make thee mine, dear love so far away. II _Félise, have pity!_--cringing, at thy door Entreats, with dolorous cry and clamoring, That mendicant who quits thee nevermore: Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing In any woods, yet as in wanton spring He follows thee; and never will have done, Though nakedly he die, from following Whither thou leadest. Canst thou look upon His woes, and laugh to see a goddess’ son Of wide dominion, and in strategy More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon, Inept to combat thy severity? Félise, have pity! and let Love be one Among the folk that bear thee company. 51 COMPETITORS --After ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI. Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear Tired waves, perturbed by the mystery Of the voiding east where vext winds veer, Lamenting and lisping?--_I, the Sea, Grapple and strain till I win to thee I have loved so long, and may never depart From that age-long siege till I win to thee, Though I win as Enipëus, Heart o’ My Heart._ --The Sea’s exordium Pleads thus, _cor cordium_.

Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear A sighing of dying Winds?--crying to thee:-- _We that were friendly with Guinevere, And wafted Queen Helen oversea,_ _And served that lady of mystery Balkis, a Sheban--caress and depart Unwillingly, finding none fairer than thee In those cold old venturings, Heart o’ My Heart._ --The Winds’ exordium Sighs thus, _cor cordium_. Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear Love that strives--as the yearning Sea, As the truant Winds,--for the staid, and severe, And sturdy and stainless heart of thee?-- Nay, without warning Love wins to thee Suddenly some day, swift to impart The secret of tears and the mystery Of sorrow and heartbreak, Heart o’ My Heart. --Without exordium Love takes, _cor cordium_. All sighs and tears are the Winds and the Sea, And fit precursors--nay, portion and part-- Of Love that is silent, and wins to thee Silently some day, Heart o’ My Heart. 52 THE STRIKING HOUR “_Comme un Croisé vaincu, qui longtemps languissait_” --NICOLAS DE CAEN. I As one imprisoned, that hath lain alone And dreamed of sunlight where no vagrant gleam Of sunlight pierces, being freed, must deem This too but dreaming, and must dread the sun Whose glory dazzles;--even as such-an-one Am I, whose longing was but now supreme For this high hour, and, now it strikes, esteem I do but dream long dreamed-of goals are won. Take heed! be still! lest haply God reprove. We have climbed too high! Those note us overhead Who know I am unworthy of your love; And when yet-parted lips, sigh-visited, End speech and wait, mine when I will to move, Such joy awakens that I grow afraid. II Yet I have loved you in so many ways,-- With reverence always, and such purity As often curbs that which is base in me; And, though some folly oftentimes betrays My purpose into naught, through all these days Till this day I had striven silently To win at last to what, at least, would be Earth-staggering homage reverberant in your praise.

To-day in flight from world-wide dissonance, I storm your heart,--and claim not any fee For any service rendered anywhere, But as one comes to his inheritance Demand admittance, knowing my love to be No whit unworthy even to enter there. III Catullus might have made of words that seek With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways, The perfect song, or in remoter days Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek; But I am not as they,--and dare not speak Of you unworthily, and dare not praise Perfection with imperfect roundelays, And desecrate the prize I dare to seek. I do not woo you, then, by fashioning Vext analogues ’twixt you and Guinevere; Nor do I come with agile lips that bring The sugared periods of a sonneteer, And bring no more,--but just with lips that cling To yours, in murmuring, _I love you, dear_! 53 LIGHTS OF THE WORLD --After CHARLES GARNIER. Speed forth, my song, the sun’s ambassador, Lest in the east night prove the conqueror, And day be slain, and darkness triumph,--for The sun is single, but her eyes are twain. And now the sunlight and the night contest A doubtful battle, and day bides at best Doubtful, till Phyllis wake. It is attest The sun is single. But her eyes are twain,-- And should the light of all the world delay, And darkness prove victorious? Is it day Now that the sun alone is risen?

Nay, The sun is single, but her eyes are twain,-- Twain firmaments that mock with heavenlier hue The heavens’ less lordly and less gracious blue, And lit with sunlier sunlight through and through. The sun is single, but her eyes are twain, And of fair things this side of Paradise Fairest, of goodly things most goodly. Rise! And succor the benighted world that cries, _The sun is single, but her eyes are twain_! 54 “--OF ANISE AND CUMMIN ALSO” --After NICOLAS DE CAEN. It is in vain I mirror forth the praise In pondered virelais Of her that is the lady of my love; Far-sought and curious phrases fail to tell The tender miracle Of her white body and the grace thereof. Thus many and many an artful-artless strain Is fashioned all in vain: Sound proves unsound; and even her name, that is To me more glorious than the glow of fire Or dawn or love’s desire Or opals interlinked with turquoises, Mocks utterance. So, lacking skill to praise That perfect bodily beauty which is hers, Even as those worshippers Who bore rude offerings of honey and maize, Their all, into the gold-paved ministers Of Aphroditê, I have given her these My faltering melodies, That are Love’s lean and ragged messengers. 55 “SWEET ADELAIS” --After RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Had you lived when earth was new What had bards of old to do Save to sing in praise of you?