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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1040-0.txt b/1040-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e97fa4b --- /dev/null +++ b/1040-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3142 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1040 *** + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED. +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + + + + + The Three Taverns + + A Book of Poems + + By Edwin Arlington Robinson + + Author of "The Man Against the Sky", "Merlin, A Poem", etc. + + [American (Maine) Poet. 1869-1935.] + + + + + To THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY and LILLA CABOT PERRY + + + + + Contents + + + + The Valley of the Shadow + The Wandering Jew + Neighbors + The Mill + The Dark Hills + The Three Taverns + Demos I + Demos II + The Flying Dutchman + Tact + On the Way + John Brown + The False Gods + Archibald's Example + London Bridge + Tasker Norcross + A Song at Shannon's + Souvenir + Discovery + Firelight + The New Tenants + Inferential + The Rat + Rahel to Varnhagen + Nimmo + Peace on Earth + Late Summer + An Evangelist's Wife + The Old King's New Jester + Lazarus + + +Several poems included in this book appeared originally +in American periodicals, as follows: The Three Taverns, London Bridge, +A Song at Shannon's, The New Tenants, Discovery, John Brown; +Archibald's Example, The Valley of the Shadow; Nimmo; The Wandering Jew, +Souvenir; Neighbors, Tact; Demos; The Mill, An Evangelist's Wife; +Firelight; Late Summer; Inferential; The Flying Dutchman; +On the Way, The False Gods; Peace on Earth; The Old King's New Jester. + + + + + + ------------------- + The Three Taverns + ------------------- + + + + + + The Valley of the Shadow + + There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow, + There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget; + There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes, + There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet. + For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation + At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus, + They were lost and unacquainted -- till they found themselves in others, + Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous. + + There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions + Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows; + There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions, + All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows. + There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water, + And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys: + There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow, + Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise. + + There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken, + Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes, + Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants + Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams. + There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood, + Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago: + There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow, + The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know. + + And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them, + Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth; + And they were going forward only farther into darkness, + Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth; + And among them, giving always what was not for their possession, + There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes: + There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow, + Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice. + + There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches, + Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves -- + Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember + Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves. + There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation, + While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair: + There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow, + And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there. + + There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them, + And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel; + And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing, + Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal. + Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation, + But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt: + There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow, + Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out. + + And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals + There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well; + And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions + There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell. + Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless, + There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold: + There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow, + Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old. + + Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow, + There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile; + And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers, + Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while. + There were many by the presence of the many disaffected, + Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore: + There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow, + And they alone were there to find what they were looking for. + + So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others, + And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn; + And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer + May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn. + For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched, + Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed: + There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow, + And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed. + + + + + The Wandering Jew + + I saw by looking in his eyes + That they remembered everything; + And this was how I came to know + That he was here, still wandering. + For though the figure and the scene + Were never to be reconciled, + I knew the man as I had known + His image when I was a child. + + With evidence at every turn, + I should have held it safe to guess + That all the newness of New York + Had nothing new in loneliness; + Yet here was one who might be Noah, + Or Nathan, or Abimelech, + Or Lamech, out of ages lost, -- + Or, more than all, Melchizedek. + + Assured that he was none of these, + I gave them back their names again, + To scan once more those endless eyes + Where all my questions ended then. + I found in them what they revealed + That I shall not live to forget, + And wondered if they found in mine + Compassion that I might regret. + + Pity, I learned, was not the least + Of time's offending benefits + That had now for so long impugned + The conservation of his wits: + Rather it was that I should yield, + Alone, the fealty that presents + The tribute of a tempered ear + To an untempered eloquence. + + Before I pondered long enough + On whence he came and who he was, + I trembled at his ringing wealth + Of manifold anathemas; + I wondered, while he seared the world, + What new defection ailed the race, + And if it mattered how remote + Our fathers were from such a place. + + Before there was an hour for me + To contemplate with less concern + The crumbling realm awaiting us + Than his that was beyond return, + A dawning on the dust of years + Had shaped with an elusive light + Mirages of remembered scenes + That were no longer for the sight. + + For now the gloom that hid the man + Became a daylight on his wrath, + And one wherein my fancy viewed + New lions ramping in his path. + The old were dead and had no fangs, + Wherefore he loved them -- seeing not + They were the same that in their time + Had eaten everything they caught. + + The world around him was a gift + Of anguish to his eyes and ears, + And one that he had long reviled + As fit for devils, not for seers. + Where, then, was there a place for him + That on this other side of death + Saw nothing good, as he had seen + No good come out of Nazareth? + + Yet here there was a reticence, + And I believe his only one, + That hushed him as if he beheld + A Presence that would not be gone. + In such a silence he confessed + How much there was to be denied; + And he would look at me and live, + As others might have looked and died. + + As if at last he knew again + That he had always known, his eyes + Were like to those of one who gazed + On those of One who never dies. + For such a moment he revealed + What life has in it to be lost; + And I could ask if what I saw, + Before me there, was man or ghost. + + He may have died so many times + That all there was of him to see + Was pride, that kept itself alive + As too rebellious to be free; + He may have told, when more than once + Humility seemed imminent, + How many a lonely time in vain + The Second Coming came and went. + + Whether he still defies or not + The failure of an angry task + That relegates him out of time + To chaos, I can only ask. + But as I knew him, so he was; + And somewhere among men to-day + Those old, unyielding eyes may flash, + And flinch -- and look the other way. + + + + + Neighbors + + As often as we thought of her, + We thought of a gray life + That made a quaint economist + Of a wolf-haunted wife; + We made the best of all she bore + That was not ours to bear, + And honored her for wearing things + That were not things to wear. + + There was a distance in her look + That made us look again; + And if she smiled, we might believe + That we had looked in vain. + Rarely she came inside our doors, + And had not long to stay; + And when she left, it seemed somehow + That she was far away. + + At last, when we had all forgot + That all is here to change, + A shadow on the commonplace + Was for a moment strange. + Yet there was nothing for surprise, + Nor much that need be told: + Love, with his gift of pain, had given + More than one heart could hold. + + + + + The Mill + + The miller's wife had waited long, + The tea was cold, the fire was dead; + And there might yet be nothing wrong + In how he went and what he said: + "There are no millers any more," + Was all that she had heard him say; + And he had lingered at the door + So long that it seemed yesterday. + + Sick with a fear that had no form + She knew that she was there at last; + And in the mill there was a warm + And mealy fragrance of the past. + What else there was would only seem + To say again what he had meant; + And what was hanging from a beam + Would not have heeded where she went. + + And if she thought it followed her, + She may have reasoned in the dark + That one way of the few there were + Would hide her and would leave no mark: + Black water, smooth above the weir + Like starry velvet in the night, + Though ruffled once, would soon appear + The same as ever to the sight. + + + + + The Dark Hills + + Dark hills at evening in the west, + Where sunset hovers like a sound + Of golden horns that sang to rest + Old bones of warriors under ground, + Far now from all the bannered ways + Where flash the legions of the sun, + You fade -- as if the last of days + Were fading, and all wars were done. + + + + + The Three Taverns + + When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us + as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns. + (Acts 28:15) + + Herodion, Apelles, Amplias, + And Andronicus? Is it you I see -- + At last? And is it you now that are gazing + As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying + That I should come to Rome? I did say that; + And I said furthermore that I should go + On westward, where the gateway of the world + Lets in the central sea. I did say that, + But I say only, now, that I am Paul -- + A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord + A voice made free. If there be time enough + To live, I may have more to tell you then + Of western matters. I go now to Rome, + Where Caesar waits for me, and I shall wait, + And Caesar knows how long. In Caesarea + There was a legend of Agrippa saying + In a light way to Festus, having heard + My deposition, that I might be free, + Had I stayed free of Caesar; but the word + Of God would have it as you see it is -- + And here I am. The cup that I shall drink + Is mine to drink -- the moment or the place + Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome, + Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed + The shadow cast of hope, say not of me + Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck, + And all the many deserts I have crossed + That are not named or regioned, have undone + Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing + The part of me that is the least of me. + You see an older man than he who fell + Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus, + Where the great light came down; yet I am he + That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard. + And I am here, at last; and if at last + I give myself to make another crumb + For this pernicious feast of time and men -- + Well, I have seen too much of time and men + To fear the ravening or the wrath of either. + + Yes, it is Paul you see -- the Saul of Tarsus + That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain + For saying Something was beyond the Law, + And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul + Upon the Law till I went famishing, + Not knowing that I starved. How should I know, + More then than any, that the food I had -- + What else it may have been -- was not for me? + My fathers and their fathers and their fathers + Had found it good, and said there was no other, + And I was of the line. When Stephen fell, + Among the stones that crushed his life away, + There was no place alive that I could see + For such a man. Why should a man be given + To live beyond the Law? So I said then, + As men say now to me. How then do I + Persist in living? Is that what you ask? + If so, let my appearance be for you + No living answer; for Time writes of death + On men before they die, and what you see + Is not the man. The man that you see not -- + The man within the man -- is most alive; + Though hatred would have ended, long ago, + The bane of his activities. I have lived, + Because the faith within me that is life + Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late, + Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me + My toil is over and my work begun. + + How often, and how many a time again, + Have I said I should be with you in Rome! + He who is always coming never comes, + Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves; + And I may tell you now that after me, + Whether I stay for little or for long, + The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them, + And a more careful ear for their confusion + Than you need have much longer for the sound + Of what I tell you -- should I live to say + More than I say to Caesar. What I know + Is down for you to read in what is written; + And if I cloud a little with my own + Mortality the gleam that is immortal, + I do it only because I am I -- + Being on earth and of it, in so far + As time flays yet the remnant. This you know; + And if I sting men, as I do sometimes, + With a sharp word that hurts, it is because + Man's habit is to feel before he sees; + And I am of a race that feels. Moreover, + The world is here for what is not yet here + For more than are a few; and even in Rome, + Where men are so enamored of the Cross + That fame has echoed, and increasingly, + The music of your love and of your faith + To foreign ears that are as far away + As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder + How much of love you know, and if your faith + Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember + Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least + A Law to make them sorry they were born + If they go long without it; and these Gentiles, + For the first time in shrieking history, + Have love and law together, if so they will, + For their defense and their immunity + In these last days. Rome, if I know the name, + Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire + Made ready for the wreathing of new masters, + Of whom we are appointed, you and I, -- + And you are still to be when I am gone, + Should I go presently. Let the word fall, + Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field + Of circumstance, either to live or die; + Concerning which there is a parable, + Made easy for the comfort and attention + Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain. + You are to plant, and then to plant again + Where you have gathered, gathering as you go; + For you are in the fields that are eternal, + And you have not the burden of the Lord + Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have + Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing, + Till it shall have the wonder and the weight + Of a clear jewel, shining with a light + Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars + May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said + That if they be of men these things are nothing, + But if they be of God they are for none + To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew, + And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all. + And you know, by the temper of your faith, + How far the fire is in you that I felt + Before I knew Damascus. A word here, + Or there, or not there, or not anywhere, + Is not the Word that lives and is the life; + And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves + With jealous aches of others. If the world + Were not a world of aches and innovations, + Attainment would have no more joy of it. + There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds, + And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done + To death because a farthing has two sides, + And is at last a farthing. Telling you this, + I, who bid men to live, appeal to Caesar. + Once I had said the ways of God were dark, + Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law. + Such is the glory of our tribulations; + For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law, + And we are then alive. We have eyes then; + And we have then the Cross between two worlds -- + To guide us, or to blind us for a time, + Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites + A few on highways, changing all at once, + Is not for all. The power that holds the world + Away from God that holds himself away -- + Farther away than all your works and words + Are like to fly without the wings of faith -- + Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard + Enlivening the ways of easy leisure + Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes + Have wisdom, we see more than we remember; + And the old world of our captivities + May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin, + Like one where vanished hewers have had their day + Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see, + Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you, + At last, through many storms and through much night. + + Yet whatsoever I have undergone, + My keepers in this instance are not hard. + But for the chance of an ingratitude, + I might indeed be curious of their mercy, + And fearful of their leisure while I wait, + A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome, + Not always to return -- but not that now. + Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me + With eyes that are at last more credulous + Of my identity. You remark in me + No sort of leaping giant, though some words + Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt + A little through your eyes into your soul. + I trust they were alive, and are alive + Today; for there be none that shall indite + So much of nothing as the man of words + Who writes in the Lord's name for his name's sake + And has not in his blood the fire of time + To warm eternity. Let such a man -- + If once the light is in him and endures -- + Content himself to be the general man, + Set free to sift the decencies and thereby + To learn, except he be one set aside + For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain; + Though if his light be not the light indeed, + But a brief shine that never really was, + And fails, leaving him worse than where he was, + Then shall he be of all men destitute. + And here were not an issue for much ink, + Or much offending faction among scribes. + + The Kingdom is within us, we are told; + And when I say to you that we possess it + In such a measure as faith makes it ours, + I say it with a sinner's privilege + Of having seen and heard, and seen again, + After a darkness; and if I affirm + To the last hour that faith affords alone + The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment, + I do not see myself as one who says + To man that he shall sit with folded hands + Against the Coming. If I be anything, + I move a driven agent among my kind, + Establishing by the faith of Abraham, + And by the grace of their necessities, + The clamoring word that is the word of life + Nearer than heretofore to the solution + Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed + A shaft of language that has flown sometimes + A little higher than the hearts and heads + Of nature's minions, it will yet be heard, + Like a new song that waits for distant ears. + I cannot be the man that I am not; + And while I own that earth is my affliction, + I am a man of earth, who says not all + To all alike. That were impossible, + Even as it were so that He should plant + A larger garden first. But you today + Are for the larger sowing; and your seed, + A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw, + The foreign harvest of a wider growth, + And one without an end. Many there are, + And are to be, that shall partake of it, + Though none may share it with an understanding + That is not his alone. We are all alone; + And yet we are all parcelled of one order -- + Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark + Of wildernesses that are not so much + As names yet in a book. And there are many, + Finding at last that words are not the Word, + And finding only that, will flourish aloft, + Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes, + Our contradictions and discrepancies; + And there are many more will hang themselves + Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word + The friend of all who fail, and in their faith + A sword of excellence to cut them down. + + As long as there are glasses that are dark -- + And there are many -- we see darkly through them; + All which have I conceded and set down + In words that have no shadow. What is dark + Is dark, and we may not say otherwise; + Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire + For one of us, may still be for another + A coming gleam across the gulf of ages, + And a way home from shipwreck to the shore; + And so, through pangs and ills and desperations, + There may be light for all. There shall be light. + As much as that, you know. You cannot say + This woman or that man will be the next + On whom it falls; you are not here for that. + Your ministration is to be for others + The firing of a rush that may for them + Be soon the fire itself. The few at first + Are fighting for the multitude at last; + Therefore remember what Gamaliel said + Before you, when the sick were lying down + In streets all night for Peter's passing shadow. + Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words. + Give men to know that even their days of earth + To come are more than ages that are gone. + Say what you feel, while you have time to say it. + Eternity will answer for itself, + Without your intercession; yet the way + For many is a long one, and as dark, + Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil + Too much, and if I be away from you, + Think of me as a brother to yourselves, + Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics, + And give your left hand to grammarians; + And when you seem, as many a time you may, + To have no other friend than hope, remember + That you are not the first, or yet the last. + + The best of life, until we see beyond + The shadows of ourselves (and they are less + Than even the blindest of indignant eyes + Would have them) is in what we do not know. + Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep + With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves + Egregious and alone for your defects + Of youth and yesterday. I was young once; + And there's a question if you played the fool + With a more fervid and inherent zeal + Than I have in my story to remember, + Or gave your necks to folly's conquering foot, + Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim, + Less frequently than I. Never mind that. + Man's little house of days will hold enough, + Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his, + But it will not hold all. Things that are dead + Are best without it, and they own their death + By virtue of their dying. Let them go, -- + But think you not the world is ashes yet, + And you have all the fire. The world is here + Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow; + For there are millions, and there may be more, + To make in turn a various estimation + Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps + Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears + That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them, + And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes + That are incredulous of the Mystery + Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read + Where language has an end and is a veil, + Not woven of our words. Many that hate + Their kind are soon to know that without love + Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing. + I that have done some hating in my time + See now no time for hate; I that have left, + Fading behind me like familiar lights + That are to shine no more for my returning, + Home, friends, and honors, -- I that have lost all else + For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now + To you that out of wisdom has come love, + That measures and is of itself the measure + Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours + Are not so long that you may torture them + And harass not yourselves; and the last days + Are on the way that you prepare for them, + And was prepared for you, here in a world + Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen. + If you be not so hot for counting them + Before they come that you consume yourselves, + Peace may attend you all in these last days -- + And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome. + Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear + My rest has not been yours; in which event, + Forgive one who is only seven leagues + From Caesar. When I told you I should come, + I did not see myself the criminal + You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law + That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed, + Was good of you, and I shall not forget; + No, I shall not forget you came so far + To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell. + They come to tell me I am going now -- + With them. I hope that we shall meet again, + But none may say what he shall find in Rome. + + + + + Demos I + + All you that are enamored of my name + And least intent on what most I require, + Beware; for my design and your desire, + Deplorably, are not as yet the same. + Beware, I say, the failure and the shame + Of losing that for which you now aspire + So blindly, and of hazarding entire + The gift that I was bringing when I came. + + Give as I will, I cannot give you sight + Whereby to see that with you there are some + To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb + Before the wrangling and the shrill delight + Of your deliverance that has not come, + And shall not, if I fail you -- as I might. + + + + + Demos II + + So little have you seen of what awaits + Your fevered glimpse of a democracy + Confused and foiled with an equality + Not equal to the envy it creates, + That you see not how near you are the gates + Of an old king who listens fearfully + To you that are outside and are to be + The noisy lords of imminent estates. + + Rather be then your prayer that you shall have + Your kingdom undishonored. Having all, + See not the great among you for the small, + But hear their silence; for the few shall save + The many, or the many are to fall -- + Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave. + + + + + The Flying Dutchman + + Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, + Afloat with none to serve or to command, + Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, + He seeks the Vanished Land. + + Alone, by the one light of his one thought, + He steers to find the shore from which we came, -- + Fearless of in what coil he may be caught + On seas that have no name. + + Into the night he sails; and after night + There is a dawning, though there be no sun; + Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, + Unsighted, he sails on. + + At last there is a lifting of the cloud + Between the flood before him and the sky; + And then -- though he may curse the Power aloud + That has no power to die -- + + He steers himself away from what is haunted + By the old ghost of what has been before, -- + Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, + One fog-walled island more. + + + + + Tact + + Observant of the way she told + So much of what was true, + No vanity could long withhold + Regard that was her due: + She spared him the familiar guile, + So easily achieved, + That only made a man to smile + And left him undeceived. + + Aware that all imagining + Of more than what she meant + Would urge an end of everything, + He stayed; and when he went, + They parted with a merry word + That was to him as light + As any that was ever heard + Upon a starry night. + + She smiled a little, knowing well + That he would not remark + The ruins of a day that fell + Around her in the dark: + He saw no ruins anywhere, + Nor fancied there were scars + On anyone who lingered there, + Alone below the stars. + + + + + On the Way + + (Philadelphia, 1794) + +Note. -- The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton +and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific incident +in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous +to Hamilton's retirement from Washington's Cabinet in 1795 +and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr -- +who has been characterized, without much exaggeration, +as the inventor of American politics -- began to be conspicuously formidable +to the Federalists. These activities on the part of Burr resulted, +as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency +in 1800, and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804. + + + + BURR + + Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember + That I was here to speak, and so to save + Your fabric from catastrophe. That's good; + For I perceive that you observe him also. + A President, a-riding of his horse, + May dust a General and be forgiven; + But why be dusted -- when we're all alike, + All equal, and all happy. Here he comes -- + And there he goes. And we, by your new patent, + Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside, + With our two hats off to his Excellency. + Why not his Majesty, and done with it? + Forgive me if I shook your meditation, + But you that weld our credit should have eyes + To see what's coming. Bury me first if -I- do. + + + HAMILTON + + There's always in some pocket of your brain + A care for me; wherefore my gratitude + For your attention is commensurate + With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings; + We are as royal as two ditch-diggers; + But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days + When first a few seem all; but if we live, + We may again be seen to be the few + That we have always been. These are the days + When men forget the stars, and are forgotten. + + + BURR + + But why forget them? They're the same that winked + Upon the world when Alcibiades + Cut off his dog's tail to induce distinction. + There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades + Is not forgotten. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, there are dogs enough, + God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams. + + + BURR + + Never a doubt. But what you hear the most + Is your new music, something out of tune + With your intention. How in the name of Cain, + I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance, + When all men are musicians. Tell me that, + I hear you saying, and I'll tell you the name + Of Samson's mother. But why shroud yourself + Before the coffin comes? For all you know, + The tree that is to fall for your last house + Is now a sapling. You may have to wait + So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it, + For you are not at home in your new Eden + Where chilly whispers of a likely frost + Accumulate already in the air. + I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton, + Would be for you in your autumnal mood + A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders. + + + HAMILTON + + If so it is you think, you may as well + Give over thinking. We are done with ermine. + What I fear most is not the multitude, + But those who are to loop it with a string + That has one end in France and one end here. + I'm not so fortified with observation + That I could swear that more than half a score + Among us who see lightning see that ruin + Is not the work of thunder. Since the world + Was ordered, there was never a long pause + For caution between doing and undoing. + + + BURR + + Go on, sir; my attention is a trap + Set for the catching of all compliments + To Monticello, and all else abroad + That has a name or an identity. + + + HAMILTON + + I leave to you the names -- there are too many; + Yet one there is to sift and hold apart, + As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer + That is not always clouded, or too late. + But I was near and young, and had the reins + To play with while he manned a team so raw + That only God knows where the end had been + Of all that riding without Washington. + There was a nation in the man who passed us, + If there was not a world. I may have driven + Since then some restive horses, and alone, + And through a splashing of abundant mud; + But he who made the dust that sets you on + To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry, + And in a measure safe. + + + BURR + + Here's a new tune + From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once, + And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle? + I have forgotten what my father said + When I was born, but there's a rustling of it + Among my memories, and it makes a noise + About as loud as all that I have held + And fondled heretofore of your same caution. + But that's affairs, not feelings. If our friends + Guessed half we say of them, our enemies + Would itch in our friends' jackets. Howsoever, + The world is of a sudden on its head, + And all are spilled -- unless you cling alone + With Washington. Ask Adams about that. + + + HAMILTON + + We'll not ask Adams about anything. + We fish for lizards when we choose to ask + For what we know already is not coming, + And we must eat the answer. Where's the use + Of asking when this man says everything, + With all his tongues of silence? + + + BURR + + I dare say. + I dare say, but I won't. One of those tongues + I'll borrow for the nonce. He'll never miss it. + We mean his Western Majesty, King George. + + + HAMILTON + + I mean the man who rode by on his horse. + I'll beg of you the meed of your indulgence + If I should say this planet may have done + A deal of weary whirling when at last, + If ever, Time shall aggregate again + A majesty like his that has no name. + + + BURR + + Then you concede his Majesty? That's good, + And what of yours? Here are two majesties. + Favor the Left a little, Hamilton, + Or you'll be floundering in the ditch that waits + For riders who forget where they are riding. + If we and France, as you anticipate, + Must eat each other, what Caesar, if not yourself, + Do you see for the master of the feast? + There may be a place waiting on your head + For laurel thick as Nero's. You don't know. + I have not crossed your glory, though I might + If I saw thrones at auction. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, you might. + If war is on the way, I shall be -- here; + And I've no vision of your distant heels. + + + BURR + + I see that I shall take an inference + To bed with me to-night to keep me warm. + I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve + Your fealty to the aggregated greatness + Of him you lean on while he leans on you. + + + HAMILTON + + This easy phrasing is a game of yours + That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon, + But you that have the sight will not employ + The will to see with it. If you did so, + There might be fewer ditches dug for others + In your perspective; and there might be fewer + Contemporary motes of prejudice + Between you and the man who made the dust. + Call him a genius or a gentleman, + A prophet or a builder, or what not, + But hold your disposition off the balance, + And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe + I tell you nothing new to your surmise, + Or to the tongues of towns and villages) + I nourished with an adolescent fancy -- + Surely forgivable to you, my friend -- + An innocent and amiable conviction + That I was, by the grace of honest fortune, + A savior at his elbow through the war, + Where I might have observed, more than I did, + Patience and wholesome passion. I was there, + And for such honor I gave nothing worse + Than some advice at which he may have smiled. + I must have given a modicum besides, + Or the rough interval between those days + And these would never have made for me my friends, + Or enemies. I should be something somewhere -- + I say not what -- but I should not be here + If he had not been there. Possibly, too, + You might not -- or that Quaker with his cane. + + + BURR + + Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty + Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it. + + + HAMILTON + + It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind; + No god, or ghost, or demon -- only a man: + A man whose occupation is the need + Of those who would not feel it if it bit them; + And one who shapes an age while he endures + The pin pricks of inferiorities; + A cautious man, because he is but one; + A lonely man, because he is a thousand. + No marvel you are slow to find in him + The genius that is one spark or is nothing: + His genius is a flame that he must hold + So far above the common heads of men + That they may view him only through the mist + Of their defect, and wonder what he is. + It seems to me the mystery that is in him + That makes him only more to me a man + Than any other I have ever known. + + + BURR + + I grant you that his worship is a man. + I'm not so much at home with mysteries, + May be, as you -- so leave him with his fire: + God knows that I shall never put it out. + He has not made a cripple of himself + In his pursuit of me, though I have heard + His condescension honors me with parts. + Parts make a whole, if we've enough of them; + And once I figured a sufficiency + To be at least an atom in the annals + Of your republic. But I must have erred. + + + HAMILTON + + You smile as if your spirit lived at ease + With error. I should not have named it so, + Failing assent from you; nor, if I did, + Should I be so complacent in my skill + To comb the tangled language of the people + As to be sure of anything in these days. + Put that much in account with modesty. + + + BURR + + What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton, + Have you, in the last region of your dreaming, + To do with "people"? You may be the devil + In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals + Are waiting on the progress of our ship + Unless you steer it, but you'll find it irksome + Alone there in the stern; and some warm day + There'll be an inland music in the rigging, + And afterwards on deck. I'm not affined + Or favored overmuch at Monticello, + But there's a mighty swarming of new bees + About the premises, and all have wings. + If you hear something buzzing before long, + Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also + There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard, + And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly. + + + HAMILTON + + I don't remember that he cut his hair off. + + + BURR + + Somehow I rather fancy that he did. + If so, it's in the Book; and if not so, + He did the rest, and did it handsomely. + + + HAMILTON + + Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways + If they inveigle you to emulation; + But where, if I may ask it, are you tending + With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures? + You call to mind an eminent archangel + Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall + So far as he, to be so far remembered? + + + BURR + + Before I fall or rise, or am an angel, + I shall acquaint myself a little further + With our new land's new language, which is not -- + Peace to your dreams -- an idiom to your liking. + I'm wondering if a man may always know + How old a man may be at thirty-seven; + I wonder likewise if a prettier time + Could be decreed for a good man to vanish + Than about now for you, before you fade, + And even your friends are seeing that you have had + Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph. + Well, you have had enough, and had it young; + And the old wine is nearer to the lees + Than you are to the work that you are doing. + + + HAMILTON + + When does this philological excursion + Into new lands and languages begin? + + + BURR + + Anon -- that is, already. Only Fortune + Gave me this afternoon the benefaction + Of your blue back, which I for love pursued, + And in pursuing may have saved your life -- + Also the world a pounding piece of news: + Hamilton bites the dust of Washington, + Or rather of his horse. For you alone, + Or for your fame, I'd wish it might have been so. + + + HAMILTON + + Not every man among us has a friend + So jealous for the other's fame. How long + Are you to diagnose the doubtful case + Of Demos -- and what for? Have you a sword + For some new Damocles? If it's for me, + I have lost all official appetite, + And shall have faded, after January, + Into the law. I'm going to New York. + + + BURR + + No matter where you are, one of these days + I shall come back to you and tell you something. + This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist + A pulse that no two doctors have as yet + Counted and found the same, and in his mouth + A tongue that has the like alacrity + For saying or not for saying what most it is + That pullulates in his ignoble mind. + One of these days I shall appear again, + To tell you more of him and his opinions; + I shall not be so long out of your sight, + Or take myself so far, that I may not, + Like Alcibiades, come back again. + He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill. + + + HAMILTON + + There's an example in Themistocles: + He went away to Persia, and fared well. + + + BURR + + So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so? + I had not planned it so. Is this the road + I take? If so, farewell. + + + HAMILTON + + Quite so. Farewell. + + + + + John Brown + + Though for your sake I would not have you now + So near to me tonight as now you are, + God knows how much a stranger to my heart + Was any cold word that I may have written; + And you, poor woman that I made my wife, + You have had more of loneliness, I fear, + Than I -- though I have been the most alone, + Even when the most attended. So it was + God set the mark of his inscrutable + Necessity on one that was to grope, + And serve, and suffer, and withal be glad + For what was his, and is, and is to be, + When his old bones, that are a burden now, + Are saying what the man who carried them + Had not the power to say. Bones in a grave, + Cover them as they will with choking earth, + May shout the truth to men who put them there, + More than all orators. And so, my dear, + Since you have cheated wisdom for the sake + Of sorrow, let your sorrow be for you, + This last of nights before the last of days, + The lying ghost of what there is of me + That is the most alive. There is no death + For me in what they do. Their death it is + They should heed most when the sun comes again + To make them solemn. There are some I know + Whose eyes will hardly see their occupation, + For tears in them -- and all for one old man; + For some of them will pity this old man, + Who took upon himself the work of God + Because he pitied millions. That will be + For them, I fancy, their compassionate + Best way of saying what is best in them + To say; for they can say no more than that, + And they can do no more than what the dawn + Of one more day shall give them light enough + To do. But there are many days to be, + And there are many men to give their blood, + As I gave mine for them. May they come soon! + + May they come soon, I say. And when they come, + May all that I have said unheard be heard, + Proving at last, or maybe not -- no matter -- + What sort of madness was the part of me + That made me strike, whether I found the mark + Or missed it. Meanwhile, I've a strange content, + A patience, and a vast indifference + To what men say of me and what men fear + To say. There was a work to be begun, + And when the Voice, that I have heard so long, + Announced as in a thousand silences + An end of preparation, I began + The coming work of death which is to be, + That life may be. There is no other way + Than the old way of war for a new land + That will not know itself and is tonight + A stranger to itself, and to the world + A more prodigious upstart among states + Than I was among men, and so shall be + Till they are told and told, and told again; + For men are children, waiting to be told, + And most of them are children all their lives. + The good God in his wisdom had them so, + That now and then a madman or a seer + May shake them out of their complacency + And shame them into deeds. The major file + See only what their fathers may have seen, + Or may have said they saw when they saw nothing. + I do not say it matters what they saw. + Now and again to some lone soul or other + God speaks, and there is hanging to be done, -- + As once there was a burning of our bodies + Alive, albeit our souls were sorry fuel. + But now the fires are few, and we are poised + Accordingly, for the state's benefit, + A few still minutes between heaven and earth. + The purpose is, when they have seen enough + Of what it is that they are not to see, + To pluck me as an unripe fruit of treason, + And then to fling me back to the same earth + Of which they are, as I suppose, the flower -- + Not given to know the riper fruit that waits + For a more comprehensive harvesting. + + Yes, may they come, and soon. Again I say, + May they come soon! -- before too many of them + Shall be the bloody cost of our defection. + When hell waits on the dawn of a new state, + Better it were that hell should not wait long, -- + Or so it is I see it who should see + As far or farther into time tonight + Than they who talk and tremble for me now, + Or wish me to those everlasting fires + That are for me no fear. Too many fires + Have sought me out and seared me to the bone -- + Thereby, for all I know, to temper me + For what was mine to do. If I did ill + What I did well, let men say I was mad; + Or let my name for ever be a question + That will not sleep in history. What men say + I was will cool no cannon, dull no sword, + Invalidate no truth. Meanwhile, I was; + And the long train is lighted that shall burn, + Though floods of wrath may drench it, and hot feet + May stamp it for a slight time into smoke + That shall blaze up again with growing speed, + Until at last a fiery crash will come + To cleanse and shake a wounded hemisphere, + And heal it of a long malignity + That angry time discredits and disowns. + Tonight there are men saying many things; + And some who see life in the last of me + Will answer first the coming call to death; + For death is what is coming, and then life. + I do not say again for the dull sake + Of speech what you have heard me say before, + But rather for the sake of all I am, + And all God made of me. A man to die + As I do must have done some other work + Than man's alone. I was not after glory, + But there was glory with me, like a friend, + Throughout those crippling years when friends were few, + And fearful to be known by their own names + When mine was vilified for their approval. + Yet friends they are, and they did what was given + Their will to do; they could have done no more. + I was the one man mad enough, it seems, + To do my work; and now my work is over. + And you, my dear, are not to mourn for me, + Or for your sons, more than a soul should mourn + In Paradise, done with evil and with earth. + There is not much of earth in what remains + For you; and what there may be left of it + For your endurance you shall have at last + In peace, without the twinge of any fear + For my condition; for I shall be done + With plans and actions that have heretofore + Made your days long and your nights ominous + With darkness and the many distances + That were between us. When the silence comes, + I shall in faith be nearer to you then + Than I am now in fact. What you see now + Is only the outside of an old man, + Older than years have made him. Let him die, + And let him be a thing for little grief. + There was a time for service, and he served; + And there is no more time for anything + But a short gratefulness to those who gave + Their scared allegiance to an enterprise + That has the name of treason -- which will serve + As well as any other for the present. + There are some deeds of men that have no names, + And mine may like as not be one of them. + I am not looking far for names tonight. + The King of Glory was without a name + Until men gave him one; yet there He was, + Before we found Him and affronted Him + With numerous ingenuities of evil, + Of which one, with His aid, is to be swept + And washed out of the world with fire and blood. + + Once I believed it might have come to pass + With a small cost of blood; but I was dreaming -- + Dreaming that I believed. The Voice I heard + When I left you behind me in the north, -- + To wait there and to wonder and grow old + Of loneliness, -- told only what was best, + And with a saving vagueness, I should know + Till I knew more. And had I known even then -- + After grim years of search and suffering, + So many of them to end as they began -- + After my sickening doubts and estimations + Of plans abandoned and of new plans vain -- + After a weary delving everywhere + For men with every virtue but the Vision -- + Could I have known, I say, before I left you + That summer morning, all there was to know -- + Even unto the last consuming word + That would have blasted every mortal answer + As lightning would annihilate a leaf, + I might have trembled on that summer morning; + I might have wavered; and I might have failed. + + And there are many among men today + To say of me that I had best have wavered. + So has it been, so shall it always be, + For those of us who give ourselves to die + Before we are so parcelled and approved + As to be slaughtered by authority. + We do not make so much of what they say + As they of what our folly says of us; + They give us hardly time enough for that, + And thereby we gain much by losing little. + Few are alive to-day with less to lose + Than I who tell you this, or more to gain; + And whether I speak as one to be destroyed + For no good end outside his own destruction, + Time shall have more to say than men shall hear + Between now and the coming of that harvest + Which is to come. Before it comes, I go -- + By the short road that mystery makes long + For man's endurance of accomplishment. + I shall have more to say when I am dead. + + + + + The False Gods + + "We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit, + From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet. + You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes, -- + Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet. + + "You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong, + But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong; + You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence, + But your large admiration of us now is not for long. + + "If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that's never still, + And you pray to see our faces -- pray in earnest, and you will. + You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion: + For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill. + + "And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease + With an Art that's inorganic and is anything you please, + That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded, + Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees. + + "Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ, + There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy; + Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing + Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy. + + "When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive, + And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive, + Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations -- + For there's grief always auditing where two and two are five. + + "There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know, + Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so. + If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition, + May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go." + + + + + Archibald's Example + + Old Archibald, in his eternal chair, + Where trespassers, whatever their degree, + Were soon frowned out again, was looking off + Across the clover when he said to me: + + "My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down + Without a scratch, was once inhabited + By trees that injured him -- an evil trash + That made a cage, and held him while he bled. + + "Gone fifty years, I see them as they were + Before they fell. They were a crooked lot + To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time + In fifty years for crooked things to rot. + + "Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy + To God or man, for they were thieves of light. + So down they came. Nature and I looked on, + And we were glad when they were out of sight. + + "Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, + So much for that." He twinkled in his chair, + And looked across the clover to the place + That he remembered when the trees were there. + + + + + London Bridge + + "Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing -- and what of it? + Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that? + If I were not their father and if you were not their mother, + We might believe they made a noise. . . . What are you -- driving at!" + + "Well, be glad that you can hear them, and be glad they are so near us, -- + For I have heard the stars of heaven, and they were nearer still. + All within an hour it is that I have heard them calling, + And though I pray for them to cease, I know they never will; + For their music on my heart, though you may freeze it, will fall always, + Like summer snow that never melts upon a mountain-top. + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? + Do you hear the children singing? . . . God, will you make them stop!" + + "And what now in his holy name have you to do with mountains? + We're back to town again, my dear, and we've a dance tonight. + Frozen hearts and falling music? Snow and stars, and -- what the devil! + Say it over to me slowly, and be sure you have it right." + + "God knows if I be right or wrong in saying what I tell you, + Or if I know the meaning any more of what I say. + All I know is, it will kill me if I try to keep it hidden -- + Well, I met him. . . . Yes, I met him, and I talked with him -- today." + + "You met him? Did you meet the ghost of someone you had poisoned, + Long ago, before I knew you for the woman that you are? + Take a chair; and don't begin your stories always in the middle. + Was he man, or was he demon? Anyhow, you've gone too far + To go back, and I'm your servant. I'm the lord, but you're the master. + Now go on with what you know, for I'm excited." + + "Do you mean -- + Do you mean to make me try to think that you know less than I do?" + + "I know that you foreshadow the beginning of a scene. + Pray be careful, and as accurate as if the doors of heaven + Were to swing or to stay bolted from now on for evermore." + + "Do you conceive, with all your smooth contempt of every feeling, + Of hiding what you know and what you must have known before? + Is it worth a woman's torture to stand here and have you smiling, + With only your poor fetish of possession on your side? + No thing but one is wholly sure, and that's not one to scare me; + When I meet it I may say to God at last that I have tried. + And yet, for all I know, or all I dare believe, my trials + Henceforward will be more for you to bear than are your own; + And you must give me keys of yours to rooms I have not entered. + Do you see me on your threshold all my life, and there alone? + Will you tell me where you see me in your fancy -- when it leads you + Far enough beyond the moment for a glance at the abyss?" + + "Will you tell me what intrinsic and amazing sort of nonsense + You are crowding on the patience of the man who gives you -- this? + Look around you and be sorry you're not living in an attic, + With a civet and a fish-net, and with you to pay the rent. + I say words that you can spell without the use of all your letters; + And I grant, if you insist, that I've a guess at what you meant." + + "Have I told you, then, for nothing, that I met him? Are you trying + To be merry while you try to make me hate you?" + + "Think again, + My dear, before you tell me, in a language unbecoming + To a lady, what you plan to tell me next. If I complain, + If I seem an atom peevish at the preference you mention -- + Or imply, to be precise -- you may believe, or you may not, + That I'm a trifle more aware of what he wants than you are. + But I shouldn't throw that at you. Make believe that I forgot. + Make believe that he's a genius, if you like, -- but in the meantime + Don't go back to rocking-horses. There, there, there, now." + + "Make believe! + When you see me standing helpless on a plank above a whirlpool, + Do I drown, or do I hear you when you say it? Make believe? + How much more am I to say or do for you before I tell you + That I met him! What's to follow now may be for you to choose. + Do you hear me? Won't you listen? It's an easy thing to listen. . . ." + + "And it's easy to be crazy when there's everything to lose." + + "If at last you have a notion that I mean what I am saying, + Do I seem to tell you nothing when I tell you I shall try? + If you save me, and I lose him -- I don't know -- it won't much matter. + I dare say that I've lied enough, but now I do not lie." + + "Do you fancy me the one man who has waited and said nothing + While a wife has dragged an old infatuation from a tomb? + Give the thing a little air and it will vanish into ashes. + There you are -- piff! presto!" + + "When I came into this room, + It seemed as if I saw the place, and you there at your table, + As you are now at this moment, for the last time in my life; + And I told myself before I came to find you, `I shall tell him, + If I can, what I have learned of him since I became his wife.' + And if you say, as I've no doubt you will before I finish, + That you have tried unceasingly, with all your might and main, + To teach me, knowing more than I of what it was I needed, + Don't think, with all you may have thought, that you have tried in vain; + For you have taught me more than hides in all the shelves of knowledge + Of how little you found that's in me and was in me all along. + I believed, if I intruded nothing on you that I cared for, + I'd be half as much as horses, -- and it seems that I was wrong; + I believed there was enough of earth in me, with all my nonsense + Over things that made you sleepy, to keep something still awake; + But you taught me soon to read my book, and God knows I have read it -- + Ages longer than an angel would have read it for your sake. + I have said that you must open other doors than I have entered, + But I wondered while I said it if I might not be obscure. + Is there anything in all your pedigrees and inventories + With a value more elusive than a dollar's? Are you sure + That if I starve another year for you I shall be stronger + To endure another like it -- and another -- till I'm dead?" + + "Has your tame cat sold a picture? -- or more likely had a windfall? + Or for God's sake, what's broke loose? Have you a bee-hive in your head? + A little more of this from you will not be easy hearing. + Do you know that? Understand it, if you do; for if you won't. . . . + What the devil are you saying! Make believe you never said it, + And I'll say I never heard it. . . . Oh, you. . . . If you. . . ." + + "If I don't?" + + "There are men who say there's reason hidden somewhere in a woman, + But I doubt if God himself remembers where the key was hung." + + "He may not; for they say that even God himself is growing. + I wonder if he makes believe that he is growing young; + I wonder if he makes believe that women who are giving + All they have in holy loathing to a stranger all their lives + Are the wise ones who build houses in the Bible. . . ." + + "Stop -- you devil!" + + ". . . Or that souls are any whiter when their bodies are called wives. + If a dollar's worth of gold will hoop the walls of hell together, + Why need heaven be such a ruin of a place that never was? + And if at last I lied my starving soul away to nothing, + Are you sure you might not miss it? Have you come to such a pass + That you would have me longer in your arms if you discovered + That I made you into someone else. . . . Oh! . . . Well, there are + worse ways. + But why aim it at my feet -- unless you fear you may be sorry. . . . + There are many days ahead of you." + + "I do not see those days." + + "I can see them. Granted even I am wrong, there are the children. + And are they to praise their father for his insight if we die? + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? + Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?" + + "Damn the children!" + + "Why? + What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, -- do it. . . . Do it now, + and have it over." + + "Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . ." + + "No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet -- + One who sees the end already of so much that one end more + Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion, + Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before. + But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther + For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight. + Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations + For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to shine tonight. + We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres, + On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell; + We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance, + And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well. + There! -- I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it. + Shut the drawer now. + No -- no -- don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop. + I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere, + and leave me. . . . + Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . God, will they never stop!" + + + + + Tasker Norcross + + "Whether all towns and all who live in them -- + So long as they be somewhere in this world + That we in our complacency call ours -- + Are more or less the same, I leave to you. + I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile, + We've all two legs -- and as for that, we haven't -- + There were three kinds of men where I was born: + The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross. + Now there are two kinds." + + "Meaning, as I divine, + Your friend is dead," I ventured. + + Ferguson, + Who talked himself at last out of the world + He censured, and is therefore silent now, + Agreed indifferently: "My friends are dead -- + Or most of them." + + "Remember one that isn't," + I said, protesting. "Honor him for his ears; + Treasure him also for his understanding." + Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again: + "You have an overgrown alacrity + For saying nothing much and hearing less; + And I've a thankless wonder, at the start, + How much it is to you that I shall tell + What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross, + And how much to the air that is around you. + But given a patience that is not averse + To the slow tragedies of haunted men -- + Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye + To know them at their firesides, or out walking, --" + + "Horrors," I said, "are my necessity; + And I would have them, for their best effect, + Always out walking." + + Ferguson frowned at me: + "The wisest of us are not those who laugh + Before they know. Most of us never know -- + Or the long toil of our mortality + Would not be done. Most of us never know -- + And there you have a reason to believe + In God, if you may have no other. Norcross, + Or so I gather of his infirmity, + Was given to know more than he should have known, + And only God knows why. See for yourself + An old house full of ghosts of ancestors, + Who did their best, or worst, and having done it, + Died honorably; and each with a distinction + That hardly would have been for him that had it, + Had honor failed him wholly as a friend. + Honor that is a friend begets a friend. + Whether or not we love him, still we have him; + And we must live somehow by what we have, + Or then we die. If you say chemistry, + Then you must have your molecules in motion, + And in their right abundance. Failing either, + You have not long to dance. Failing a friend, + A genius, or a madness, or a faith + Larger than desperation, you are here + For as much longer than you like as may be. + Imagining now, by way of an example, + Myself a more or less remembered phantom -- + Again, I should say less -- how many times + A day should I come back to you? No answer. + Forgive me when I seem a little careless, + But we must have examples, or be lucid + Without them; and I question your adherence + To such an undramatic narrative + As this of mine, without the personal hook." + + "A time is given in Ecclesiastes + For divers works," I told him. "Is there one + For saying nothing in return for nothing? + If not, there should be." I could feel his eyes, + And they were like two cold inquiring points + Of a sharp metal. When I looked again, + To see them shine, the cold that I had felt + Was gone to make way for a smouldering + Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then, + Could never quench with kindness or with lies. + I should have done whatever there was to do + For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned + In honesty for once around the clock + The loss of him, for my sake or for his, + Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve, + Had I the power and the unthinking will + To make him tread again without an aim + The road that was behind him -- and without + The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness + That he contended was imperative. + + After a silence that had been too long, + "It may be quite as well we don't," he said; + "As well, I mean, that we don't always say it. + You know best what I mean, and I suppose + You might have said it better. What was that? + Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible? + Well, it's a word; and a word has its use, + Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave. + It's a good word enough. Incorrigible, + May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross. + See for yourself that house of his again + That he called home: An old house, painted white, + Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb + To look at or to live in. There were trees -- + Too many of them, if such a thing may be -- + Before it and around it. Down in front + There was a road, a railroad, and a river; + Then there were hills behind it, and more trees. + The thing would fairly stare at you through trees, + Like a pale inmate out of a barred window + With a green shade half down; and I dare say + People who passed have said: `There's where he lives. + We know him, but we do not seem to know + That we remember any good of him, + Or any evil that is interesting. + There you have all we know and all we care.' + They might have said it in all sorts of ways; + And then, if they perceived a cat, they might + Or might not have remembered what they said. + The cat might have a personality -- + And maybe the same one the Lord left out + Of Tasker Norcross, who, for lack of it, + Saw the same sun go down year after year; + All which at last was my discovery. + And only mine, so far as evidence + Enlightens one more darkness. You have known + All round you, all your days, men who are nothing -- + Nothing, I mean, so far as time tells yet + Of any other need it has of them + Than to make sextons hardy -- but no less + Are to themselves incalculably something, + And therefore to be cherished. God, you see, + Being sorry for them in their fashioning, + Indemnified them with a quaint esteem + Of self, and with illusions long as life. + You know them well, and you have smiled at them; + And they, in their serenity, may have had + Their time to smile at you. Blessed are they + That see themselves for what they never were + Or were to be, and are, for their defect, + At ease with mirrors and the dim remarks + That pass their tranquil ears." + + "Come, come," said I; + "There may be names in your compendium + That we are not yet all on fire for shouting. + Skin most of us of our mediocrity, + We should have nothing then that we could scratch. + The picture smarts. Cover it, if you please, + And do so rather gently. Now for Norcross." + + Ferguson closed his eyes in resignation, + While a dead sigh came out of him. "Good God!" + He said, and said it only half aloud, + As if he knew no longer now, nor cared, + If one were there to listen: "Have I said nothing -- + Nothing at all -- of Norcross? Do you mean + To patronize him till his name becomes + A toy made out of letters? If a name + Is all you need, arrange an honest column + Of all the people you have ever known + That you have never liked. You'll have enough; + And you'll have mine, moreover. No, not yet. + If I assume too many privileges, + I pay, and I alone, for their assumption; + By which, if I assume a darker knowledge + Of Norcross than another, let the weight + Of my injustice aggravate the load + That is not on your shoulders. When I came + To know this fellow Norcross in his house, + I found him as I found him in the street -- + No more, no less; indifferent, but no better. + `Worse' were not quite the word: he was not bad; + He was not . . . well, he was not anything. + Has your invention ever entertained + The picture of a dusty worm so dry + That even the early bird would shake his head + And fly on farther for another breakfast?" + + "But why forget the fortune of the worm," + I said, "if in the dryness you deplore + Salvation centred and endured? Your Norcross + May have been one for many to have envied." + + "Salvation? Fortune? Would the worm say that? + He might; and therefore I dismiss the worm + With all dry things but one. Figures away, + Do you begin to see this man a little? + Do you begin to see him in the air, + With all the vacant horrors of his outline + For you to fill with more than it will hold? + If so, you needn't crown yourself at once + With epic laurel if you seem to fill it. + Horrors, I say, for in the fires and forks + Of a new hell -- if one were not enough -- + I doubt if a new horror would have held him + With a malignant ingenuity + More to be feared than his before he died. + You smile, as if in doubt. Well, smile again. + Now come into his house, along with me: + The four square sombre things that you see first + Around you are four walls that go as high + As to the ceiling. Norcross knew them well, + And he knew others like them. Fasten to that + With all the claws of your intelligence; + And hold the man before you in his house + As if he were a white rat in a box, + And one that knew himself to be no other. + I tell you twice that he knew all about it, + That you may not forget the worst of all + Our tragedies begin with what we know. + Could Norcross only not have known, I wonder + How many would have blessed and envied him! + Could he have had the usual eye for spots + On others, and for none upon himself, + I smile to ponder on the carriages + That might as well as not have clogged the town + In honor of his end. For there was gold, + You see, though all he needed was a little, + And what he gave said nothing of who gave it. + He would have given it all if in return + There might have been a more sufficient face + To greet him when he shaved. Though you insist + It is the dower, and always, of our degree + Not to be cursed with such invidious insight, + Remember that you stand, you and your fancy, + Now in his house; and since we are together, + See for yourself and tell me what you see. + Tell me the best you see. Make a slight noise + Of recognition when you find a book + That you would not as lief read upside down + As otherwise, for example. If there you fail, + Observe the walls and lead me to the place, + Where you are led. If there you meet a picture + That holds you near it for a longer time + Than you are sorry, you may call it yours, + And hang it in the dark of your remembrance, + Where Norcross never sees. How can he see + That has no eyes to see? And as for music, + He paid with empty wonder for the pangs + Of his infrequent forced endurance of it; + And having had no pleasure, paid no more + For needless immolation, or for the sight + Of those who heard what he was never to hear. + To see them listening was itself enough + To make him suffer; and to watch worn eyes, + On other days, of strangers who forgot + Their sorrows and their failures and themselves + Before a few mysterious odds and ends + Of marble carted from the Parthenon -- + And all for seeing what he was never to see, + Because it was alive and he was dead -- + Here was a wonder that was more profound + Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns. + + "He knew, and in his knowledge there was death. + He knew there was a region all around him + That lay outside man's havoc and affairs, + And yet was not all hostile to their tumult, + Where poets would have served and honored him, + And saved him, had there been anything to save. + But there was nothing, and his tethered range + Was only a small desert. Kings of song + Are not for thrones in deserts. Towers of sound + And flowers of sense are but a waste of heaven + Where there is none to know them from the rocks + And sand-grass of his own monotony + That makes earth less than earth. He could see that, + And he could see no more. The captured light + That may have been or not, for all he cared, + The song that is in sculpture was not his, + But only, to his God-forgotten eyes, + One more immortal nonsense in a world + Where all was mortal, or had best be so, + And so be done with. `Art,' he would have said, + `Is not life, and must therefore be a lie;' + And with a few profundities like that + He would have controverted and dismissed + The benefit of the Greeks. He had heard of them, + As he had heard of his aspiring soul -- + Never to the perceptible advantage, + In his esteem, of either. `Faith,' he said, + Or would have said if he had thought of it, + `Lives in the same house with Philosophy, + Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn + As orphans after war. He could see stars, + On a clear night, but he had not an eye + To see beyond them. He could hear spoken words, + But had no ear for silence when alone. + He could eat food of which he knew the savor, + But had no palate for the Bread of Life, + That human desperation, to his thinking, + Made famous long ago, having no other. + Now do you see? Do you begin to see?" + + I told him that I did begin to see; + And I was nearer than I should have been + To laughing at his malign inclusiveness, + When I considered that, with all our speed, + We are not laughing yet at funerals. + I see him now as I could see him then, + And I see now that it was good for me, + As it was good for him, that I was quiet; + For Time's eye was on Ferguson, and the shaft + Of its inquiring hesitancy had touched him, + Or so I chose to fancy more than once + Before he told of Norcross. When the word + Of his release (he would have called it so) + Made half an inch of news, there were no tears + That are recorded. Women there may have been + To wish him back, though I should say, not knowing, + The few there were to mourn were not for love, + And were not lovely. Nothing of them, at least, + Was in the meagre legend that I gathered + Years after, when a chance of travel took me + So near the region of his nativity + That a few miles of leisure brought me there; + For there I found a friendly citizen + Who led me to his house among the trees + That were above a railroad and a river. + Square as a box and chillier than a tomb + It was indeed, to look at or to live in -- + All which had I been told. "Ferguson died," + The stranger said, "and then there was an auction. + I live here, but I've never yet been warm. + Remember him? Yes, I remember him. + I knew him -- as a man may know a tree -- + For twenty years. He may have held himself + A little high when he was here, but now . . . + Yes, I remember Ferguson. Oh, yes." + Others, I found, remembered Ferguson, + But none of them had heard of Tasker Norcross. + + + + + A Song at Shannon's + + Two men came out of Shannon's having known + The faces of each other for as long + As they had listened there to an old song, + Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone + By some unhappy night-bird, who had flown + Too many times and with a wing too strong + To save himself, and so done heavy wrong + To more frail elements than his alone. + + Slowly away they went, leaving behind + More light than was before them. Neither met + The other's eyes again or said a word. + Each to his loneliness or to his kind, + Went his own way, and with his own regret, + Not knowing what the other may have heard. + + + + + Souvenir + + A vanished house that for an hour I knew + By some forgotten chance when I was young + Had once a glimmering window overhung + With honeysuckle wet with evening dew. + Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew, + And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung + Ferociously; and over me, among + The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew. + + Somewhere within there were dim presences + Of days that hovered and of years gone by. + I waited, and between their silences + There was an evanescent faded noise; + And though a child, I knew it was the voice + Of one whose occupation was to die. + + + + + Discovery + + We told of him as one who should have soared + And seen for us the devastating light + Whereof there is not either day or night, + And shared with us the glamour of the Word + That fell once upon Amos to record + For men at ease in Zion, when the sight + Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might + Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord. + + Assured somehow that he would make us wise, + Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise + Was hard when we confessed the dry return + Of his regret. For we were still to learn + That earth has not a school where we may go + For wisdom, or for more than we may know. + + + + + Firelight + + Ten years together without yet a cloud, + They seek each other's eyes at intervals + Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls + For love's obliteration of the crowd. + Serenely and perennially endowed + And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls + No snake, no sword; and over them there falls + The blessing of what neither says aloud. + + Wiser for silence, they were not so glad + Were she to read the graven tale of lines + On the wan face of one somewhere alone; + Nor were they more content could he have had + Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines + Apart, and would be hers if he had known. + + + + + The New Tenants + + The day was here when it was his to know + How fared the barriers he had built between + His triumph and his enemies unseen, + For them to undermine and overthrow; + And it was his no longer to forego + The sight of them, insidious and serene, + Where they were delving always and had been + Left always to be vicious and to grow. + + And there were the new tenants who had come, + By doors that were left open unawares, + Into his house, and were so much at home + There now that he would hardly have to guess, + By the slow guile of their vindictiveness, + What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs. + + + + + Inferential + + Although I saw before me there the face + Of one whom I had honored among men + The least, and on regarding him again + Would not have had him in another place, + He fitted with an unfamiliar grace + The coffin where I could not see him then + As I had seen him and appraised him when + I deemed him unessential to the race. + + For there was more of him than what I saw. + And there was on me more than the old awe + That is the common genius of the dead. + I might as well have heard him: "Never mind; + If some of us were not so far behind, + The rest of us were not so far ahead." + + + + + The Rat + + As often as he let himself be seen + We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored + The inscrutable profusion of the Lord + Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean -- + Who made him human when he might have been + A rat, and so been wholly in accord + With any other creature we abhorred + As always useless and not always clean. + + Now he is hiding all alone somewhere, + And in a final hole not ready then; + For now he is among those over there + Who are not coming back to us again. + And we who do the fiction of our share + Say less of rats and rather more of men. + + + + + Rahel to Varnhagen + +Note. -- Rahel Robert and Varnhagen von Ense were married, +after many protestations on her part, in 1814. The marriage -- so far +as he was concerned, at any rate -- appears to have been satisfactory. + + Now you have read them all; or if not all, + As many as in all conscience I should fancy + To be enough. There are no more of them -- + Or none to burn your sleep, or to bring dreams + Of devils. If these are not sufficient, surely + You are a strange young man. I might live on + Alone, and for another forty years, + Or not quite forty, -- are you happier now? -- + Always to ask if there prevailed elsewhere + Another like yourself that would have held + These aged hands as long as you have held them, + Not once observing, for all I can see, + How they are like your mother's. Well, you have read + His letters now, and you have heard me say + That in them are the cinders of a passion + That was my life; and you have not yet broken + Your way out of my house, out of my sight, -- + Into the street. You are a strange young man. + I know as much as that of you, for certain; + And I'm already praying, for your sake, + That you be not too strange. Too much of that + May lead you bye and bye through gloomy lanes + To a sad wilderness, where one may grope + Alone, and always, or until he feels + Ferocious and invisible animals + That wait for men and eat them in the dark. + Why do you sit there on the floor so long, + Smiling at me while I try to be solemn? + Do you not hear it said for your salvation, + When I say truth? Are you, at four and twenty, + So little deceived in us that you interpret + The humor of a woman to be noticed + As her choice between you and Acheron? + Are you so unscathed yet as to infer + That if a woman worries when a man, + Or a man-child, has wet shoes on his feet + She may as well commemorate with ashes + The last eclipse of her tranquillity? + If you look up at me and blink again, + I shall not have to make you tell me lies + To know the letters you have not been reading. + I see now that I may have had for nothing + A most unpleasant shivering in my conscience + When I laid open for your contemplation + The wealth of my worn casket. If I did, + The fault was not yours wholly. Search again + This wreckage we may call for sport a face, + And you may chance upon the price of havoc + That I have paid for a few sorry stones + That shine and have no light -- yet once were stars, + And sparkled on a crown. Little and weak + They seem; and they are cold, I fear, for you. + But they that once were fire for me may not + Be cold again for me until I die; + And only God knows if they may be then. + There is a love that ceases to be love + In being ourselves. How, then, are we to lose it? + You that are sure that you know everything + There is to know of love, answer me that. + Well? . . . You are not even interested. + + Once on a far off time when I was young, + I felt with your assurance, and all through me, + That I had undergone the last and worst + Of love's inventions. There was a boy who brought + The sun with him and woke me up with it, + And that was every morning; every night + I tried to dream of him, but never could, + More than I might have seen in Adam's eyes + Their fond uncertainty when Eve began + The play that all her tireless progeny + Are not yet weary of. One scene of it + Was brief, but was eternal while it lasted; + And that was while I was the happiest + Of an imaginary six or seven, + Somewhere in history but not on earth, + For whom the sky had shaken and let stars + Rain down like diamonds. Then there were clouds, + And a sad end of diamonds; whereupon + Despair came, like a blast that would have brought + Tears to the eyes of all the bears in Finland, + And love was done. That was how much I knew. + Poor little wretch! I wonder where he is + This afternoon. Out of this rain, I hope. + + At last, when I had seen so many days + Dressed all alike, and in their marching order, + Go by me that I would not always count them, + One stopped -- shattering the whole file of Time, + Or so it seemed; and when I looked again, + There was a man. He struck once with his eyes, + And then there was a woman. I, who had come + To wisdom, or to vision, or what you like, + By the old hidden road that has no name, -- + I, who was used to seeing without flying + So much that others fly from without seeing, + Still looked, and was afraid, and looked again. + And after that, when I had read the story + Told in his eyes, and felt within my heart + The bleeding wound of their necessity, + I knew the fear was his. If I had failed him + And flown away from him, I should have lost + Ingloriously my wings in scrambling back, + And found them arms again. If he had struck me + Not only with his eyes but with his hands, + I might have pitied him and hated love, + And then gone mad. I, who have been so strong -- + Why don't you laugh? -- might even have done all that. + I, who have learned so much, and said so much, + And had the commendations of the great + For one who rules herself -- why don't you cry? -- + And own a certain small authority + Among the blind, who see no more than ever, + But like my voice, -- I would have tossed it all + To Tophet for one man; and he was jealous. + I would have wound a snake around my neck + And then have let it bite me till I died, + If my so doing would have made me sure + That one man might have lived; and he was jealous. + I would have driven these hands into a cage + That held a thousand scorpions, and crushed them, + If only by so poisonous a trial + I could have crushed his doubt. I would have wrung + My living blood with mediaeval engines + Out of my screaming flesh, if only that + Would have made one man sure. I would have paid + For him the tiresome price of body and soul, + And let the lash of a tongue-weary town + Fall as it might upon my blistered name; + And while it fell I could have laughed at it, + Knowing that he had found out finally + Where the wrong was. But there was evil in him + That would have made no more of his possession + Than confirmation of another fault; + And there was honor -- if you call it honor + That hoods itself with doubt and wears a crown + Of lead that might as well be gold and fire. + Give it as heavy or as light a name + As any there is that fits. I see myself + Without the power to swear to this or that + That I might be if he had been without it. + Whatever I might have been that I was not, + It only happened that it wasn't so. + Meanwhile, you might seem to be listening: + If you forget yourself and go to sleep, + My treasure, I shall not say this again. + Look up once more into my poor old face, + Where you see beauty, or the Lord knows what, + And say to me aloud what else there is + Than ruins in it that you most admire. + + No, there was never anything like that; + Nature has never fastened such a mask + Of radiant and impenetrable merit + On any woman as you say there is + On this one. Not a mask? I thank you, sir, + But you see more with your determination, + I fear, than with your prudence or your conscience; + And you have never met me with my eyes + In all the mirrors I've made faces at. + No, I shall never call you strange again: + You are the young and inconvincible + Epitome of all blind men since Adam. + May the blind lead the blind, if that be so? + And we shall need no mirrors? You are saying + What most I feared you might. But if the blind, + Or one of them, be not so fortunate + As to put out the eyes of recollection, + She might at last, without her meaning it, + Lead on the other, without his knowing it, + Until the two of them should lose themselves + Among dead craters in a lava-field + As empty as a desert on the moon. + I am not speaking in a theatre, + But in a room so real and so familiar + That sometimes I would wreck it. Then I pause, + Remembering there is a King in Weimar -- + A monarch, and a poet, and a shepherd + Of all who are astray and are outside + The realm where they should rule. I think of him, + And save the furniture; I think of you, + And am forlorn, finding in you the one + To lavish aspirations and illusions + Upon a faded and forsaken house + Where love, being locked alone, was nigh to burning + House and himself together. Yes, you are strange, + To see in such an injured architecture + Room for new love to live in. Are you laughing? + No? Well, you are not crying, as you should be. + Tears, even if they told only gratitude + For your escape, and had no other story, + Were surely more becoming than a smile + For my unwomanly straightforwardness + In seeing for you, through my close gate of years + Your forty ways to freedom. Why do you smile? + And while I'm trembling at my faith in you + In giving you to read this book of danger + That only one man living might have written -- + These letters, which have been a part of me + So long that you may read them all again + As often as you look into my face, + And hear them when I speak to you, and feel them + Whenever you have to touch me with your hand, -- + Why are you so unwilling to be spared? + Why do you still believe in me? But no, + I'll find another way to ask you that. + I wonder if there is another way + That says it better, and means anything. + There is no other way that could be worse? + I was not asking you; it was myself + Alone that I was asking. Why do I dip + For lies, when there is nothing in my well + But shining truth, you say? How do you know? + Truth has a lonely life down where she lives; + And many a time, when she comes up to breathe, + She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples. + Possibly you may know no more of me + Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone, + Leaving you then with all my shining truth + Drowned in a shining water; and when you look + You may not see me there, but something else + That never was a woman -- being yourself. + You say to me my truth is past all drowning, + And safe with you for ever? You know all that? + How do you know all that, and who has told you? + You know so much that I'm an atom frightened + Because you know so little. And what is this? + You know the luxury there is in haunting + The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion -- + If that's your name for them -- with only ghosts + For company? You know that when a woman + Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience + (Another name of yours for a bad temper) + She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it + (That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it), + Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby + Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom, + Given in vain to make a food for those + Who are without it, will be seen at last, + And even at last only by those who gave it, + As one or more of the forgotten crumbs + That others leave? You know that men's applause + And women's envy savor so much of dust + That I go hungry, having at home no fare + But the same changeless bread that I may swallow + Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that? + You know that if I read, and read alone, + Too many books that no men yet have written, + I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself, + Of all insistent and insidious creatures, + To be the one to save me, and to guard + For me their flaming language? And you know + That if I give much headway to the whim + That's in me never to be quite sure that even + Through all those years of storm and fire I waited + For this one rainy day, I may go on, + And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes, + To a cold end? You know so dismal much + As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do. + + + + + Nimmo + + Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive + At such a false and florid and far drawn + Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive + No longer, though I may have led you on. + + So much is told and heard and told again, + So many with his legend are engrossed, + That I, more sorry now than I was then, + May live on to be sorry for his ghost. + + You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, -- + How deep they were, and what a velvet light + Came out of them when anger or surprise, + Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright. + + No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, -- + And you say nothing of them. Very well. + I wonder if all history's worth a wink, + Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell. + + For they began to lose their velvet light; + Their fire grew dead without and small within; + And many of you deplored the needless fight + That somewhere in the dark there must have been. + + All fights are needless, when they're not our own, + But Nimmo and Francesca never fought. + Remember that; and when you are alone, + Remember me -- and think what I have thought. + + Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was, + Or never was, or could or could not be: + Bring not suspicion's candle to the glass + That mirrors a friend's face to memory. + + Of what you see, see all, -- but see no more; + For what I show you here will not be there. + The devil has had his way with paint before, + And he's an artist, -- and you needn't stare. + + There was a painter and he painted well: + He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den, + Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell. + I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again. + + The painter put the devil in those eyes, + Unless the devil did, and there he stayed; + And then the lady fled from paradise, + And there's your fact. The lady was afraid. + + She must have been afraid, or may have been, + Of evil in their velvet all the while; + But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin, + I'll trust the man as long as he can smile. + + I trust him who can smile and then may live + In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today. + God knows if I have more than men forgive + To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay. + + I knew him then, and if I know him yet, + I know in him, defeated and estranged, + The calm of men forbidden to forget + The calm of women who have loved and changed. + + But there are ways that are beyond our ways, + Or he would not be calm and she be mute, + As one by one their lost and empty days + Pass without even the warmth of a dispute. + + God help us all when women think they see; + God save us when they do. I'm fair; but though + I know him only as he looks to me, + I know him, -- and I tell Francesca so. + + And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask + Of him, could you but see him as I can, + At his bewildered and unfruitful task + Of being what he was born to be -- a man. + + Better forget that I said anything + Of what your tortured memory may disclose; + I know him, and your worst remembering + Would count as much as nothing, I suppose. + + Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way + Of trusting me, as always in his youth. + I'm painting here a better man, you say, + Than I, the painter; and you say the truth. + + + + + Peace on Earth + + He took a frayed hat from his head, + And "Peace on Earth" was what he said. + "A morsel out of what you're worth, + And there we have it: Peace on Earth. + Not much, although a little more + Than what there was on earth before. + I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, -- + But never mind the ways I've trod; + I'm sober now, so help me God." + + I could not pass the fellow by. + "Do you believe in God?" said I; + "And is there to be Peace on Earth?" + + "Tonight we celebrate the birth," + He said, "of One who died for men; + The Son of God, we say. What then? + Your God, or mine? I'd make you laugh + Were I to tell you even half + That I have learned of mine today + Where yours would hardly seem to stay. + Could He but follow in and out + Some anthropoids I know about, + The God to whom you may have prayed + Might see a world He never made." + + "Your words are flowing full," said I; + "But yet they give me no reply; + Your fountain might as well be dry." + + "A wiser One than you, my friend, + Would wait and hear me to the end; + And for His eyes a light would shine + Through this unpleasant shell of mine + That in your fancy makes of me + A Christmas curiosity. + All right, I might be worse than that; + And you might now be lying flat; + I might have done it from behind, + And taken what there was to find. + Don't worry, for I'm not that kind. + `Do I believe in God?' Is that + The price tonight of a new hat? + Has He commanded that His name + Be written everywhere the same? + Have all who live in every place + Identified His hidden face? + Who knows but He may like as well + My story as one you may tell? + And if He show me there be Peace + On Earth, as there be fields and trees + Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong + If now I sing Him a new song? + Your world is in yourself, my friend, + For your endurance to the end; + And all the Peace there is on Earth + Is faith in what your world is worth, + And saying, without any lies, + Your world could not be otherwise." + + "One might say that and then be shot," + I told him; and he said: "Why not?" + I ceased, and gave him rather more + Than he was counting of my store. + "And since I have it, thanks to you, + Don't ask me what I mean to do," + Said he. "Believe that even I + Would rather tell the truth than lie -- + On Christmas Eve. No matter why." + + His unshaved, educated face, + His inextinguishable grace, + And his hard smile, are with me still, + Deplore the vision as I will; + For whatsoever he be at, + So droll a derelict as that + Should have at least another hat. + + + + + Late Summer + + (Alcaics) + + Confused, he found her lavishing feminine + Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; + And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors + Be as they were, without end, her playthings? + + And why were dead years hungrily telling her + Lies of the dead, who told them again to her? + If now she knew, there might be kindness + Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled. + + A little faith in him, and the ruinous + Past would be for time to annihilate, + And wash out, like a tide that washes + Out of the sand what a child has drawn there. + + God, what a shining handful of happiness, + Made out of days and out of eternities, + Were now the pulsing end of patience -- + Could he but have what a ghost had stolen! + + What was a man before him, or ten of them, + While he was here alive who could answer them, + And in their teeth fling confirmations + Harder than agates against an egg-shell? + + But now the man was dead, and would come again + Never, though she might honor ineffably + The flimsy wraith of him she conjured + Out of a dream with his wand of absence. + + And if the truth were now but a mummery, + Meriting pride's implacable irony, + So much the worse for pride. Moreover, + Save her or fail, there was conscience always. + + Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, + Imploring to be sheltered and credited, + Were not amiss when she revealed them. + Whether she struggled or not, he saw them. + + Also, he saw that while she was hearing him + Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; + And while he told what cautious honor + Told him was all he had best be sure of, + + He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, + Where shifting winds were driving his argosies, + Long anchored and as long unladen, + Over the foam for the golden chances. + + "If men were not for killing so carelessly, + And women were for wiser endurances," + He said, "we might have yet a world here + Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in; + + "If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness, + And we were less forbidden to look at it, + We might not have to look." He stared then + Down at the sand where the tide threw forward + + Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly + Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough, + Although he knew he might be silenced + Out of all calm; and the night was coming. + + "I climb for you the peak of his infamy + That you may choose your fall if you cling to it. + No more for me unless you say more. + All you have left of a dream defends you: + + "The truth may be as evil an augury + As it was needful now for the two of us. + We cannot have the dead between us. + Tell me to go, and I go." -- She pondered: + + "What you believe is right for the two of us + Makes it as right that you are not one of us. + If this be needful truth you tell me, + Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter." + + She gazed away where shadows were covering + The whole cold ocean's healing indifference. + No ship was coming. When the darkness + Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing. + + + + + An Evangelist's Wife + + "Why am I not myself these many days, + You ask? And have you nothing more to ask? + I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise + To God for giving you me to share your task? + + "Jealous -- of Her? Because her cheeks are pink, + And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven. + If you should only steal an hour to think, + Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven. + + "No, you are never cruel. If once or twice + I found you so, I could applaud and sing. + Jealous of -- What? You are not very wise. + Does not the good Book tell you anything? + + "In David's time poor Michal had to go. + Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so." + + + + + The Old King's New Jester + + You that in vain would front the coming order + With eyes that meet forlornly what they must, + And only with a furtive recognition + See dust where there is dust, -- + Be sure you like it always in your faces, + Obscuring your best graces, + Blinding your speech and sight, + Before you seek again your dusty places + Where the old wrong seems right. + + Longer ago than cave-men had their changes + Our fathers may have slain a son or two, + Discouraging a further dialectic + Regarding what was new; + And after their unstudied admonition + Occasional contrition + For their old-fashioned ways + May have reduced their doubts, and in addition + Softened their final days. + + Farther away than feet shall ever travel + Are the vague towers of our unbuilded State; + But there are mightier things than we to lead us, + That will not let us wait. + And we go on with none to tell us whether + Or not we've each a tether + Determining how fast or far we go; + And it is well, since we must go together, + That we are not to know. + + If the old wrong and all its injured glamour + Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace, + You may as well, agreeably and serenely, + Give the new wrong its lease; + For should you nourish a too fervid yearning + For what is not returning, + The vicious and unfused ingredient + May give you qualms -- and one or two concerning + The last of your content. + + + + + Lazarus + + "No, Mary, there was nothing -- not a word. + Nothing, and always nothing. Go again + Yourself, and he may listen -- or at least + Look up at you, and let you see his eyes. + I might as well have been the sound of rain, + A wind among the cedars, or a bird; + Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you; + And even if he should say that we are nothing, + To know that you have heard him will be something. + And yet he loved us, and it was for love + The Master gave him back. Why did He wait + So long before He came? Why did He weep? + I thought He would be glad -- and Lazarus -- + To see us all again as He had left us -- + All as it was, all as it was before." + + Mary, who felt her sister's frightened arms + Like those of someone drowning who had seized her, + Fearing at last they were to fail and sink + Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness, + Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes, + To find again the fading shores of home + That she had seen but now could see no longer. + Now she could only gaze into the twilight, + And in the dimness know that he was there, + Like someone that was not. He who had been + Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive + Only in death again -- or worse than death; + For tombs at least, always until today, + Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain + For man or God in such a day as this; + For there they were alone, and there was he -- + Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany, + The Master -- who had come to them so late, + Only for love of them and then so slowly, + And was for their sake hunted now by men + Who feared Him as they feared no other prey -- + For the world's sake was hidden. "Better the tomb + For Lazarus than life, if this be life," + She thought; and then to Martha, "No, my dear," + She said aloud; "not as it was before. + Nothing is ever as it was before, + Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time; + And we that are so lonely and so far + From home, since he is with us here again, + Are farther now from him and from ourselves + Than we are from the stars. He will not speak + Until the spirit that is in him speaks; + And we must wait for all we are to know, + Or even to learn that we are not to know. + Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge, + And that is why it is that we must wait. + Our friends are coming if we call for them, + And there are covers we'll put over him + To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps, + To say that we know better what is best + Than he. We do not know how old he is. + If you remember what the Master said, + Try to believe that we need have no fear. + Let me, the selfish and the careless one, + Be housewife and a mother for tonight; + For I am not so fearful as you are, + And I was not so eager." + + Martha sank + Down at her sister's feet and there sat watching + A flower that had a small familiar name + That was as old as memory, but was not + The name of what she saw now in its brief + And infinite mystery that so frightened her + That life became a terror. Tears again + Flooded her eyes and overflowed. "No, Mary," + She murmured slowly, hating her own words + Before she heard them, "you are not so eager + To see our brother as we see him now; + Neither is He who gave him back to us. + I was to be the simple one, as always, + And this was all for me." She stared again + Over among the trees where Lazarus, + Who seemed to be a man who was not there, + Might have been one more shadow among shadows, + If she had not remembered. Then she felt + The cool calm hands of Mary on her face, + And shivered, wondering if such hands were real. + + "The Master loved you as He loved us all, + Martha; and you are saying only things + That children say when they have had no sleep. + Try somehow now to rest a little while; + You know that I am here, and that our friends + Are coming if I call." + + Martha at last + Arose, and went with Mary to the door, + Where they stood looking off at the same place, + And at the same shape that was always there + As if it would not ever move or speak, + And always would be there. "Mary, go now, + Before the dark that will be coming hides him. + I am afraid of him out there alone, + Unless I see him; and I have forgotten + What sleep is. Go now -- make him look at you -- + And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers. + Go! -- or I'll scream and bring all Bethany + To come and make him speak. Make him say once + That he is glad, and God may say the rest. + Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever, + I shall not care for that . . . Go!" + + Mary, moving + Almost as if an angry child had pushed her, + Went forward a few steps; and having waited + As long as Martha's eyes would look at hers, + Went forward a few more, and a few more; + And so, until she came to Lazarus, + Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands, + Like one that had no face. Before she spoke, + Feeling her sister's eyes that were behind her + As if the door where Martha stood were now + As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned + Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly, + Fearing him not so much as wondering + What his first word might be, said, "Lazarus, + Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;" + And having spoken, pitied her poor speech + That had so little seeming gladness in it, + So little comfort, and so little love. + + There was no sign from him that he had heard, + Or that he knew that she was there, or cared + Whether she spoke to him again or died + There at his feet. "We love you, Lazarus, + And we are not afraid. The Master said + We need not be afraid. Will you not say + To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus! + Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary." + + She found his hands and held them. They were cool, + Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers. + Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him + When he had groped out of that awful sleep, + She felt him trembling and she was afraid. + At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily + To God that she might have again the voice + Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now + The recognition of a living pressure + That was almost a language. When he spoke, + Only one word that she had waited for + Came from his lips, and that word was her name. + + "I heard them saying, Mary, that He wept + Before I woke." The words were low and shaken, + Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them + Was Lazarus; and that would be enough + Until there should be more . . . "Who made Him come, + That He should weep for me? . . . Was it you, Mary?" + The questions held in his incredulous eyes + Were more than she would see. She looked away; + But she had felt them and should feel for ever, + She thought, their cold and lonely desperation + That had the bitterness of all cold things + That were not cruel. "I should have wept," he said, + "If I had been the Master. . . ." + + Now she could feel + His hands above her hair -- the same black hair + That once he made a jest of, praising it, + While Martha's busy eyes had left their work + To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that + Was to be theirs again; and such a thought + Was like the flying by of a quick bird + Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight. + For now she felt his hands upon her head, + Like weights of kindness: "I forgive you, Mary. . . . + You did not know -- Martha could not have known -- + Only the Master knew. . . . Where is He now? + Yes, I remember. They came after Him. + May the good God forgive Him. . . . I forgive Him. + I must; and I may know only from Him + The burden of all this. . . . Martha was here -- + But I was not yet here. She was afraid. . . . + Why did He do it, Mary? Was it -- you? + Was it for you? . . . Where are the friends I saw? + Yes, I remember. They all went away. + I made them go away. . . . Where is He now? . . . + What do I see down there? Do I see Martha -- + Down by the door? . . . I must have time for this." + + Lazarus looked about him fearfully, + And then again at Mary, who discovered + Awakening apprehension in his eyes, + And shivered at his feet. All she had feared + Was here; and only in the slow reproach + Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude. + Why had he asked if it was all for her + That he was here? And what had Martha meant? + Why had the Master waited? What was coming + To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come? + What had the Master seen before He came, + That He had come so late? + + "Where is He, Mary?" + Lazarus asked again. "Where did He go?" + Once more he gazed about him, and once more + At Mary for an answer. "Have they found Him? + Or did He go away because He wished + Never to look into my eyes again? . . . + That, I could understand. . . . Where is He, Mary?" + + "I do not know," she said. "Yet in my heart + I know that He is living, as you are living -- + Living, and here. He is not far from us. + He will come back to us and find us all -- + Lazarus, Martha, Mary -- everything -- + All as it was before. Martha said that. + And He said we were not to be afraid." + Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face + A tortured adumbration of a smile + Flickered an instant. "All as it was before," + He murmured wearily. "Martha said that; + And He said you were not to be afraid . . . + Not you . . . Not you . . . Why should you be afraid? + Give all your little fears, and Martha's with them, + To me; and I will add them unto mine, + Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret." + + "If you had frightened me in other ways, + Not willing it," Mary said, "I should have known + You still for Lazarus. But who is this? + Tell me again that you are Lazarus; + And tell me if the Master gave to you + No sign of a new joy that shall be coming + To this house that He loved. Are you afraid? + Are you afraid, who have felt everything -- + And seen . . . ?" + + But Lazarus only shook his head, + Staring with his bewildered shining eyes + Hard into Mary's face. "I do not know, + Mary," he said, after a long time. + "When I came back, I knew the Master's eyes + Were looking into mine. I looked at His, + And there was more in them than I could see. + At first I could see nothing but His eyes; + Nothing else anywhere was to be seen -- + Only His eyes. And they looked into mine -- + Long into mine, Mary, as if He knew." + + Mary began to be afraid of words + As she had never been afraid before + Of loneliness or darkness, or of death, + But now she must have more of them or die: + "He cannot know that there is worse than death," + She said. "And you . . ." + + "Yes, there is worse than death." + Said Lazarus; "and that was what He knew; + And that is what it was that I could see + This morning in his eyes. I was afraid, + But not as you are. There is worse than death, + Mary; and there is nothing that is good + For you in dying while you are still here. + Mary, never go back to that again. + You would not hear me if I told you more, + For I should say it only in a language + That you are not to learn by going back. + To be a child again is to go forward -- + And that is much to know. Many grow old, + And fade, and go away, not knowing how much + That is to know. Mary, the night is coming, + And there will soon be darkness all around you. + Let us go down where Martha waits for us, + And let there be light shining in this house." + + He rose, but Mary would not let him go: + "Martha, when she came back from here, said only + That she heard nothing. And have you no more + For Mary now than you had then for Martha? + Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me? + Was Nothing all you found where you have been? + If that be so, what is there worse than that -- + Or better -- if that be so? And why should you, + With even our love, go the same dark road over?" + + "I could not answer that, if that were so," + Said Lazarus, -- "not even if I were God. + Why should He care whether I came or stayed, + If that were so? Why should the Master weep -- + For me, or for the world, -- or save Himself + Longer for nothing? And if that were so, + Why should a few years' more mortality + Make Him a fugitive where flight were needless, + Had He but held his peace and given his nod + To an old Law that would be new as any? + I cannot say the answer to all that; + Though I may say that He is not afraid, + And that it is not for the joy there is + In serving an eternal Ignorance + Of our futility that He is here. + Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing? + Is that what you are fearing? If that be so, + There are more weeds than lentils in your garden. + And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest + May as well have no garden; for not there + Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts + Of life that are to save him. For my part, + I am again with you, here among shadows + That will not always be so dark as this; + Though now I see there's yet an evil in me + That made me let you be afraid of me. + No, I was not afraid -- not even of life. + I thought I was . . . I must have time for this; + And all the time there is will not be long. + I cannot tell you what the Master saw + This morning in my eyes. I do not know. + I cannot yet say how far I have gone, + Or why it is that I am here again, + Or where the old road leads. I do not know. + I know that when I did come back, I saw + His eyes again among the trees and faces -- + Only His eyes; and they looked into mine -- + Long into mine -- long, long, as if He knew." + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Taverns, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1040 *** diff --git a/1040-h/1040-h.htm b/1040-h/1040-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9661f1f --- /dev/null +++ b/1040-h/1040-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3868 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Three Taverns, by Edwin Arlington Robinson +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 0% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 5% } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 4em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1040 ***</div> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED. +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] +</p> + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> + The Three Taverns<br /> +</h1> + +<p class="t3b"> + A Book of Poems<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> + By Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + Author of "The Man Against the Sky", "Merlin, A Poem", etc.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + [American (Maine) Poet. 1869-1935.]<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +<br /><br /><br /> + To THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY and LILLA CABOT PERRY<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<br /><br /><br /> + Contents<br /> +</p> + +<p> + <a href="#valley">The Valley of the Shadow</a><br /> + <a href="#jew">The Wandering Jew</a><br /> + <a href="#neighbors">Neighbors</a><br /> + <a href="#mill">The Mill</a><br /> + <a href="#hills">The Dark Hills</a><br /> + <a href="#taverns">The Three Taverns</a><br /> + <a href="#demos1">Demos I</a><br /> + <a href="#demos2">Demos II</a><br /> + <a href="#dutchman">The Flying Dutchman</a><br /> + <a href="#tact">Tact</a><br /> + <a href="#way">On the Way</a><br /> + <a href="#john">John Brown</a><br /> + <a href="#gods">The False Gods</a><br /> + <a href="#example">Archibald's Example</a><br /> + <a href="#bridge">London Bridge</a><br /> + <a href="#tasker">Tasker Norcross</a><br /> + <a href="#song">A Song at Shannon's</a><br /> + <a href="#souvenir">Souvenir</a><br /> + <a href="#discovery">Discovery</a><br /> + <a href="#firelight">Firelight</a><br /> + <a href="#tenants">The New Tenants</a><br /> + <a href="#inferential">Inferential</a><br /> + <a href="#rat">The Rat</a><br /> + <a href="#rahel">Rahel to Varnhagen</a><br /> + <a href="#nimmo">Nimmo</a><br /> + <a href="#peace">Peace on Earth</a><br /> + <a href="#summer">Late Summer</a><br /> + <a href="#wife">An Evangelist's Wife</a><br /> + <a href="#jester">The Old King's New Jester</a><br /> + <a href="#lazarus">Lazarus</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Several poems included in this book appeared originally +in American periodicals, as follows: The Three Taverns, London Bridge, +A Song at Shannon's, The New Tenants, Discovery, John Brown; +Archibald's Example, The Valley of the Shadow; Nimmo; The Wandering Jew, +Souvenir; Neighbors, Tact; Demos; The Mill, An Evangelist's Wife; +Firelight; Late Summer; Inferential; The Flying Dutchman; +On the Way, The False Gods; Peace on Earth; The Old King's New Jester. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> + —————————<br /> + The Three Taverns<br /> + —————————<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="valley"></a> + The Valley of the Shadow<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget;<br /> + There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes,<br /> + There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet.<br /> + For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation<br /> + At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus,<br /> + They were lost and unacquainted — till they found themselves in others,<br /> + Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions<br /> + Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows;<br /> + There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions,<br /> + All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows.<br /> + There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water,<br /> + And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys:<br /> + There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken,<br /> + Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes,<br /> + Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants<br /> + Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams.<br /> + There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood,<br /> + Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago:<br /> + There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them,<br /> + Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth;<br /> + And they were going forward only farther into darkness,<br /> + Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth;<br /> + And among them, giving always what was not for their possession,<br /> + There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes:<br /> + There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches,<br /> + Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves —<br /> + Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember<br /> + Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves.<br /> + There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation,<br /> + While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair:<br /> + There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them,<br /> + And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel;<br /> + And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing,<br /> + Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal.<br /> + Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation,<br /> + But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt:<br /> + There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals<br /> + There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well;<br /> + And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions<br /> + There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell.<br /> + Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless,<br /> + There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold:<br /> + There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow,<br /> + There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile;<br /> + And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers,<br /> + Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while.<br /> + There were many by the presence of the many disaffected,<br /> + Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore:<br /> + There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And they alone were there to find what they were looking for.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others,<br /> + And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn;<br /> + And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer<br /> + May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn.<br /> + For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched,<br /> + Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed:<br /> + There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="jew"></a> + The Wandering Jew<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + I saw by looking in his eyes<br /> + That they remembered everything;<br /> + And this was how I came to know<br /> + That he was here, still wandering.<br /> + For though the figure and the scene<br /> + Were never to be reconciled,<br /> + I knew the man as I had known<br /> + His image when I was a child.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + With evidence at every turn,<br /> + I should have held it safe to guess<br /> + That all the newness of New York<br /> + Had nothing new in loneliness;<br /> + Yet here was one who might be Noah,<br /> + Or Nathan, or Abimelech,<br /> + Or Lamech, out of ages lost, —<br /> + Or, more than all, Melchizedek.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Assured that he was none of these,<br /> + I gave them back their names again,<br /> + To scan once more those endless eyes<br /> + Where all my questions ended then.<br /> + I found in them what they revealed<br /> + That I shall not live to forget,<br /> + And wondered if they found in mine<br /> + Compassion that I might regret.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Pity, I learned, was not the least<br /> + Of time's offending benefits<br /> + That had now for so long impugned<br /> + The conservation of his wits:<br /> + Rather it was that I should yield,<br /> + Alone, the fealty that presents<br /> + The tribute of a tempered ear<br /> + To an untempered eloquence.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before I pondered long enough<br /> + On whence he came and who he was,<br /> + I trembled at his ringing wealth<br /> + Of manifold anathemas;<br /> + I wondered, while he seared the world,<br /> + What new defection ailed the race,<br /> + And if it mattered how remote<br /> + Our fathers were from such a place.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before there was an hour for me<br /> + To contemplate with less concern<br /> + The crumbling realm awaiting us<br /> + Than his that was beyond return,<br /> + A dawning on the dust of years<br /> + Had shaped with an elusive light<br /> + Mirages of remembered scenes<br /> + That were no longer for the sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For now the gloom that hid the man<br /> + Became a daylight on his wrath,<br /> + And one wherein my fancy viewed<br /> + New lions ramping in his path.<br /> + The old were dead and had no fangs,<br /> + Wherefore he loved them — seeing not<br /> + They were the same that in their time<br /> + Had eaten everything they caught.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The world around him was a gift<br /> + Of anguish to his eyes and ears,<br /> + And one that he had long reviled<br /> + As fit for devils, not for seers.<br /> + Where, then, was there a place for him<br /> + That on this other side of death<br /> + Saw nothing good, as he had seen<br /> + No good come out of Nazareth?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yet here there was a reticence,<br /> + And I believe his only one,<br /> + That hushed him as if he beheld<br /> + A Presence that would not be gone.<br /> + In such a silence he confessed<br /> + How much there was to be denied;<br /> + And he would look at me and live,<br /> + As others might have looked and died.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + As if at last he knew again<br /> + That he had always known, his eyes<br /> + Were like to those of one who gazed<br /> + On those of One who never dies.<br /> + For such a moment he revealed<br /> + What life has in it to be lost;<br /> + And I could ask if what I saw,<br /> + Before me there, was man or ghost.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He may have died so many times<br /> + That all there was of him to see<br /> + Was pride, that kept itself alive<br /> + As too rebellious to be free;<br /> + He may have told, when more than once<br /> + Humility seemed imminent,<br /> + How many a lonely time in vain<br /> + The Second Coming came and went.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Whether he still defies or not<br /> + The failure of an angry task<br /> + That relegates him out of time<br /> + To chaos, I can only ask.<br /> + But as I knew him, so he was;<br /> + And somewhere among men to-day<br /> + Those old, unyielding eyes may flash,<br /> + And flinch — and look the other way.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="neighbors"></a> + Neighbors<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + As often as we thought of her,<br /> + We thought of a gray life<br /> + That made a quaint economist<br /> + Of a wolf-haunted wife;<br /> + We made the best of all she bore<br /> + That was not ours to bear,<br /> + And honored her for wearing things<br /> + That were not things to wear.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was a distance in her look<br /> + That made us look again;<br /> + And if she smiled, we might believe<br /> + That we had looked in vain.<br /> + Rarely she came inside our doors,<br /> + And had not long to stay;<br /> + And when she left, it seemed somehow<br /> + That she was far away.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last, when we had all forgot<br /> + That all is here to change,<br /> + A shadow on the commonplace<br /> + Was for a moment strange.<br /> + Yet there was nothing for surprise,<br /> + Nor much that need be told:<br /> + Love, with his gift of pain, had given<br /> + More than one heart could hold.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="mill"></a> + The Mill<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + The miller's wife had waited long,<br /> + The tea was cold, the fire was dead;<br /> + And there might yet be nothing wrong<br /> + In how he went and what he said:<br /> + "There are no millers any more,"<br /> + Was all that she had heard him say;<br /> + And he had lingered at the door<br /> + So long that it seemed yesterday.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Sick with a fear that had no form<br /> + She knew that she was there at last;<br /> + And in the mill there was a warm<br /> + And mealy fragrance of the past.<br /> + What else there was would only seem<br /> + To say again what he had meant;<br /> + And what was hanging from a beam<br /> + Would not have heeded where she went.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And if she thought it followed her,<br /> + She may have reasoned in the dark<br /> + That one way of the few there were<br /> + Would hide her and would leave no mark:<br /> + Black water, smooth above the weir<br /> + Like starry velvet in the night,<br /> + Though ruffled once, would soon appear<br /> + The same as ever to the sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="hills"></a> + The Dark Hills<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Dark hills at evening in the west,<br /> + Where sunset hovers like a sound<br /> + Of golden horns that sang to rest<br /> + Old bones of warriors under ground,<br /> + Far now from all the bannered ways<br /> + Where flash the legions of the sun,<br /> + You fade — as if the last of days<br /> + Were fading, and all wars were done.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="taverns"></a> + The Three Taverns<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us<br /> + as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.<br /> + (Acts 28:15)<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Herodion, Apelles, Amplias,<br /> + And Andronicus? Is it you I see —<br /> + At last? And is it you now that are gazing<br /> + As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying<br /> + That I should come to Rome? I did say that;<br /> + And I said furthermore that I should go<br /> + On westward, where the gateway of the world<br /> + Lets in the central sea. I did say that,<br /> + But I say only, now, that I am Paul —<br /> + A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord<br /> + A voice made free. If there be time enough<br /> + To live, I may have more to tell you then<br /> + Of western matters. I go now to Rome,<br /> + Where Caesar waits for me, and I shall wait,<br /> + And Caesar knows how long. In Caesarea<br /> + There was a legend of Agrippa saying<br /> + In a light way to Festus, having heard<br /> + My deposition, that I might be free,<br /> + Had I stayed free of Caesar; but the word<br /> + Of God would have it as you see it is —<br /> + And here I am. The cup that I shall drink<br /> + Is mine to drink — the moment or the place<br /> + Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome,<br /> + Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed<br /> + The shadow cast of hope, say not of me<br /> + Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck,<br /> + And all the many deserts I have crossed<br /> + That are not named or regioned, have undone<br /> + Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing<br /> + The part of me that is the least of me.<br /> + You see an older man than he who fell<br /> + Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus,<br /> + Where the great light came down; yet I am he<br /> + That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard.<br /> + And I am here, at last; and if at last<br /> + I give myself to make another crumb<br /> + For this pernicious feast of time and men —<br /> + Well, I have seen too much of time and men<br /> + To fear the ravening or the wrath of either.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, it is Paul you see — the Saul of Tarsus<br /> + That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain<br /> + For saying Something was beyond the Law,<br /> + And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul<br /> + Upon the Law till I went famishing,<br /> + Not knowing that I starved. How should I know,<br /> + More then than any, that the food I had —<br /> + What else it may have been — was not for me?<br /> + My fathers and their fathers and their fathers<br /> + Had found it good, and said there was no other,<br /> + And I was of the line. When Stephen fell,<br /> + Among the stones that crushed his life away,<br /> + There was no place alive that I could see<br /> + For such a man. Why should a man be given<br /> + To live beyond the Law? So I said then,<br /> + As men say now to me. How then do I<br /> + Persist in living? Is that what you ask?<br /> + If so, let my appearance be for you<br /> + No living answer; for Time writes of death<br /> + On men before they die, and what you see<br /> + Is not the man. The man that you see not —<br /> + The man within the man — is most alive;<br /> + Though hatred would have ended, long ago,<br /> + The bane of his activities. I have lived,<br /> + Because the faith within me that is life<br /> + Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late,<br /> + Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me<br /> + My toil is over and my work begun.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + How often, and how many a time again,<br /> + Have I said I should be with you in Rome!<br /> + He who is always coming never comes,<br /> + Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves;<br /> + And I may tell you now that after me,<br /> + Whether I stay for little or for long,<br /> + The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them,<br /> + And a more careful ear for their confusion<br /> + Than you need have much longer for the sound<br /> + Of what I tell you — should I live to say<br /> + More than I say to Caesar. What I know<br /> + Is down for you to read in what is written;<br /> + And if I cloud a little with my own<br /> + Mortality the gleam that is immortal,<br /> + I do it only because I am I —<br /> + Being on earth and of it, in so far<br /> + As time flays yet the remnant. This you know;<br /> + And if I sting men, as I do sometimes,<br /> + With a sharp word that hurts, it is because<br /> + Man's habit is to feel before he sees;<br /> + And I am of a race that feels. Moreover,<br /> + The world is here for what is not yet here<br /> + For more than are a few; and even in Rome,<br /> + Where men are so enamored of the Cross<br /> + That fame has echoed, and increasingly,<br /> + The music of your love and of your faith<br /> + To foreign ears that are as far away<br /> + As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder<br /> + How much of love you know, and if your faith<br /> + Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember<br /> + Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least<br /> + A Law to make them sorry they were born<br /> + If they go long without it; and these Gentiles,<br /> + For the first time in shrieking history,<br /> + Have love and law together, if so they will,<br /> + For their defense and their immunity<br /> + In these last days. Rome, if I know the name,<br /> + Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire<br /> + Made ready for the wreathing of new masters,<br /> + Of whom we are appointed, you and I, —<br /> + And you are still to be when I am gone,<br /> + Should I go presently. Let the word fall,<br /> + Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field<br /> + Of circumstance, either to live or die;<br /> + Concerning which there is a parable,<br /> + Made easy for the comfort and attention<br /> + Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain.<br /> + You are to plant, and then to plant again<br /> + Where you have gathered, gathering as you go;<br /> + For you are in the fields that are eternal,<br /> + And you have not the burden of the Lord<br /> + Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have<br /> + Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing,<br /> + Till it shall have the wonder and the weight<br /> + Of a clear jewel, shining with a light<br /> + Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars<br /> + May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said<br /> + That if they be of men these things are nothing,<br /> + But if they be of God they are for none<br /> + To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew,<br /> + And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all.<br /> + And you know, by the temper of your faith,<br /> + How far the fire is in you that I felt<br /> + Before I knew Damascus. A word here,<br /> + Or there, or not there, or not anywhere,<br /> + Is not the Word that lives and is the life;<br /> + And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves<br /> + With jealous aches of others. If the world<br /> + Were not a world of aches and innovations,<br /> + Attainment would have no more joy of it.<br /> + There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds,<br /> + And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done<br /> + To death because a farthing has two sides,<br /> + And is at last a farthing. Telling you this,<br /> + I, who bid men to live, appeal to Caesar.<br /> + Once I had said the ways of God were dark,<br /> + Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law.<br /> + Such is the glory of our tribulations;<br /> + For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law,<br /> + And we are then alive. We have eyes then;<br /> + And we have then the Cross between two worlds —<br /> + To guide us, or to blind us for a time,<br /> + Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites<br /> + A few on highways, changing all at once,<br /> + Is not for all. The power that holds the world<br /> + Away from God that holds himself away —<br /> + Farther away than all your works and words<br /> + Are like to fly without the wings of faith —<br /> + Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard<br /> + Enlivening the ways of easy leisure<br /> + Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes<br /> + Have wisdom, we see more than we remember;<br /> + And the old world of our captivities<br /> + May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin,<br /> + Like one where vanished hewers have had their day<br /> + Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see,<br /> + Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you,<br /> + At last, through many storms and through much night.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yet whatsoever I have undergone,<br /> + My keepers in this instance are not hard.<br /> + But for the chance of an ingratitude,<br /> + I might indeed be curious of their mercy,<br /> + And fearful of their leisure while I wait,<br /> + A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome,<br /> + Not always to return — but not that now.<br /> + Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me<br /> + With eyes that are at last more credulous<br /> + Of my identity. You remark in me<br /> + No sort of leaping giant, though some words<br /> + Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt<br /> + A little through your eyes into your soul.<br /> + I trust they were alive, and are alive<br /> + Today; for there be none that shall indite<br /> + So much of nothing as the man of words<br /> + Who writes in the Lord's name for his name's sake<br /> + And has not in his blood the fire of time<br /> + To warm eternity. Let such a man —<br /> + If once the light is in him and endures —<br /> + Content himself to be the general man,<br /> + Set free to sift the decencies and thereby<br /> + To learn, except he be one set aside<br /> + For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain;<br /> + Though if his light be not the light indeed,<br /> + But a brief shine that never really was,<br /> + And fails, leaving him worse than where he was,<br /> + Then shall he be of all men destitute.<br /> + And here were not an issue for much ink,<br /> + Or much offending faction among scribes.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The Kingdom is within us, we are told;<br /> + And when I say to you that we possess it<br /> + In such a measure as faith makes it ours,<br /> + I say it with a sinner's privilege<br /> + Of having seen and heard, and seen again,<br /> + After a darkness; and if I affirm<br /> + To the last hour that faith affords alone<br /> + The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment,<br /> + I do not see myself as one who says<br /> + To man that he shall sit with folded hands<br /> + Against the Coming. If I be anything,<br /> + I move a driven agent among my kind,<br /> + Establishing by the faith of Abraham,<br /> + And by the grace of their necessities,<br /> + The clamoring word that is the word of life<br /> + Nearer than heretofore to the solution<br /> + Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed<br /> + A shaft of language that has flown sometimes<br /> + A little higher than the hearts and heads<br /> + Of nature's minions, it will yet be heard,<br /> + Like a new song that waits for distant ears.<br /> + I cannot be the man that I am not;<br /> + And while I own that earth is my affliction,<br /> + I am a man of earth, who says not all<br /> + To all alike. That were impossible,<br /> + Even as it were so that He should plant<br /> + A larger garden first. But you today<br /> + Are for the larger sowing; and your seed,<br /> + A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw,<br /> + The foreign harvest of a wider growth,<br /> + And one without an end. Many there are,<br /> + And are to be, that shall partake of it,<br /> + Though none may share it with an understanding<br /> + That is not his alone. We are all alone;<br /> + And yet we are all parcelled of one order —<br /> + Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark<br /> + Of wildernesses that are not so much<br /> + As names yet in a book. And there are many,<br /> + Finding at last that words are not the Word,<br /> + And finding only that, will flourish aloft,<br /> + Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes,<br /> + Our contradictions and discrepancies;<br /> + And there are many more will hang themselves<br /> + Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word<br /> + The friend of all who fail, and in their faith<br /> + A sword of excellence to cut them down.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + As long as there are glasses that are dark —<br /> + And there are many — we see darkly through them;<br /> + All which have I conceded and set down<br /> + In words that have no shadow. What is dark<br /> + Is dark, and we may not say otherwise;<br /> + Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire<br /> + For one of us, may still be for another<br /> + A coming gleam across the gulf of ages,<br /> + And a way home from shipwreck to the shore;<br /> + And so, through pangs and ills and desperations,<br /> + There may be light for all. There shall be light.<br /> + As much as that, you know. You cannot say<br /> + This woman or that man will be the next<br /> + On whom it falls; you are not here for that.<br /> + Your ministration is to be for others<br /> + The firing of a rush that may for them<br /> + Be soon the fire itself. The few at first<br /> + Are fighting for the multitude at last;<br /> + Therefore remember what Gamaliel said<br /> + Before you, when the sick were lying down<br /> + In streets all night for Peter's passing shadow.<br /> + Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words.<br /> + Give men to know that even their days of earth<br /> + To come are more than ages that are gone.<br /> + Say what you feel, while you have time to say it.<br /> + Eternity will answer for itself,<br /> + Without your intercession; yet the way<br /> + For many is a long one, and as dark,<br /> + Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil<br /> + Too much, and if I be away from you,<br /> + Think of me as a brother to yourselves,<br /> + Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics,<br /> + And give your left hand to grammarians;<br /> + And when you seem, as many a time you may,<br /> + To have no other friend than hope, remember<br /> + That you are not the first, or yet the last.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The best of life, until we see beyond<br /> + The shadows of ourselves (and they are less<br /> + Than even the blindest of indignant eyes<br /> + Would have them) is in what we do not know.<br /> + Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep<br /> + With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves<br /> + Egregious and alone for your defects<br /> + Of youth and yesterday. I was young once;<br /> + And there's a question if you played the fool<br /> + With a more fervid and inherent zeal<br /> + Than I have in my story to remember,<br /> + Or gave your necks to folly's conquering foot,<br /> + Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim,<br /> + Less frequently than I. Never mind that.<br /> + Man's little house of days will hold enough,<br /> + Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his,<br /> + But it will not hold all. Things that are dead<br /> + Are best without it, and they own their death<br /> + By virtue of their dying. Let them go, —<br /> + But think you not the world is ashes yet,<br /> + And you have all the fire. The world is here<br /> + Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow;<br /> + For there are millions, and there may be more,<br /> + To make in turn a various estimation<br /> + Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps<br /> + Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears<br /> + That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them,<br /> + And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes<br /> + That are incredulous of the Mystery<br /> + Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read<br /> + Where language has an end and is a veil,<br /> + Not woven of our words. Many that hate<br /> + Their kind are soon to know that without love<br /> + Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing.<br /> + I that have done some hating in my time<br /> + See now no time for hate; I that have left,<br /> + Fading behind me like familiar lights<br /> + That are to shine no more for my returning,<br /> + Home, friends, and honors, — I that have lost all else<br /> + For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now<br /> + To you that out of wisdom has come love,<br /> + That measures and is of itself the measure<br /> + Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours<br /> + Are not so long that you may torture them<br /> + And harass not yourselves; and the last days<br /> + Are on the way that you prepare for them,<br /> + And was prepared for you, here in a world<br /> + Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen.<br /> + If you be not so hot for counting them<br /> + Before they come that you consume yourselves,<br /> + Peace may attend you all in these last days —<br /> + And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome.<br /> + Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear<br /> + My rest has not been yours; in which event,<br /> + Forgive one who is only seven leagues<br /> + From Caesar. When I told you I should come,<br /> + I did not see myself the criminal<br /> + You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law<br /> + That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed,<br /> + Was good of you, and I shall not forget;<br /> + No, I shall not forget you came so far<br /> + To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell.<br /> + They come to tell me I am going now —<br /> + With them. I hope that we shall meet again,<br /> + But none may say what he shall find in Rome.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="demos1"></a> + Demos I<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + All you that are enamored of my name<br /> + And least intent on what most I require,<br /> + Beware; for my design and your desire,<br /> + Deplorably, are not as yet the same.<br /> + Beware, I say, the failure and the shame<br /> + Of losing that for which you now aspire<br /> + So blindly, and of hazarding entire<br /> + The gift that I was bringing when I came.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Give as I will, I cannot give you sight<br /> + Whereby to see that with you there are some<br /> + To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb<br /> + Before the wrangling and the shrill delight<br /> + Of your deliverance that has not come,<br /> + And shall not, if I fail you — as I might.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="demos2"></a> + Demos II<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + So little have you seen of what awaits<br /> + Your fevered glimpse of a democracy<br /> + Confused and foiled with an equality<br /> + Not equal to the envy it creates,<br /> + That you see not how near you are the gates<br /> + Of an old king who listens fearfully<br /> + To you that are outside and are to be<br /> + The noisy lords of imminent estates.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Rather be then your prayer that you shall have<br /> + Your kingdom undishonored. Having all,<br /> + See not the great among you for the small,<br /> + But hear their silence; for the few shall save<br /> + The many, or the many are to fall —<br /> + Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="dutchman"></a> + The Flying Dutchman<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Unyielding in the pride of his defiance,<br /> + Afloat with none to serve or to command,<br /> + Lord of himself at last, and all by Science,<br /> + He seeks the Vanished Land.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Alone, by the one light of his one thought,<br /> + He steers to find the shore from which we came, —<br /> + Fearless of in what coil he may be caught<br /> + On seas that have no name.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Into the night he sails; and after night<br /> + There is a dawning, though there be no sun;<br /> + Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight,<br /> + Unsighted, he sails on.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last there is a lifting of the cloud<br /> + Between the flood before him and the sky;<br /> + And then — though he may curse the Power aloud<br /> + That has no power to die —<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He steers himself away from what is haunted<br /> + By the old ghost of what has been before, —<br /> + Abandoning, as always, and undaunted,<br /> + One fog-walled island more.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tact"></a> + Tact<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Observant of the way she told<br /> + So much of what was true,<br /> + No vanity could long withhold<br /> + Regard that was her due:<br /> + She spared him the familiar guile,<br /> + So easily achieved,<br /> + That only made a man to smile<br /> + And left him undeceived.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Aware that all imagining<br /> + Of more than what she meant<br /> + Would urge an end of everything,<br /> + He stayed; and when he went,<br /> + They parted with a merry word<br /> + That was to him as light<br /> + As any that was ever heard<br /> + Upon a starry night.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She smiled a little, knowing well<br /> + That he would not remark<br /> + The ruins of a day that fell<br /> + Around her in the dark:<br /> + He saw no ruins anywhere,<br /> + Nor fancied there were scars<br /> + On anyone who lingered there,<br /> + Alone below the stars.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="way"></a> + On the Way<br /> +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> + (Philadelphia, 1794)<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Note. — The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton +and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific incident +in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous +to Hamilton's retirement from Washington's Cabinet in 1795 +and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr — +who has been characterized, without much exaggeration, +as the inventor of American politics — began to be conspicuously formidable +to the Federalists. These activities on the part of Burr resulted, +as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency +in 1800, and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember<br /> + That I was here to speak, and so to save<br /> + Your fabric from catastrophe. That's good;<br /> + For I perceive that you observe him also.<br /> + A President, a-riding of his horse,<br /> + May dust a General and be forgiven;<br /> + But why be dusted — when we're all alike,<br /> + All equal, and all happy. Here he comes —<br /> + And there he goes. And we, by your new patent,<br /> + Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside,<br /> + With our two hats off to his Excellency.<br /> + Why not his Majesty, and done with it?<br /> + Forgive me if I shook your meditation,<br /> + But you that weld our credit should have eyes<br /> + To see what's coming. Bury me first if -I- do.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There's always in some pocket of your brain<br /> + A care for me; wherefore my gratitude<br /> + For your attention is commensurate<br /> + With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings;<br /> + We are as royal as two ditch-diggers;<br /> + But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days<br /> + When first a few seem all; but if we live,<br /> + We may again be seen to be the few<br /> + That we have always been. These are the days<br /> + When men forget the stars, and are forgotten.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But why forget them? They're the same that winked<br /> + Upon the world when Alcibiades<br /> + Cut off his dog's tail to induce distinction.<br /> + There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades<br /> + Is not forgotten.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, there are dogs enough,<br /> + God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Never a doubt. But what you hear the most<br /> + Is your new music, something out of tune<br /> + With your intention. How in the name of Cain,<br /> + I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance,<br /> + When all men are musicians. Tell me that,<br /> + I hear you saying, and I'll tell you the name<br /> + Of Samson's mother. But why shroud yourself<br /> + Before the coffin comes? For all you know,<br /> + The tree that is to fall for your last house<br /> + Is now a sapling. You may have to wait<br /> + So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it,<br /> + For you are not at home in your new Eden<br /> + Where chilly whispers of a likely frost<br /> + Accumulate already in the air.<br /> + I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton,<br /> + Would be for you in your autumnal mood<br /> + A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + If so it is you think, you may as well<br /> + Give over thinking. We are done with ermine.<br /> + What I fear most is not the multitude,<br /> + But those who are to loop it with a string<br /> + That has one end in France and one end here.<br /> + I'm not so fortified with observation<br /> + That I could swear that more than half a score<br /> + Among us who see lightning see that ruin<br /> + Is not the work of thunder. Since the world<br /> + Was ordered, there was never a long pause<br /> + For caution between doing and undoing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Go on, sir; my attention is a trap<br /> + Set for the catching of all compliments<br /> + To Monticello, and all else abroad<br /> + That has a name or an identity.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I leave to you the names — there are too many;<br /> + Yet one there is to sift and hold apart,<br /> + As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer<br /> + That is not always clouded, or too late.<br /> + But I was near and young, and had the reins<br /> + To play with while he manned a team so raw<br /> + That only God knows where the end had been<br /> + Of all that riding without Washington.<br /> + There was a nation in the man who passed us,<br /> + If there was not a world. I may have driven<br /> + Since then some restive horses, and alone,<br /> + And through a splashing of abundant mud;<br /> + But he who made the dust that sets you on<br /> + To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry,<br /> + And in a measure safe.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Here's a new tune<br /> + From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once,<br /> + And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle?<br /> + I have forgotten what my father said<br /> + When I was born, but there's a rustling of it<br /> + Among my memories, and it makes a noise<br /> + About as loud as all that I have held<br /> + And fondled heretofore of your same caution.<br /> + But that's affairs, not feelings. If our friends<br /> + Guessed half we say of them, our enemies<br /> + Would itch in our friends' jackets. Howsoever,<br /> + The world is of a sudden on its head,<br /> + And all are spilled — unless you cling alone<br /> + With Washington. Ask Adams about that.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + We'll not ask Adams about anything.<br /> + We fish for lizards when we choose to ask<br /> + For what we know already is not coming,<br /> + And we must eat the answer. Where's the use<br /> + Of asking when this man says everything,<br /> + With all his tongues of silence?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I dare say.<br /> + I dare say, but I won't. One of those tongues<br /> + I'll borrow for the nonce. He'll never miss it.<br /> + We mean his Western Majesty, King George.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I mean the man who rode by on his horse.<br /> + I'll beg of you the meed of your indulgence<br /> + If I should say this planet may have done<br /> + A deal of weary whirling when at last,<br /> + If ever, Time shall aggregate again<br /> + A majesty like his that has no name.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Then you concede his Majesty? That's good,<br /> + And what of yours? Here are two majesties.<br /> + Favor the Left a little, Hamilton,<br /> + Or you'll be floundering in the ditch that waits<br /> + For riders who forget where they are riding.<br /> + If we and France, as you anticipate,<br /> + Must eat each other, what Caesar, if not yourself,<br /> + Do you see for the master of the feast?<br /> + There may be a place waiting on your head<br /> + For laurel thick as Nero's. You don't know.<br /> + I have not crossed your glory, though I might<br /> + If I saw thrones at auction.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, you might.<br /> + If war is on the way, I shall be — here;<br /> + And I've no vision of your distant heels.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I see that I shall take an inference<br /> + To bed with me to-night to keep me warm.<br /> + I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve<br /> + Your fealty to the aggregated greatness<br /> + Of him you lean on while he leans on you.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + This easy phrasing is a game of yours<br /> + That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon,<br /> + But you that have the sight will not employ<br /> + The will to see with it. If you did so,<br /> + There might be fewer ditches dug for others<br /> + In your perspective; and there might be fewer<br /> + Contemporary motes of prejudice<br /> + Between you and the man who made the dust.<br /> + Call him a genius or a gentleman,<br /> + A prophet or a builder, or what not,<br /> + But hold your disposition off the balance,<br /> + And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe<br /> + I tell you nothing new to your surmise,<br /> + Or to the tongues of towns and villages)<br /> + I nourished with an adolescent fancy —<br /> + Surely forgivable to you, my friend —<br /> + An innocent and amiable conviction<br /> + That I was, by the grace of honest fortune,<br /> + A savior at his elbow through the war,<br /> + Where I might have observed, more than I did,<br /> + Patience and wholesome passion. I was there,<br /> + And for such honor I gave nothing worse<br /> + Than some advice at which he may have smiled.<br /> + I must have given a modicum besides,<br /> + Or the rough interval between those days<br /> + And these would never have made for me my friends,<br /> + Or enemies. I should be something somewhere —<br /> + I say not what — but I should not be here<br /> + If he had not been there. Possibly, too,<br /> + You might not — or that Quaker with his cane.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty<br /> + Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /> +</p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind;<br /> + No god, or ghost, or demon — only a man:<br /> + A man whose occupation is the need<br /> + Of those who would not feel it if it bit them;<br /> + And one who shapes an age while he endures<br /> + The pin pricks of inferiorities;<br /> + A cautious man, because he is but one;<br /> + A lonely man, because he is a thousand.<br /> + No marvel you are slow to find in him<br /> + The genius that is one spark or is nothing:<br /> + His genius is a flame that he must hold<br /> + So far above the common heads of men<br /> + That they may view him only through the mist<br /> + Of their defect, and wonder what he is.<br /> + It seems to me the mystery that is in him<br /> + That makes him only more to me a man<br /> + Than any other I have ever known.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I grant you that his worship is a man.<br /> + I'm not so much at home with mysteries,<br /> + May be, as you — so leave him with his fire:<br /> + God knows that I shall never put it out.<br /> + He has not made a cripple of himself<br /> + In his pursuit of me, though I have heard<br /> + His condescension honors me with parts.<br /> + Parts make a whole, if we've enough of them;<br /> + And once I figured a sufficiency<br /> + To be at least an atom in the annals<br /> + Of your republic. But I must have erred.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + You smile as if your spirit lived at ease<br /> + With error. I should not have named it so,<br /> + Failing assent from you; nor, if I did,<br /> + Should I be so complacent in my skill<br /> + To comb the tangled language of the people<br /> + As to be sure of anything in these days.<br /> + Put that much in account with modesty.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton,<br /> + Have you, in the last region of your dreaming,<br /> + To do with "people"? You may be the devil<br /> + In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals<br /> + Are waiting on the progress of our ship<br /> + Unless you steer it, but you'll find it irksome<br /> + Alone there in the stern; and some warm day<br /> + There'll be an inland music in the rigging,<br /> + And afterwards on deck. I'm not affined<br /> + Or favored overmuch at Monticello,<br /> + But there's a mighty swarming of new bees<br /> + About the premises, and all have wings.<br /> + If you hear something buzzing before long,<br /> + Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also<br /> + There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard,<br /> + And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I don't remember that he cut his hair off.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Somehow I rather fancy that he did.<br /> + If so, it's in the Book; and if not so,<br /> + He did the rest, and did it handsomely.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways<br /> + If they inveigle you to emulation;<br /> + But where, if I may ask it, are you tending<br /> + With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures?<br /> + You call to mind an eminent archangel<br /> + Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall<br /> + So far as he, to be so far remembered?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before I fall or rise, or am an angel,<br /> + I shall acquaint myself a little further<br /> + With our new land's new language, which is not —<br /> + Peace to your dreams — an idiom to your liking.<br /> + I'm wondering if a man may always know<br /> + How old a man may be at thirty-seven;<br /> + I wonder likewise if a prettier time<br /> + Could be decreed for a good man to vanish<br /> + Than about now for you, before you fade,<br /> + And even your friends are seeing that you have had<br /> + Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph.<br /> + Well, you have had enough, and had it young;<br /> + And the old wine is nearer to the lees<br /> + Than you are to the work that you are doing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + When does this philological excursion<br /> + Into new lands and languages begin?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Anon — that is, already. Only Fortune<br /> + Gave me this afternoon the benefaction<br /> + Of your blue back, which I for love pursued,<br /> + And in pursuing may have saved your life —<br /> + Also the world a pounding piece of news:<br /> + Hamilton bites the dust of Washington,<br /> + Or rather of his horse. For you alone,<br /> + Or for your fame, I'd wish it might have been so.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Not every man among us has a friend<br /> + So jealous for the other's fame. How long<br /> + Are you to diagnose the doubtful case<br /> + Of Demos — and what for? Have you a sword<br /> + For some new Damocles? If it's for me,<br /> + I have lost all official appetite,<br /> + And shall have faded, after January,<br /> + Into the law. I'm going to New York.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No matter where you are, one of these days<br /> + I shall come back to you and tell you something.<br /> + This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist<br /> + A pulse that no two doctors have as yet<br /> + Counted and found the same, and in his mouth<br /> + A tongue that has the like alacrity<br /> + For saying or not for saying what most it is<br /> + That pullulates in his ignoble mind.<br /> + One of these days I shall appear again,<br /> + To tell you more of him and his opinions;<br /> + I shall not be so long out of your sight,<br /> + Or take myself so far, that I may not,<br /> + Like Alcibiades, come back again.<br /> + He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There's an example in Themistocles:<br /> + He went away to Persia, and fared well.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so?<br /> + I had not planned it so. Is this the road<br /> + I take? If so, farewell.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Quite so. Farewell.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="john"></a> + John Brown<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Though for your sake I would not have you now<br /> + So near to me tonight as now you are,<br /> + God knows how much a stranger to my heart<br /> + Was any cold word that I may have written;<br /> + And you, poor woman that I made my wife,<br /> + You have had more of loneliness, I fear,<br /> + Than I — though I have been the most alone,<br /> + Even when the most attended. So it was<br /> + God set the mark of his inscrutable<br /> + Necessity on one that was to grope,<br /> + And serve, and suffer, and withal be glad<br /> + For what was his, and is, and is to be,<br /> + When his old bones, that are a burden now,<br /> + Are saying what the man who carried them<br /> + Had not the power to say. Bones in a grave,<br /> + Cover them as they will with choking earth,<br /> + May shout the truth to men who put them there,<br /> + More than all orators. And so, my dear,<br /> + Since you have cheated wisdom for the sake<br /> + Of sorrow, let your sorrow be for you,<br /> + This last of nights before the last of days,<br /> + The lying ghost of what there is of me<br /> + That is the most alive. There is no death<br /> + For me in what they do. Their death it is<br /> + They should heed most when the sun comes again<br /> + To make them solemn. There are some I know<br /> + Whose eyes will hardly see their occupation,<br /> + For tears in them — and all for one old man;<br /> + For some of them will pity this old man,<br /> + Who took upon himself the work of God<br /> + Because he pitied millions. That will be<br /> + For them, I fancy, their compassionate<br /> + Best way of saying what is best in them<br /> + To say; for they can say no more than that,<br /> + And they can do no more than what the dawn<br /> + Of one more day shall give them light enough<br /> + To do. But there are many days to be,<br /> + And there are many men to give their blood,<br /> + As I gave mine for them. May they come soon!<br /> +</p> + +<p> + May they come soon, I say. And when they come,<br /> + May all that I have said unheard be heard,<br /> + Proving at last, or maybe not — no matter —<br /> + What sort of madness was the part of me<br /> + That made me strike, whether I found the mark<br /> + Or missed it. Meanwhile, I've a strange content,<br /> + A patience, and a vast indifference<br /> + To what men say of me and what men fear<br /> + To say. There was a work to be begun,<br /> + And when the Voice, that I have heard so long,<br /> + Announced as in a thousand silences<br /> + An end of preparation, I began<br /> + The coming work of death which is to be,<br /> + That life may be. There is no other way<br /> + Than the old way of war for a new land<br /> + That will not know itself and is tonight<br /> + A stranger to itself, and to the world<br /> + A more prodigious upstart among states<br /> + Than I was among men, and so shall be<br /> + Till they are told and told, and told again;<br /> + For men are children, waiting to be told,<br /> + And most of them are children all their lives.<br /> + The good God in his wisdom had them so,<br /> + That now and then a madman or a seer<br /> + May shake them out of their complacency<br /> + And shame them into deeds. The major file<br /> + See only what their fathers may have seen,<br /> + Or may have said they saw when they saw nothing.<br /> + I do not say it matters what they saw.<br /> + Now and again to some lone soul or other<br /> + God speaks, and there is hanging to be done, —<br /> + As once there was a burning of our bodies<br /> + Alive, albeit our souls were sorry fuel.<br /> + But now the fires are few, and we are poised<br /> + Accordingly, for the state's benefit,<br /> + A few still minutes between heaven and earth.<br /> + The purpose is, when they have seen enough<br /> + Of what it is that they are not to see,<br /> + To pluck me as an unripe fruit of treason,<br /> + And then to fling me back to the same earth<br /> + Of which they are, as I suppose, the flower —<br /> + Not given to know the riper fruit that waits<br /> + For a more comprehensive harvesting.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, may they come, and soon. Again I say,<br /> + May they come soon! — before too many of them<br /> + Shall be the bloody cost of our defection.<br /> + When hell waits on the dawn of a new state,<br /> + Better it were that hell should not wait long, —<br /> + Or so it is I see it who should see<br /> + As far or farther into time tonight<br /> + Than they who talk and tremble for me now,<br /> + Or wish me to those everlasting fires<br /> + That are for me no fear. Too many fires<br /> + Have sought me out and seared me to the bone —<br /> + Thereby, for all I know, to temper me<br /> + For what was mine to do. If I did ill<br /> + What I did well, let men say I was mad;<br /> + Or let my name for ever be a question<br /> + That will not sleep in history. What men say<br /> + I was will cool no cannon, dull no sword,<br /> + Invalidate no truth. Meanwhile, I was;<br /> + And the long train is lighted that shall burn,<br /> + Though floods of wrath may drench it, and hot feet<br /> + May stamp it for a slight time into smoke<br /> + That shall blaze up again with growing speed,<br /> + Until at last a fiery crash will come<br /> + To cleanse and shake a wounded hemisphere,<br /> + And heal it of a long malignity<br /> + That angry time discredits and disowns.<br /> + Tonight there are men saying many things;<br /> + And some who see life in the last of me<br /> + Will answer first the coming call to death;<br /> + For death is what is coming, and then life.<br /> + I do not say again for the dull sake<br /> + Of speech what you have heard me say before,<br /> + But rather for the sake of all I am,<br /> + And all God made of me. A man to die<br /> + As I do must have done some other work<br /> + Than man's alone. I was not after glory,<br /> + But there was glory with me, like a friend,<br /> + Throughout those crippling years when friends were few,<br /> + And fearful to be known by their own names<br /> + When mine was vilified for their approval.<br /> + Yet friends they are, and they did what was given<br /> + Their will to do; they could have done no more.<br /> + I was the one man mad enough, it seems,<br /> + To do my work; and now my work is over.<br /> + And you, my dear, are not to mourn for me,<br /> + Or for your sons, more than a soul should mourn<br /> + In Paradise, done with evil and with earth.<br /> + There is not much of earth in what remains<br /> + For you; and what there may be left of it<br /> + For your endurance you shall have at last<br /> + In peace, without the twinge of any fear<br /> + For my condition; for I shall be done<br /> + With plans and actions that have heretofore<br /> + Made your days long and your nights ominous<br /> + With darkness and the many distances<br /> + That were between us. When the silence comes,<br /> + I shall in faith be nearer to you then<br /> + Than I am now in fact. What you see now<br /> + Is only the outside of an old man,<br /> + Older than years have made him. Let him die,<br /> + And let him be a thing for little grief.<br /> + There was a time for service, and he served;<br /> + And there is no more time for anything<br /> + But a short gratefulness to those who gave<br /> + Their scared allegiance to an enterprise<br /> + That has the name of treason — which will serve<br /> + As well as any other for the present.<br /> + There are some deeds of men that have no names,<br /> + And mine may like as not be one of them.<br /> + I am not looking far for names tonight.<br /> + The King of Glory was without a name<br /> + Until men gave him one; yet there He was,<br /> + Before we found Him and affronted Him<br /> + With numerous ingenuities of evil,<br /> + Of which one, with His aid, is to be swept<br /> + And washed out of the world with fire and blood.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Once I believed it might have come to pass<br /> + With a small cost of blood; but I was dreaming —<br /> + Dreaming that I believed. The Voice I heard<br /> + When I left you behind me in the north, —<br /> + To wait there and to wonder and grow old<br /> + Of loneliness, — told only what was best,<br /> + And with a saving vagueness, I should know<br /> + Till I knew more. And had I known even then —<br /> + After grim years of search and suffering,<br /> + So many of them to end as they began —<br /> + After my sickening doubts and estimations<br /> + Of plans abandoned and of new plans vain —<br /> + After a weary delving everywhere<br /> + For men with every virtue but the Vision —<br /> + Could I have known, I say, before I left you<br /> + That summer morning, all there was to know —<br /> + Even unto the last consuming word<br /> + That would have blasted every mortal answer<br /> + As lightning would annihilate a leaf,<br /> + I might have trembled on that summer morning;<br /> + I might have wavered; and I might have failed.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there are many among men today<br /> + To say of me that I had best have wavered.<br /> + So has it been, so shall it always be,<br /> + For those of us who give ourselves to die<br /> + Before we are so parcelled and approved<br /> + As to be slaughtered by authority.<br /> + We do not make so much of what they say<br /> + As they of what our folly says of us;<br /> + They give us hardly time enough for that,<br /> + And thereby we gain much by losing little.<br /> + Few are alive to-day with less to lose<br /> + Than I who tell you this, or more to gain;<br /> + And whether I speak as one to be destroyed<br /> + For no good end outside his own destruction,<br /> + Time shall have more to say than men shall hear<br /> + Between now and the coming of that harvest<br /> + Which is to come. Before it comes, I go —<br /> + By the short road that mystery makes long<br /> + For man's endurance of accomplishment.<br /> + I shall have more to say when I am dead.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="gods"></a> + The False Gods<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit,<br /> + From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet.<br /> + You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes, —<br /> + Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong,<br /> + But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong;<br /> + You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence,<br /> + But your large admiration of us now is not for long.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that's never still,<br /> + And you pray to see our faces — pray in earnest, and you will.<br /> + You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion:<br /> + For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease<br /> + With an Art that's inorganic and is anything you please,<br /> + That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded,<br /> + Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ,<br /> + There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy;<br /> + Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing<br /> + Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive,<br /> + And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive,<br /> + Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations —<br /> + For there's grief always auditing where two and two are five.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know,<br /> + Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so.<br /> + If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition,<br /> + May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="example"></a> + Archibald's Example<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,<br /> + Where trespassers, whatever their degree,<br /> + Were soon frowned out again, was looking off<br /> + Across the clover when he said to me:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down<br /> + Without a scratch, was once inhabited<br /> + By trees that injured him — an evil trash<br /> + That made a cage, and held him while he bled.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Gone fifty years, I see them as they were<br /> + Before they fell. They were a crooked lot<br /> + To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time<br /> + In fifty years for crooked things to rot.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy<br /> + To God or man, for they were thieves of light.<br /> + So down they came. Nature and I looked on,<br /> + And we were glad when they were out of sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so,<br /> + So much for that." He twinkled in his chair,<br /> + And looked across the clover to the place<br /> + That he remembered when the trees were there.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="bridge"></a> + London Bridge<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing — and what of it?<br /> + Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that?<br /> + If I were not their father and if you were not their mother,<br /> + We might believe they made a noise. . . . What are you — driving at!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Well, be glad that you can hear them, and be glad they are so near us, —<br /> + For I have heard the stars of heaven, and they were nearer still.<br /> + All within an hour it is that I have heard them calling,<br /> + And though I pray for them to cease, I know they never will;<br /> + For their music on my heart, though you may freeze it, will fall always,<br /> + Like summer snow that never melts upon a mountain-top.<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead — the children — singing?<br /> + Do you hear the children singing? . . . God, will you make them stop!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And what now in his holy name have you to do with mountains?<br /> + We're back to town again, my dear, and we've a dance tonight.<br /> + Frozen hearts and falling music? Snow and stars, and — what the devil!<br /> + Say it over to me slowly, and be sure you have it right."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "God knows if I be right or wrong in saying what I tell you,<br /> + Or if I know the meaning any more of what I say.<br /> + All I know is, it will kill me if I try to keep it hidden —<br /> + Well, I met him. . . . Yes, I met him, and I talked with him — today."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "You met him? Did you meet the ghost of someone you had poisoned,<br /> + Long ago, before I knew you for the woman that you are?<br /> + Take a chair; and don't begin your stories always in the middle.<br /> + Was he man, or was he demon? Anyhow, you've gone too far<br /> + To go back, and I'm your servant. I'm the lord, but you're the master.<br /> + Now go on with what you know, for I'm excited."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you mean —<br /> + Do you mean to make me try to think that you know less than I do?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I know that you foreshadow the beginning of a scene.<br /> + Pray be careful, and as accurate as if the doors of heaven<br /> + Were to swing or to stay bolted from now on for evermore."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you conceive, with all your smooth contempt of every feeling,<br /> + Of hiding what you know and what you must have known before?<br /> + Is it worth a woman's torture to stand here and have you smiling,<br /> + With only your poor fetish of possession on your side?<br /> + No thing but one is wholly sure, and that's not one to scare me;<br /> + When I meet it I may say to God at last that I have tried.<br /> + And yet, for all I know, or all I dare believe, my trials<br /> + Henceforward will be more for you to bear than are your own;<br /> + And you must give me keys of yours to rooms I have not entered.<br /> + Do you see me on your threshold all my life, and there alone?<br /> + Will you tell me where you see me in your fancy — when it leads you<br /> + Far enough beyond the moment for a glance at the abyss?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Will you tell me what intrinsic and amazing sort of nonsense<br /> + You are crowding on the patience of the man who gives you — this?<br /> + Look around you and be sorry you're not living in an attic,<br /> + With a civet and a fish-net, and with you to pay the rent.<br /> + I say words that you can spell without the use of all your letters;<br /> + And I grant, if you insist, that I've a guess at what you meant."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Have I told you, then, for nothing, that I met him? Are you trying<br /> + To be merry while you try to make me hate you?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Think again,<br /> + My dear, before you tell me, in a language unbecoming<br /> + To a lady, what you plan to tell me next. If I complain,<br /> + If I seem an atom peevish at the preference you mention —<br /> + Or imply, to be precise — you may believe, or you may not,<br /> + That I'm a trifle more aware of what he wants than you are.<br /> + But I shouldn't throw that at you. Make believe that I forgot.<br /> + Make believe that he's a genius, if you like, — but in the meantime<br /> + Don't go back to rocking-horses. There, there, there, now."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Make believe!<br /> + When you see me standing helpless on a plank above a whirlpool,<br /> + Do I drown, or do I hear you when you say it? Make believe?<br /> + How much more am I to say or do for you before I tell you<br /> + That I met him! What's to follow now may be for you to choose.<br /> + Do you hear me? Won't you listen? It's an easy thing to listen. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And it's easy to be crazy when there's everything to lose."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If at last you have a notion that I mean what I am saying,<br /> + Do I seem to tell you nothing when I tell you I shall try?<br /> + If you save me, and I lose him — I don't know — it won't much matter.<br /> + I dare say that I've lied enough, but now I do not lie."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you fancy me the one man who has waited and said nothing<br /> + While a wife has dragged an old infatuation from a tomb?<br /> + Give the thing a little air and it will vanish into ashes.<br /> + There you are — piff! presto!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "When I came into this room,<br /> + It seemed as if I saw the place, and you there at your table,<br /> + As you are now at this moment, for the last time in my life;<br /> + And I told myself before I came to find you, `I shall tell him,<br /> + If I can, what I have learned of him since I became his wife.'<br /> + And if you say, as I've no doubt you will before I finish,<br /> + That you have tried unceasingly, with all your might and main,<br /> + To teach me, knowing more than I of what it was I needed,<br /> + Don't think, with all you may have thought, that you have tried in vain;<br /> + For you have taught me more than hides in all the shelves of knowledge<br /> + Of how little you found that's in me and was in me all along.<br /> + I believed, if I intruded nothing on you that I cared for,<br /> + I'd be half as much as horses, — and it seems that I was wrong;<br /> + I believed there was enough of earth in me, with all my nonsense<br /> + Over things that made you sleepy, to keep something still awake;<br /> + But you taught me soon to read my book, and God knows I have read it —<br /> + Ages longer than an angel would have read it for your sake.<br /> + I have said that you must open other doors than I have entered,<br /> + But I wondered while I said it if I might not be obscure.<br /> + Is there anything in all your pedigrees and inventories<br /> + With a value more elusive than a dollar's? Are you sure<br /> + That if I starve another year for you I shall be stronger<br /> + To endure another like it — and another — till I'm dead?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Has your tame cat sold a picture? — or more likely had a windfall?<br /> + Or for God's sake, what's broke loose? Have you a bee-hive in your head?<br /> + A little more of this from you will not be easy hearing.<br /> + Do you know that? Understand it, if you do; for if you won't. . . .<br /> + What the devil are you saying! Make believe you never said it,<br /> + And I'll say I never heard it. . . . Oh, you. . . . If you. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If I don't?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "There are men who say there's reason hidden somewhere in a woman,<br /> + But I doubt if God himself remembers where the key was hung."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "He may not; for they say that even God himself is growing.<br /> + I wonder if he makes believe that he is growing young;<br /> + I wonder if he makes believe that women who are giving<br /> + All they have in holy loathing to a stranger all their lives<br /> + Are the wise ones who build houses in the Bible. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Stop — you devil!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + ". . . Or that souls are any whiter when their bodies are called wives.<br /> + If a dollar's worth of gold will hoop the walls of hell together,<br /> + Why need heaven be such a ruin of a place that never was?<br /> + And if at last I lied my starving soul away to nothing,<br /> + Are you sure you might not miss it? Have you come to such a pass<br /> + That you would have me longer in your arms if you discovered<br /> + That I made you into someone else. . . . Oh! . . . Well, there are<br /> + worse ways.<br /> + But why aim it at my feet — unless you fear you may be sorry. . . .<br /> + There are many days ahead of you."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I do not see those days."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I can see them. Granted even I am wrong, there are the children.<br /> + And are they to praise their father for his insight if we die?<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead — the children — singing?<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Damn the children!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Why?<br /> + What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, — do it. . . . Do it now,<br /> + and have it over."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet —<br /> + One who sees the end already of so much that one end more<br /> + Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion,<br /> + Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before.<br /> + But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther<br /> + For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight.<br /> + Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations<br /> + For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to shine tonight.<br /> + We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres,<br /> + On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell;<br /> + We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance,<br /> + And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well.<br /> + There! — I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it.<br /> + Shut the drawer now.<br /> + No — no — don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop.<br /> + I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere,<br /> + and leave me. . . .<br /> + Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . God, will they never stop!"<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tasker"></a> + Tasker Norcross<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Whether all towns and all who live in them —<br /> + So long as they be somewhere in this world<br /> + That we in our complacency call ours —<br /> + Are more or less the same, I leave to you.<br /> + I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile,<br /> + We've all two legs — and as for that, we haven't —<br /> + There were three kinds of men where I was born:<br /> + The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross.<br /> + Now there are two kinds."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Meaning, as I divine,<br /> + Your friend is dead," I ventured.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson,<br /> + Who talked himself at last out of the world<br /> + He censured, and is therefore silent now,<br /> + Agreed indifferently: "My friends are dead —<br /> + Or most of them."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Remember one that isn't,"<br /> + I said, protesting. "Honor him for his ears;<br /> + Treasure him also for his understanding."<br /> + Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again:<br /> + "You have an overgrown alacrity<br /> + For saying nothing much and hearing less;<br /> + And I've a thankless wonder, at the start,<br /> + How much it is to you that I shall tell<br /> + What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross,<br /> + And how much to the air that is around you.<br /> + But given a patience that is not averse<br /> + To the slow tragedies of haunted men —<br /> + Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye<br /> + To know them at their firesides, or out walking, —"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Horrors," I said, "are my necessity;<br /> + And I would have them, for their best effect,<br /> + Always out walking."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson frowned at me:<br /> + "The wisest of us are not those who laugh<br /> + Before they know. Most of us never know —<br /> + Or the long toil of our mortality<br /> + Would not be done. Most of us never know —<br /> + And there you have a reason to believe<br /> + In God, if you may have no other. Norcross,<br /> + Or so I gather of his infirmity,<br /> + Was given to know more than he should have known,<br /> + And only God knows why. See for yourself<br /> + An old house full of ghosts of ancestors,<br /> + Who did their best, or worst, and having done it,<br /> + Died honorably; and each with a distinction<br /> + That hardly would have been for him that had it,<br /> + Had honor failed him wholly as a friend.<br /> + Honor that is a friend begets a friend.<br /> + Whether or not we love him, still we have him;<br /> + And we must live somehow by what we have,<br /> + Or then we die. If you say chemistry,<br /> + Then you must have your molecules in motion,<br /> + And in their right abundance. Failing either,<br /> + You have not long to dance. Failing a friend,<br /> + A genius, or a madness, or a faith<br /> + Larger than desperation, you are here<br /> + For as much longer than you like as may be.<br /> + Imagining now, by way of an example,<br /> + Myself a more or less remembered phantom —<br /> + Again, I should say less — how many times<br /> + A day should I come back to you? No answer.<br /> + Forgive me when I seem a little careless,<br /> + But we must have examples, or be lucid<br /> + Without them; and I question your adherence<br /> + To such an undramatic narrative<br /> + As this of mine, without the personal hook."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "A time is given in Ecclesiastes<br /> + For divers works," I told him. "Is there one<br /> + For saying nothing in return for nothing?<br /> + If not, there should be." I could feel his eyes,<br /> + And they were like two cold inquiring points<br /> + Of a sharp metal. When I looked again,<br /> + To see them shine, the cold that I had felt<br /> + Was gone to make way for a smouldering<br /> + Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then,<br /> + Could never quench with kindness or with lies.<br /> + I should have done whatever there was to do<br /> + For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned<br /> + In honesty for once around the clock<br /> + The loss of him, for my sake or for his,<br /> + Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve,<br /> + Had I the power and the unthinking will<br /> + To make him tread again without an aim<br /> + The road that was behind him — and without<br /> + The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness<br /> + That he contended was imperative.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + After a silence that had been too long,<br /> + "It may be quite as well we don't," he said;<br /> + "As well, I mean, that we don't always say it.<br /> + You know best what I mean, and I suppose<br /> + You might have said it better. What was that?<br /> + Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible?<br /> + Well, it's a word; and a word has its use,<br /> + Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave.<br /> + It's a good word enough. Incorrigible,<br /> + May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross.<br /> + See for yourself that house of his again<br /> + That he called home: An old house, painted white,<br /> + Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb<br /> + To look at or to live in. There were trees —<br /> + Too many of them, if such a thing may be —<br /> + Before it and around it. Down in front<br /> + There was a road, a railroad, and a river;<br /> + Then there were hills behind it, and more trees.<br /> + The thing would fairly stare at you through trees,<br /> + Like a pale inmate out of a barred window<br /> + With a green shade half down; and I dare say<br /> + People who passed have said: `There's where he lives.<br /> + We know him, but we do not seem to know<br /> + That we remember any good of him,<br /> + Or any evil that is interesting.<br /> + There you have all we know and all we care.'<br /> + They might have said it in all sorts of ways;<br /> + And then, if they perceived a cat, they might<br /> + Or might not have remembered what they said.<br /> + The cat might have a personality —<br /> + And maybe the same one the Lord left out<br /> + Of Tasker Norcross, who, for lack of it,<br /> + Saw the same sun go down year after year;<br /> + All which at last was my discovery.<br /> + And only mine, so far as evidence<br /> + Enlightens one more darkness. You have known<br /> + All round you, all your days, men who are nothing —<br /> + Nothing, I mean, so far as time tells yet<br /> + Of any other need it has of them<br /> + Than to make sextons hardy — but no less<br /> + Are to themselves incalculably something,<br /> + And therefore to be cherished. God, you see,<br /> + Being sorry for them in their fashioning,<br /> + Indemnified them with a quaint esteem<br /> + Of self, and with illusions long as life.<br /> + You know them well, and you have smiled at them;<br /> + And they, in their serenity, may have had<br /> + Their time to smile at you. Blessed are they<br /> + That see themselves for what they never were<br /> + Or were to be, and are, for their defect,<br /> + At ease with mirrors and the dim remarks<br /> + That pass their tranquil ears."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Come, come," said I;<br /> + "There may be names in your compendium<br /> + That we are not yet all on fire for shouting.<br /> + Skin most of us of our mediocrity,<br /> + We should have nothing then that we could scratch.<br /> + The picture smarts. Cover it, if you please,<br /> + And do so rather gently. Now for Norcross."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson closed his eyes in resignation,<br /> + While a dead sigh came out of him. "Good God!"<br /> + He said, and said it only half aloud,<br /> + As if he knew no longer now, nor cared,<br /> + If one were there to listen: "Have I said nothing —<br /> + Nothing at all — of Norcross? Do you mean<br /> + To patronize him till his name becomes<br /> + A toy made out of letters? If a name<br /> + Is all you need, arrange an honest column<br /> + Of all the people you have ever known<br /> + That you have never liked. You'll have enough;<br /> + And you'll have mine, moreover. No, not yet.<br /> + If I assume too many privileges,<br /> + I pay, and I alone, for their assumption;<br /> + By which, if I assume a darker knowledge<br /> + Of Norcross than another, let the weight<br /> + Of my injustice aggravate the load<br /> + That is not on your shoulders. When I came<br /> + To know this fellow Norcross in his house,<br /> + I found him as I found him in the street —<br /> + No more, no less; indifferent, but no better.<br /> + `Worse' were not quite the word: he was not bad;<br /> + He was not . . . well, he was not anything.<br /> + Has your invention ever entertained<br /> + The picture of a dusty worm so dry<br /> + That even the early bird would shake his head<br /> + And fly on farther for another breakfast?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "But why forget the fortune of the worm,"<br /> + I said, "if in the dryness you deplore<br /> + Salvation centred and endured? Your Norcross<br /> + May have been one for many to have envied."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Salvation? Fortune? Would the worm say that?<br /> + He might; and therefore I dismiss the worm<br /> + With all dry things but one. Figures away,<br /> + Do you begin to see this man a little?<br /> + Do you begin to see him in the air,<br /> + With all the vacant horrors of his outline<br /> + For you to fill with more than it will hold?<br /> + If so, you needn't crown yourself at once<br /> + With epic laurel if you seem to fill it.<br /> + Horrors, I say, for in the fires and forks<br /> + Of a new hell — if one were not enough —<br /> + I doubt if a new horror would have held him<br /> + With a malignant ingenuity<br /> + More to be feared than his before he died.<br /> + You smile, as if in doubt. Well, smile again.<br /> + Now come into his house, along with me:<br /> + The four square sombre things that you see first<br /> + Around you are four walls that go as high<br /> + As to the ceiling. Norcross knew them well,<br /> + And he knew others like them. Fasten to that<br /> + With all the claws of your intelligence;<br /> + And hold the man before you in his house<br /> + As if he were a white rat in a box,<br /> + And one that knew himself to be no other.<br /> + I tell you twice that he knew all about it,<br /> + That you may not forget the worst of all<br /> + Our tragedies begin with what we know.<br /> + Could Norcross only not have known, I wonder<br /> + How many would have blessed and envied him!<br /> + Could he have had the usual eye for spots<br /> + On others, and for none upon himself,<br /> + I smile to ponder on the carriages<br /> + That might as well as not have clogged the town<br /> + In honor of his end. For there was gold,<br /> + You see, though all he needed was a little,<br /> + And what he gave said nothing of who gave it.<br /> + He would have given it all if in return<br /> + There might have been a more sufficient face<br /> + To greet him when he shaved. Though you insist<br /> + It is the dower, and always, of our degree<br /> + Not to be cursed with such invidious insight,<br /> + Remember that you stand, you and your fancy,<br /> + Now in his house; and since we are together,<br /> + See for yourself and tell me what you see.<br /> + Tell me the best you see. Make a slight noise<br /> + Of recognition when you find a book<br /> + That you would not as lief read upside down<br /> + As otherwise, for example. If there you fail,<br /> + Observe the walls and lead me to the place,<br /> + Where you are led. If there you meet a picture<br /> + That holds you near it for a longer time<br /> + Than you are sorry, you may call it yours,<br /> + And hang it in the dark of your remembrance,<br /> + Where Norcross never sees. How can he see<br /> + That has no eyes to see? And as for music,<br /> + He paid with empty wonder for the pangs<br /> + Of his infrequent forced endurance of it;<br /> + And having had no pleasure, paid no more<br /> + For needless immolation, or for the sight<br /> + Of those who heard what he was never to hear.<br /> + To see them listening was itself enough<br /> + To make him suffer; and to watch worn eyes,<br /> + On other days, of strangers who forgot<br /> + Their sorrows and their failures and themselves<br /> + Before a few mysterious odds and ends<br /> + Of marble carted from the Parthenon —<br /> + And all for seeing what he was never to see,<br /> + Because it was alive and he was dead —<br /> + Here was a wonder that was more profound<br /> + Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "He knew, and in his knowledge there was death.<br /> + He knew there was a region all around him<br /> + That lay outside man's havoc and affairs,<br /> + And yet was not all hostile to their tumult,<br /> + Where poets would have served and honored him,<br /> + And saved him, had there been anything to save.<br /> + But there was nothing, and his tethered range<br /> + Was only a small desert. Kings of song<br /> + Are not for thrones in deserts. Towers of sound<br /> + And flowers of sense are but a waste of heaven<br /> + Where there is none to know them from the rocks<br /> + And sand-grass of his own monotony<br /> + That makes earth less than earth. He could see that,<br /> + And he could see no more. The captured light<br /> + That may have been or not, for all he cared,<br /> + The song that is in sculpture was not his,<br /> + But only, to his God-forgotten eyes,<br /> + One more immortal nonsense in a world<br /> + Where all was mortal, or had best be so,<br /> + And so be done with. `Art,' he would have said,<br /> + `Is not life, and must therefore be a lie;'<br /> + And with a few profundities like that<br /> + He would have controverted and dismissed<br /> + The benefit of the Greeks. He had heard of them,<br /> + As he had heard of his aspiring soul —<br /> + Never to the perceptible advantage,<br /> + In his esteem, of either. `Faith,' he said,<br /> + Or would have said if he had thought of it,<br /> + `Lives in the same house with Philosophy,<br /> + Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn<br /> + As orphans after war. He could see stars,<br /> + On a clear night, but he had not an eye<br /> + To see beyond them. He could hear spoken words,<br /> + But had no ear for silence when alone.<br /> + He could eat food of which he knew the savor,<br /> + But had no palate for the Bread of Life,<br /> + That human desperation, to his thinking,<br /> + Made famous long ago, having no other.<br /> + Now do you see? Do you begin to see?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I told him that I did begin to see;<br /> + And I was nearer than I should have been<br /> + To laughing at his malign inclusiveness,<br /> + When I considered that, with all our speed,<br /> + We are not laughing yet at funerals.<br /> + I see him now as I could see him then,<br /> + And I see now that it was good for me,<br /> + As it was good for him, that I was quiet;<br /> + For Time's eye was on Ferguson, and the shaft<br /> + Of its inquiring hesitancy had touched him,<br /> + Or so I chose to fancy more than once<br /> + Before he told of Norcross. When the word<br /> + Of his release (he would have called it so)<br /> + Made half an inch of news, there were no tears<br /> + That are recorded. Women there may have been<br /> + To wish him back, though I should say, not knowing,<br /> + The few there were to mourn were not for love,<br /> + And were not lovely. Nothing of them, at least,<br /> + Was in the meagre legend that I gathered<br /> + Years after, when a chance of travel took me<br /> + So near the region of his nativity<br /> + That a few miles of leisure brought me there;<br /> + For there I found a friendly citizen<br /> + Who led me to his house among the trees<br /> + That were above a railroad and a river.<br /> + Square as a box and chillier than a tomb<br /> + It was indeed, to look at or to live in —<br /> + All which had I been told. "Ferguson died,"<br /> + The stranger said, "and then there was an auction.<br /> + I live here, but I've never yet been warm.<br /> + Remember him? Yes, I remember him.<br /> + I knew him — as a man may know a tree —<br /> + For twenty years. He may have held himself<br /> + A little high when he was here, but now . . .<br /> + Yes, I remember Ferguson. Oh, yes."<br /> + Others, I found, remembered Ferguson,<br /> + But none of them had heard of Tasker Norcross.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="song"></a> + A Song at Shannon's<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Two men came out of Shannon's having known<br /> + The faces of each other for as long<br /> + As they had listened there to an old song,<br /> + Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone<br /> + By some unhappy night-bird, who had flown<br /> + Too many times and with a wing too strong<br /> + To save himself, and so done heavy wrong<br /> + To more frail elements than his alone.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Slowly away they went, leaving behind<br /> + More light than was before them. Neither met<br /> + The other's eyes again or said a word.<br /> + Each to his loneliness or to his kind,<br /> + Went his own way, and with his own regret,<br /> + Not knowing what the other may have heard.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="souvenir"></a> + Souvenir<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + A vanished house that for an hour I knew<br /> + By some forgotten chance when I was young<br /> + Had once a glimmering window overhung<br /> + With honeysuckle wet with evening dew.<br /> + Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew,<br /> + And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung<br /> + Ferociously; and over me, among<br /> + The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Somewhere within there were dim presences<br /> + Of days that hovered and of years gone by.<br /> + I waited, and between their silences<br /> + There was an evanescent faded noise;<br /> + And though a child, I knew it was the voice<br /> + Of one whose occupation was to die.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="discovery"></a> + Discovery<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + We told of him as one who should have soared<br /> + And seen for us the devastating light<br /> + Whereof there is not either day or night,<br /> + And shared with us the glamour of the Word<br /> + That fell once upon Amos to record<br /> + For men at ease in Zion, when the sight<br /> + Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might<br /> + Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Assured somehow that he would make us wise,<br /> + Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise<br /> + Was hard when we confessed the dry return<br /> + Of his regret. For we were still to learn<br /> + That earth has not a school where we may go<br /> + For wisdom, or for more than we may know.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="firelight"></a> + Firelight<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Ten years together without yet a cloud,<br /> + They seek each other's eyes at intervals<br /> + Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls<br /> + For love's obliteration of the crowd.<br /> + Serenely and perennially endowed<br /> + And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls<br /> + No snake, no sword; and over them there falls<br /> + The blessing of what neither says aloud.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Wiser for silence, they were not so glad<br /> + Were she to read the graven tale of lines<br /> + On the wan face of one somewhere alone;<br /> + Nor were they more content could he have had<br /> + Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines<br /> + Apart, and would be hers if he had known.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tenants"></a> + The New Tenants<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + The day was here when it was his to know<br /> + How fared the barriers he had built between<br /> + His triumph and his enemies unseen,<br /> + For them to undermine and overthrow;<br /> + And it was his no longer to forego<br /> + The sight of them, insidious and serene,<br /> + Where they were delving always and had been<br /> + Left always to be vicious and to grow.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there were the new tenants who had come,<br /> + By doors that were left open unawares,<br /> + Into his house, and were so much at home<br /> + There now that he would hardly have to guess,<br /> + By the slow guile of their vindictiveness,<br /> + What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="inferential"></a> + Inferential<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Although I saw before me there the face<br /> + Of one whom I had honored among men<br /> + The least, and on regarding him again<br /> + Would not have had him in another place,<br /> + He fitted with an unfamiliar grace<br /> + The coffin where I could not see him then<br /> + As I had seen him and appraised him when<br /> + I deemed him unessential to the race.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For there was more of him than what I saw.<br /> + And there was on me more than the old awe<br /> + That is the common genius of the dead.<br /> + I might as well have heard him: "Never mind;<br /> + If some of us were not so far behind,<br /> + The rest of us were not so far ahead."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="rat"></a> + The Rat<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + As often as he let himself be seen<br /> + We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored<br /> + The inscrutable profusion of the Lord<br /> + Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean —<br /> + Who made him human when he might have been<br /> + A rat, and so been wholly in accord<br /> + With any other creature we abhorred<br /> + As always useless and not always clean.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now he is hiding all alone somewhere,<br /> + And in a final hole not ready then;<br /> + For now he is among those over there<br /> + Who are not coming back to us again.<br /> + And we who do the fiction of our share<br /> + Say less of rats and rather more of men.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="rahel"></a> + Rahel to Varnhagen<br /> +</h3> + +<p> +Note. — Rahel Robert and Varnhagen von Ense were married, +after many protestations on her part, in 1814. The marriage — so far +as he was concerned, at any rate — appears to have been satisfactory. +</p> + +<p> + Now you have read them all; or if not all,<br /> + As many as in all conscience I should fancy<br /> + To be enough. There are no more of them —<br /> + Or none to burn your sleep, or to bring dreams<br /> + Of devils. If these are not sufficient, surely<br /> + You are a strange young man. I might live on<br /> + Alone, and for another forty years,<br /> + Or not quite forty, — are you happier now? —<br /> + Always to ask if there prevailed elsewhere<br /> + Another like yourself that would have held<br /> + These aged hands as long as you have held them,<br /> + Not once observing, for all I can see,<br /> + How they are like your mother's. Well, you have read<br /> + His letters now, and you have heard me say<br /> + That in them are the cinders of a passion<br /> + That was my life; and you have not yet broken<br /> + Your way out of my house, out of my sight, —<br /> + Into the street. You are a strange young man.<br /> + I know as much as that of you, for certain;<br /> + And I'm already praying, for your sake,<br /> + That you be not too strange. Too much of that<br /> + May lead you bye and bye through gloomy lanes<br /> + To a sad wilderness, where one may grope<br /> + Alone, and always, or until he feels<br /> + Ferocious and invisible animals<br /> + That wait for men and eat them in the dark.<br /> + Why do you sit there on the floor so long,<br /> + Smiling at me while I try to be solemn?<br /> + Do you not hear it said for your salvation,<br /> + When I say truth? Are you, at four and twenty,<br /> + So little deceived in us that you interpret<br /> + The humor of a woman to be noticed<br /> + As her choice between you and Acheron?<br /> + Are you so unscathed yet as to infer<br /> + That if a woman worries when a man,<br /> + Or a man-child, has wet shoes on his feet<br /> + She may as well commemorate with ashes<br /> + The last eclipse of her tranquillity?<br /> + If you look up at me and blink again,<br /> + I shall not have to make you tell me lies<br /> + To know the letters you have not been reading.<br /> + I see now that I may have had for nothing<br /> + A most unpleasant shivering in my conscience<br /> + When I laid open for your contemplation<br /> + The wealth of my worn casket. If I did,<br /> + The fault was not yours wholly. Search again<br /> + This wreckage we may call for sport a face,<br /> + And you may chance upon the price of havoc<br /> + That I have paid for a few sorry stones<br /> + That shine and have no light — yet once were stars,<br /> + And sparkled on a crown. Little and weak<br /> + They seem; and they are cold, I fear, for you.<br /> + But they that once were fire for me may not<br /> + Be cold again for me until I die;<br /> + And only God knows if they may be then.<br /> + There is a love that ceases to be love<br /> + In being ourselves. How, then, are we to lose it?<br /> + You that are sure that you know everything<br /> + There is to know of love, answer me that.<br /> + Well? . . . You are not even interested.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Once on a far off time when I was young,<br /> + I felt with your assurance, and all through me,<br /> + That I had undergone the last and worst<br /> + Of love's inventions. There was a boy who brought<br /> + The sun with him and woke me up with it,<br /> + And that was every morning; every night<br /> + I tried to dream of him, but never could,<br /> + More than I might have seen in Adam's eyes<br /> + Their fond uncertainty when Eve began<br /> + The play that all her tireless progeny<br /> + Are not yet weary of. One scene of it<br /> + Was brief, but was eternal while it lasted;<br /> + And that was while I was the happiest<br /> + Of an imaginary six or seven,<br /> + Somewhere in history but not on earth,<br /> + For whom the sky had shaken and let stars<br /> + Rain down like diamonds. Then there were clouds,<br /> + And a sad end of diamonds; whereupon<br /> + Despair came, like a blast that would have brought<br /> + Tears to the eyes of all the bears in Finland,<br /> + And love was done. That was how much I knew.<br /> + Poor little wretch! I wonder where he is<br /> + This afternoon. Out of this rain, I hope.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last, when I had seen so many days<br /> + Dressed all alike, and in their marching order,<br /> + Go by me that I would not always count them,<br /> + One stopped — shattering the whole file of Time,<br /> + Or so it seemed; and when I looked again,<br /> + There was a man. He struck once with his eyes,<br /> + And then there was a woman. I, who had come<br /> + To wisdom, or to vision, or what you like,<br /> + By the old hidden road that has no name, —<br /> + I, who was used to seeing without flying<br /> + So much that others fly from without seeing,<br /> + Still looked, and was afraid, and looked again.<br /> + And after that, when I had read the story<br /> + Told in his eyes, and felt within my heart<br /> + The bleeding wound of their necessity,<br /> + I knew the fear was his. If I had failed him<br /> + And flown away from him, I should have lost<br /> + Ingloriously my wings in scrambling back,<br /> + And found them arms again. If he had struck me<br /> + Not only with his eyes but with his hands,<br /> + I might have pitied him and hated love,<br /> + And then gone mad. I, who have been so strong —<br /> + Why don't you laugh? — might even have done all that.<br /> + I, who have learned so much, and said so much,<br /> + And had the commendations of the great<br /> + For one who rules herself — why don't you cry? —<br /> + And own a certain small authority<br /> + Among the blind, who see no more than ever,<br /> + But like my voice, — I would have tossed it all<br /> + To Tophet for one man; and he was jealous.<br /> + I would have wound a snake around my neck<br /> + And then have let it bite me till I died,<br /> + If my so doing would have made me sure<br /> + That one man might have lived; and he was jealous.<br /> + I would have driven these hands into a cage<br /> + That held a thousand scorpions, and crushed them,<br /> + If only by so poisonous a trial<br /> + I could have crushed his doubt. I would have wrung<br /> + My living blood with mediaeval engines<br /> + Out of my screaming flesh, if only that<br /> + Would have made one man sure. I would have paid<br /> + For him the tiresome price of body and soul,<br /> + And let the lash of a tongue-weary town<br /> + Fall as it might upon my blistered name;<br /> + And while it fell I could have laughed at it,<br /> + Knowing that he had found out finally<br /> + Where the wrong was. But there was evil in him<br /> + That would have made no more of his possession<br /> + Than confirmation of another fault;<br /> + And there was honor — if you call it honor<br /> + That hoods itself with doubt and wears a crown<br /> + Of lead that might as well be gold and fire.<br /> + Give it as heavy or as light a name<br /> + As any there is that fits. I see myself<br /> + Without the power to swear to this or that<br /> + That I might be if he had been without it.<br /> + Whatever I might have been that I was not,<br /> + It only happened that it wasn't so.<br /> + Meanwhile, you might seem to be listening:<br /> + If you forget yourself and go to sleep,<br /> + My treasure, I shall not say this again.<br /> + Look up once more into my poor old face,<br /> + Where you see beauty, or the Lord knows what,<br /> + And say to me aloud what else there is<br /> + Than ruins in it that you most admire.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No, there was never anything like that;<br /> + Nature has never fastened such a mask<br /> + Of radiant and impenetrable merit<br /> + On any woman as you say there is<br /> + On this one. Not a mask? I thank you, sir,<br /> + But you see more with your determination,<br /> + I fear, than with your prudence or your conscience;<br /> + And you have never met me with my eyes<br /> + In all the mirrors I've made faces at.<br /> + No, I shall never call you strange again:<br /> + You are the young and inconvincible<br /> + Epitome of all blind men since Adam.<br /> + May the blind lead the blind, if that be so?<br /> + And we shall need no mirrors? You are saying<br /> + What most I feared you might. But if the blind,<br /> + Or one of them, be not so fortunate<br /> + As to put out the eyes of recollection,<br /> + She might at last, without her meaning it,<br /> + Lead on the other, without his knowing it,<br /> + Until the two of them should lose themselves<br /> + Among dead craters in a lava-field<br /> + As empty as a desert on the moon.<br /> + I am not speaking in a theatre,<br /> + But in a room so real and so familiar<br /> + That sometimes I would wreck it. Then I pause,<br /> + Remembering there is a King in Weimar —<br /> + A monarch, and a poet, and a shepherd<br /> + Of all who are astray and are outside<br /> + The realm where they should rule. I think of him,<br /> + And save the furniture; I think of you,<br /> + And am forlorn, finding in you the one<br /> + To lavish aspirations and illusions<br /> + Upon a faded and forsaken house<br /> + Where love, being locked alone, was nigh to burning<br /> + House and himself together. Yes, you are strange,<br /> + To see in such an injured architecture<br /> + Room for new love to live in. Are you laughing?<br /> + No? Well, you are not crying, as you should be.<br /> + Tears, even if they told only gratitude<br /> + For your escape, and had no other story,<br /> + Were surely more becoming than a smile<br /> + For my unwomanly straightforwardness<br /> + In seeing for you, through my close gate of years<br /> + Your forty ways to freedom. Why do you smile?<br /> + And while I'm trembling at my faith in you<br /> + In giving you to read this book of danger<br /> + That only one man living might have written —<br /> + These letters, which have been a part of me<br /> + So long that you may read them all again<br /> + As often as you look into my face,<br /> + And hear them when I speak to you, and feel them<br /> + Whenever you have to touch me with your hand, —<br /> + Why are you so unwilling to be spared?<br /> + Why do you still believe in me? But no,<br /> + I'll find another way to ask you that.<br /> + I wonder if there is another way<br /> + That says it better, and means anything.<br /> + There is no other way that could be worse?<br /> + I was not asking you; it was myself<br /> + Alone that I was asking. Why do I dip<br /> + For lies, when there is nothing in my well<br /> + But shining truth, you say? How do you know?<br /> + Truth has a lonely life down where she lives;<br /> + And many a time, when she comes up to breathe,<br /> + She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples.<br /> + Possibly you may know no more of me<br /> + Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone,<br /> + Leaving you then with all my shining truth<br /> + Drowned in a shining water; and when you look<br /> + You may not see me there, but something else<br /> + That never was a woman — being yourself.<br /> + You say to me my truth is past all drowning,<br /> + And safe with you for ever? You know all that?<br /> + How do you know all that, and who has told you?<br /> + You know so much that I'm an atom frightened<br /> + Because you know so little. And what is this?<br /> + You know the luxury there is in haunting<br /> + The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion —<br /> + If that's your name for them — with only ghosts<br /> + For company? You know that when a woman<br /> + Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience<br /> + (Another name of yours for a bad temper)<br /> + She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it<br /> + (That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it),<br /> + Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby<br /> + Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom,<br /> + Given in vain to make a food for those<br /> + Who are without it, will be seen at last,<br /> + And even at last only by those who gave it,<br /> + As one or more of the forgotten crumbs<br /> + That others leave? You know that men's applause<br /> + And women's envy savor so much of dust<br /> + That I go hungry, having at home no fare<br /> + But the same changeless bread that I may swallow<br /> + Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that?<br /> + You know that if I read, and read alone,<br /> + Too many books that no men yet have written,<br /> + I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself,<br /> + Of all insistent and insidious creatures,<br /> + To be the one to save me, and to guard<br /> + For me their flaming language? And you know<br /> + That if I give much headway to the whim<br /> + That's in me never to be quite sure that even<br /> + Through all those years of storm and fire I waited<br /> + For this one rainy day, I may go on,<br /> + And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes,<br /> + To a cold end? You know so dismal much<br /> + As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="nimmo"></a> + Nimmo<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive<br /> + At such a false and florid and far drawn<br /> + Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive<br /> + No longer, though I may have led you on.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So much is told and heard and told again,<br /> + So many with his legend are engrossed,<br /> + That I, more sorry now than I was then,<br /> + May live on to be sorry for his ghost.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, —<br /> + How deep they were, and what a velvet light<br /> + Came out of them when anger or surprise,<br /> + Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, —<br /> + And you say nothing of them. Very well.<br /> + I wonder if all history's worth a wink,<br /> + Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For they began to lose their velvet light;<br /> + Their fire grew dead without and small within;<br /> + And many of you deplored the needless fight<br /> + That somewhere in the dark there must have been.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + All fights are needless, when they're not our own,<br /> + But Nimmo and Francesca never fought.<br /> + Remember that; and when you are alone,<br /> + Remember me — and think what I have thought.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was,<br /> + Or never was, or could or could not be:<br /> + Bring not suspicion's candle to the glass<br /> + That mirrors a friend's face to memory.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Of what you see, see all, — but see no more;<br /> + For what I show you here will not be there.<br /> + The devil has had his way with paint before,<br /> + And he's an artist, — and you needn't stare.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was a painter and he painted well:<br /> + He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den,<br /> + Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell.<br /> + I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The painter put the devil in those eyes,<br /> + Unless the devil did, and there he stayed;<br /> + And then the lady fled from paradise,<br /> + And there's your fact. The lady was afraid.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She must have been afraid, or may have been,<br /> + Of evil in their velvet all the while;<br /> + But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin,<br /> + I'll trust the man as long as he can smile.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I trust him who can smile and then may live<br /> + In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today.<br /> + God knows if I have more than men forgive<br /> + To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I knew him then, and if I know him yet,<br /> + I know in him, defeated and estranged,<br /> + The calm of men forbidden to forget<br /> + The calm of women who have loved and changed.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But there are ways that are beyond our ways,<br /> + Or he would not be calm and she be mute,<br /> + As one by one their lost and empty days<br /> + Pass without even the warmth of a dispute.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + God help us all when women think they see;<br /> + God save us when they do. I'm fair; but though<br /> + I know him only as he looks to me,<br /> + I know him, — and I tell Francesca so.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask<br /> + Of him, could you but see him as I can,<br /> + At his bewildered and unfruitful task<br /> + Of being what he was born to be — a man.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Better forget that I said anything<br /> + Of what your tortured memory may disclose;<br /> + I know him, and your worst remembering<br /> + Would count as much as nothing, I suppose.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way<br /> + Of trusting me, as always in his youth.<br /> + I'm painting here a better man, you say,<br /> + Than I, the painter; and you say the truth.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="peace"></a> + Peace on Earth<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + He took a frayed hat from his head,<br /> + And "Peace on Earth" was what he said.<br /> + "A morsel out of what you're worth,<br /> + And there we have it: Peace on Earth.<br /> + Not much, although a little more<br /> + Than what there was on earth before.<br /> + I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, —<br /> + But never mind the ways I've trod;<br /> + I'm sober now, so help me God."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I could not pass the fellow by.<br /> + "Do you believe in God?" said I;<br /> + "And is there to be Peace on Earth?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Tonight we celebrate the birth,"<br /> + He said, "of One who died for men;<br /> + The Son of God, we say. What then?<br /> + Your God, or mine? I'd make you laugh<br /> + Were I to tell you even half<br /> + That I have learned of mine today<br /> + Where yours would hardly seem to stay.<br /> + Could He but follow in and out<br /> + Some anthropoids I know about,<br /> + The God to whom you may have prayed<br /> + Might see a world He never made."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Your words are flowing full," said I;<br /> + "But yet they give me no reply;<br /> + Your fountain might as well be dry."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "A wiser One than you, my friend,<br /> + Would wait and hear me to the end;<br /> + And for His eyes a light would shine<br /> + Through this unpleasant shell of mine<br /> + That in your fancy makes of me<br /> + A Christmas curiosity.<br /> + All right, I might be worse than that;<br /> + And you might now be lying flat;<br /> + I might have done it from behind,<br /> + And taken what there was to find.<br /> + Don't worry, for I'm not that kind.<br /> + `Do I believe in God?' Is that<br /> + The price tonight of a new hat?<br /> + Has He commanded that His name<br /> + Be written everywhere the same?<br /> + Have all who live in every place<br /> + Identified His hidden face?<br /> + Who knows but He may like as well<br /> + My story as one you may tell?<br /> + And if He show me there be Peace<br /> + On Earth, as there be fields and trees<br /> + Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong<br /> + If now I sing Him a new song?<br /> + Your world is in yourself, my friend,<br /> + For your endurance to the end;<br /> + And all the Peace there is on Earth<br /> + Is faith in what your world is worth,<br /> + And saying, without any lies,<br /> + Your world could not be otherwise."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "One might say that and then be shot,"<br /> + I told him; and he said: "Why not?"<br /> + I ceased, and gave him rather more<br /> + Than he was counting of my store.<br /> + "And since I have it, thanks to you,<br /> + Don't ask me what I mean to do,"<br /> + Said he. "Believe that even I<br /> + Would rather tell the truth than lie —<br /> + On Christmas Eve. No matter why."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + His unshaved, educated face,<br /> + His inextinguishable grace,<br /> + And his hard smile, are with me still,<br /> + Deplore the vision as I will;<br /> + For whatsoever he be at,<br /> + So droll a derelict as that<br /> + Should have at least another hat.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="summer"></a> + Late Summer<br /> +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> + (Alcaics)<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Confused, he found her lavishing feminine<br /> + Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable;<br /> + And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors<br /> + Be as they were, without end, her playthings?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And why were dead years hungrily telling her<br /> + Lies of the dead, who told them again to her?<br /> + If now she knew, there might be kindness<br /> + Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + A little faith in him, and the ruinous<br /> + Past would be for time to annihilate,<br /> + And wash out, like a tide that washes<br /> + Out of the sand what a child has drawn there.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + God, what a shining handful of happiness,<br /> + Made out of days and out of eternities,<br /> + Were now the pulsing end of patience —<br /> + Could he but have what a ghost had stolen!<br /> +</p> + +<p> + What was a man before him, or ten of them,<br /> + While he was here alive who could answer them,<br /> + And in their teeth fling confirmations<br /> + Harder than agates against an egg-shell?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But now the man was dead, and would come again<br /> + Never, though she might honor ineffably<br /> + The flimsy wraith of him she conjured<br /> + Out of a dream with his wand of absence.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And if the truth were now but a mummery,<br /> + Meriting pride's implacable irony,<br /> + So much the worse for pride. Moreover,<br /> + Save her or fail, there was conscience always.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence,<br /> + Imploring to be sheltered and credited,<br /> + Were not amiss when she revealed them.<br /> + Whether she struggled or not, he saw them.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Also, he saw that while she was hearing him<br /> + Her eyes had more and more of the past in them;<br /> + And while he told what cautious honor<br /> + Told him was all he had best be sure of,<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He wondered once or twice, inadvertently,<br /> + Where shifting winds were driving his argosies,<br /> + Long anchored and as long unladen,<br /> + Over the foam for the golden chances.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If men were not for killing so carelessly,<br /> + And women were for wiser endurances,"<br /> + He said, "we might have yet a world here<br /> + Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in;<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness,<br /> + And we were less forbidden to look at it,<br /> + We might not have to look." He stared then<br /> + Down at the sand where the tide threw forward<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly<br /> + Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough,<br /> + Although he knew he might be silenced<br /> + Out of all calm; and the night was coming.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I climb for you the peak of his infamy<br /> + That you may choose your fall if you cling to it.<br /> + No more for me unless you say more.<br /> + All you have left of a dream defends you:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "The truth may be as evil an augury<br /> + As it was needful now for the two of us.<br /> + We cannot have the dead between us.<br /> + Tell me to go, and I go." — She pondered:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "What you believe is right for the two of us<br /> + Makes it as right that you are not one of us.<br /> + If this be needful truth you tell me,<br /> + Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She gazed away where shadows were covering<br /> + The whole cold ocean's healing indifference.<br /> + No ship was coming. When the darkness<br /> + Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="wife"></a> + An Evangelist's Wife<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Why am I not myself these many days,<br /> + You ask? And have you nothing more to ask?<br /> + I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise<br /> + To God for giving you me to share your task?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Jealous — of Her? Because her cheeks are pink,<br /> + And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven.<br /> + If you should only steal an hour to think,<br /> + Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "No, you are never cruel. If once or twice<br /> + I found you so, I could applaud and sing.<br /> + Jealous of — What? You are not very wise.<br /> + Does not the good Book tell you anything?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "In David's time poor Michal had to go.<br /> + Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="jester"></a> + The Old King's New Jester<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + You that in vain would front the coming order<br /> + With eyes that meet forlornly what they must,<br /> + And only with a furtive recognition<br /> + See dust where there is dust, —<br /> + Be sure you like it always in your faces,<br /> + Obscuring your best graces,<br /> + Blinding your speech and sight,<br /> + Before you seek again your dusty places<br /> + Where the old wrong seems right.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Longer ago than cave-men had their changes<br /> + Our fathers may have slain a son or two,<br /> + Discouraging a further dialectic<br /> + Regarding what was new;<br /> + And after their unstudied admonition<br /> + Occasional contrition<br /> + For their old-fashioned ways<br /> + May have reduced their doubts, and in addition<br /> + Softened their final days.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Farther away than feet shall ever travel<br /> + Are the vague towers of our unbuilded State;<br /> + But there are mightier things than we to lead us,<br /> + That will not let us wait.<br /> + And we go on with none to tell us whether<br /> + Or not we've each a tether<br /> + Determining how fast or far we go;<br /> + And it is well, since we must go together,<br /> + That we are not to know.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + If the old wrong and all its injured glamour<br /> + Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace,<br /> + You may as well, agreeably and serenely,<br /> + Give the new wrong its lease;<br /> + For should you nourish a too fervid yearning<br /> + For what is not returning,<br /> + The vicious and unfused ingredient<br /> + May give you qualms — and one or two concerning<br /> + The last of your content.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="lazarus"></a> + Lazarus<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "No, Mary, there was nothing — not a word.<br /> + Nothing, and always nothing. Go again<br /> + Yourself, and he may listen — or at least<br /> + Look up at you, and let you see his eyes.<br /> + I might as well have been the sound of rain,<br /> + A wind among the cedars, or a bird;<br /> + Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you;<br /> + And even if he should say that we are nothing,<br /> + To know that you have heard him will be something.<br /> + And yet he loved us, and it was for love<br /> + The Master gave him back. Why did He wait<br /> + So long before He came? Why did He weep?<br /> + I thought He would be glad — and Lazarus —<br /> + To see us all again as He had left us —<br /> + All as it was, all as it was before."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary, who felt her sister's frightened arms<br /> + Like those of someone drowning who had seized her,<br /> + Fearing at last they were to fail and sink<br /> + Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness,<br /> + Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes,<br /> + To find again the fading shores of home<br /> + That she had seen but now could see no longer.<br /> + Now she could only gaze into the twilight,<br /> + And in the dimness know that he was there,<br /> + Like someone that was not. He who had been<br /> + Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive<br /> + Only in death again — or worse than death;<br /> + For tombs at least, always until today,<br /> + Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain<br /> + For man or God in such a day as this;<br /> + For there they were alone, and there was he —<br /> + Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany,<br /> + The Master — who had come to them so late,<br /> + Only for love of them and then so slowly,<br /> + And was for their sake hunted now by men<br /> + Who feared Him as they feared no other prey —<br /> + For the world's sake was hidden. "Better the tomb<br /> + For Lazarus than life, if this be life,"<br /> + She thought; and then to Martha, "No, my dear,"<br /> + She said aloud; "not as it was before.<br /> + Nothing is ever as it was before,<br /> + Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time;<br /> + And we that are so lonely and so far<br /> + From home, since he is with us here again,<br /> + Are farther now from him and from ourselves<br /> + Than we are from the stars. He will not speak<br /> + Until the spirit that is in him speaks;<br /> + And we must wait for all we are to know,<br /> + Or even to learn that we are not to know.<br /> + Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge,<br /> + And that is why it is that we must wait.<br /> + Our friends are coming if we call for them,<br /> + And there are covers we'll put over him<br /> + To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps,<br /> + To say that we know better what is best<br /> + Than he. We do not know how old he is.<br /> + If you remember what the Master said,<br /> + Try to believe that we need have no fear.<br /> + Let me, the selfish and the careless one,<br /> + Be housewife and a mother for tonight;<br /> + For I am not so fearful as you are,<br /> + And I was not so eager."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Martha sank<br /> + Down at her sister's feet and there sat watching<br /> + A flower that had a small familiar name<br /> + That was as old as memory, but was not<br /> + The name of what she saw now in its brief<br /> + And infinite mystery that so frightened her<br /> + That life became a terror. Tears again<br /> + Flooded her eyes and overflowed. "No, Mary,"<br /> + She murmured slowly, hating her own words<br /> + Before she heard them, "you are not so eager<br /> + To see our brother as we see him now;<br /> + Neither is He who gave him back to us.<br /> + I was to be the simple one, as always,<br /> + And this was all for me." She stared again<br /> + Over among the trees where Lazarus,<br /> + Who seemed to be a man who was not there,<br /> + Might have been one more shadow among shadows,<br /> + If she had not remembered. Then she felt<br /> + The cool calm hands of Mary on her face,<br /> + And shivered, wondering if such hands were real.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "The Master loved you as He loved us all,<br /> + Martha; and you are saying only things<br /> + That children say when they have had no sleep.<br /> + Try somehow now to rest a little while;<br /> + You know that I am here, and that our friends<br /> + Are coming if I call."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Martha at last<br /> + Arose, and went with Mary to the door,<br /> + Where they stood looking off at the same place,<br /> + And at the same shape that was always there<br /> + As if it would not ever move or speak,<br /> + And always would be there. "Mary, go now,<br /> + Before the dark that will be coming hides him.<br /> + I am afraid of him out there alone,<br /> + Unless I see him; and I have forgotten<br /> + What sleep is. Go now — make him look at you —<br /> + And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers.<br /> + Go! — or I'll scream and bring all Bethany<br /> + To come and make him speak. Make him say once<br /> + That he is glad, and God may say the rest.<br /> + Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever,<br /> + I shall not care for that . . . Go!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary, moving<br /> + Almost as if an angry child had pushed her,<br /> + Went forward a few steps; and having waited<br /> + As long as Martha's eyes would look at hers,<br /> + Went forward a few more, and a few more;<br /> + And so, until she came to Lazarus,<br /> + Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands,<br /> + Like one that had no face. Before she spoke,<br /> + Feeling her sister's eyes that were behind her<br /> + As if the door where Martha stood were now<br /> + As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned<br /> + Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly,<br /> + Fearing him not so much as wondering<br /> + What his first word might be, said, "Lazarus,<br /> + Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;"<br /> + And having spoken, pitied her poor speech<br /> + That had so little seeming gladness in it,<br /> + So little comfort, and so little love.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was no sign from him that he had heard,<br /> + Or that he knew that she was there, or cared<br /> + Whether she spoke to him again or died<br /> + There at his feet. "We love you, Lazarus,<br /> + And we are not afraid. The Master said<br /> + We need not be afraid. Will you not say<br /> + To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus!<br /> + Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She found his hands and held them. They were cool,<br /> + Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers.<br /> + Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him<br /> + When he had groped out of that awful sleep,<br /> + She felt him trembling and she was afraid.<br /> + At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily<br /> + To God that she might have again the voice<br /> + Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now<br /> + The recognition of a living pressure<br /> + That was almost a language. When he spoke,<br /> + Only one word that she had waited for<br /> + Came from his lips, and that word was her name.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I heard them saying, Mary, that He wept<br /> + Before I woke." The words were low and shaken,<br /> + Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them<br /> + Was Lazarus; and that would be enough<br /> + Until there should be more . . . "Who made Him come,<br /> + That He should weep for me? . . . Was it you, Mary?"<br /> + The questions held in his incredulous eyes<br /> + Were more than she would see. She looked away;<br /> + But she had felt them and should feel for ever,<br /> + She thought, their cold and lonely desperation<br /> + That had the bitterness of all cold things<br /> + That were not cruel. "I should have wept," he said,<br /> + "If I had been the Master. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now she could feel<br /> + His hands above her hair — the same black hair<br /> + That once he made a jest of, praising it,<br /> + While Martha's busy eyes had left their work<br /> + To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that<br /> + Was to be theirs again; and such a thought<br /> + Was like the flying by of a quick bird<br /> + Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight.<br /> + For now she felt his hands upon her head,<br /> + Like weights of kindness: "I forgive you, Mary. . . .<br /> + You did not know — Martha could not have known —<br /> + Only the Master knew. . . . Where is He now?<br /> + Yes, I remember. They came after Him.<br /> + May the good God forgive Him. . . . I forgive Him.<br /> + I must; and I may know only from Him<br /> + The burden of all this. . . . Martha was here —<br /> + But I was not yet here. She was afraid. . . .<br /> + Why did He do it, Mary? Was it — you?<br /> + Was it for you? . . . Where are the friends I saw?<br /> + Yes, I remember. They all went away.<br /> + I made them go away. . . . Where is He now? . . .<br /> + What do I see down there? Do I see Martha —<br /> + Down by the door? . . . I must have time for this."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Lazarus looked about him fearfully,<br /> + And then again at Mary, who discovered<br /> + Awakening apprehension in his eyes,<br /> + And shivered at his feet. All she had feared<br /> + Was here; and only in the slow reproach<br /> + Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude.<br /> + Why had he asked if it was all for her<br /> + That he was here? And what had Martha meant?<br /> + Why had the Master waited? What was coming<br /> + To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come?<br /> + What had the Master seen before He came,<br /> + That He had come so late?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Where is He, Mary?"<br /> + Lazarus asked again. "Where did He go?"<br /> + Once more he gazed about him, and once more<br /> + At Mary for an answer. "Have they found Him?<br /> + Or did He go away because He wished<br /> + Never to look into my eyes again? . . .<br /> + That, I could understand. . . . Where is He, Mary?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I do not know," she said. "Yet in my heart<br /> + I know that He is living, as you are living —<br /> + Living, and here. He is not far from us.<br /> + He will come back to us and find us all —<br /> + Lazarus, Martha, Mary — everything —<br /> + All as it was before. Martha said that.<br /> + And He said we were not to be afraid."<br /> + Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face<br /> + A tortured adumbration of a smile<br /> + Flickered an instant. "All as it was before,"<br /> + He murmured wearily. "Martha said that;<br /> + And He said you were not to be afraid . . .<br /> + Not you . . . Not you . . . Why should you be afraid?<br /> + Give all your little fears, and Martha's with them,<br /> + To me; and I will add them unto mine,<br /> + Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If you had frightened me in other ways,<br /> + Not willing it," Mary said, "I should have known<br /> + You still for Lazarus. But who is this?<br /> + Tell me again that you are Lazarus;<br /> + And tell me if the Master gave to you<br /> + No sign of a new joy that shall be coming<br /> + To this house that He loved. Are you afraid?<br /> + Are you afraid, who have felt everything —<br /> + And seen . . . ?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But Lazarus only shook his head,<br /> + Staring with his bewildered shining eyes<br /> + Hard into Mary's face. "I do not know,<br /> + Mary," he said, after a long time.<br /> + "When I came back, I knew the Master's eyes<br /> + Were looking into mine. I looked at His,<br /> + And there was more in them than I could see.<br /> + At first I could see nothing but His eyes;<br /> + Nothing else anywhere was to be seen —<br /> + Only His eyes. And they looked into mine —<br /> + Long into mine, Mary, as if He knew."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary began to be afraid of words<br /> + As she had never been afraid before<br /> + Of loneliness or darkness, or of death,<br /> + But now she must have more of them or die:<br /> + "He cannot know that there is worse than death,"<br /> + She said. "And you . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Yes, there is worse than death."<br /> + Said Lazarus; "and that was what He knew;<br /> + And that is what it was that I could see<br /> + This morning in his eyes. I was afraid,<br /> + But not as you are. There is worse than death,<br /> + Mary; and there is nothing that is good<br /> + For you in dying while you are still here.<br /> + Mary, never go back to that again.<br /> + You would not hear me if I told you more,<br /> + For I should say it only in a language<br /> + That you are not to learn by going back.<br /> + To be a child again is to go forward —<br /> + And that is much to know. Many grow old,<br /> + And fade, and go away, not knowing how much<br /> + That is to know. Mary, the night is coming,<br /> + And there will soon be darkness all around you.<br /> + Let us go down where Martha waits for us,<br /> + And let there be light shining in this house."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He rose, but Mary would not let him go:<br /> + "Martha, when she came back from here, said only<br /> + That she heard nothing. And have you no more<br /> + For Mary now than you had then for Martha?<br /> + Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me?<br /> + Was Nothing all you found where you have been?<br /> + If that be so, what is there worse than that —<br /> + Or better — if that be so? And why should you,<br /> + With even our love, go the same dark road over?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I could not answer that, if that were so,"<br /> + Said Lazarus, — "not even if I were God.<br /> + Why should He care whether I came or stayed,<br /> + If that were so? Why should the Master weep —<br /> + For me, or for the world, — or save Himself<br /> + Longer for nothing? And if that were so,<br /> + Why should a few years' more mortality<br /> + Make Him a fugitive where flight were needless,<br /> + Had He but held his peace and given his nod<br /> + To an old Law that would be new as any?<br /> + I cannot say the answer to all that;<br /> + Though I may say that He is not afraid,<br /> + And that it is not for the joy there is<br /> + In serving an eternal Ignorance<br /> + Of our futility that He is here.<br /> + Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing?<br /> + Is that what you are fearing? If that be so,<br /> + There are more weeds than lentils in your garden.<br /> + And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest<br /> + May as well have no garden; for not there<br /> + Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts<br /> + Of life that are to save him. For my part,<br /> + I am again with you, here among shadows<br /> + That will not always be so dark as this;<br /> + Though now I see there's yet an evil in me<br /> + That made me let you be afraid of me.<br /> + No, I was not afraid — not even of life.<br /> + I thought I was . . . I must have time for this;<br /> + And all the time there is will not be long.<br /> + I cannot tell you what the Master saw<br /> + This morning in my eyes. I do not know.<br /> + I cannot yet say how far I have gone,<br /> + Or why it is that I am here again,<br /> + Or where the old road leads. I do not know.<br /> + I know that when I did come back, I saw<br /> + His eyes again among the trees and faces —<br /> + Only His eyes; and they looked into mine —<br /> + Long into mine — long, long, as if He knew."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1040 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Three Taverns + +Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson + +Posting Date: December 12, 2014 [EBook #1040] +Release Date: September, 1997 +First Posted: September 20, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE TAVERNS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p> +<br /><br /> +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED. +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] +</p> + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> + The Three Taverns<br /> +</h1> + +<p class="t3b"> + A Book of Poems<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> + By Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + Author of "The Man Against the Sky", "Merlin, A Poem", etc.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + [American (Maine) Poet. 1869-1935.]<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +<br /><br /><br /> + To THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY and LILLA CABOT PERRY<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<br /><br /><br /> + Contents<br /> +</p> + +<p> + <a href="#valley">The Valley of the Shadow</a><br /> + <a href="#jew">The Wandering Jew</a><br /> + <a href="#neighbors">Neighbors</a><br /> + <a href="#mill">The Mill</a><br /> + <a href="#hills">The Dark Hills</a><br /> + <a href="#taverns">The Three Taverns</a><br /> + <a href="#demos1">Demos I</a><br /> + <a href="#demos2">Demos II</a><br /> + <a href="#dutchman">The Flying Dutchman</a><br /> + <a href="#tact">Tact</a><br /> + <a href="#way">On the Way</a><br /> + <a href="#john">John Brown</a><br /> + <a href="#gods">The False Gods</a><br /> + <a href="#example">Archibald's Example</a><br /> + <a href="#bridge">London Bridge</a><br /> + <a href="#tasker">Tasker Norcross</a><br /> + <a href="#song">A Song at Shannon's</a><br /> + <a href="#souvenir">Souvenir</a><br /> + <a href="#discovery">Discovery</a><br /> + <a href="#firelight">Firelight</a><br /> + <a href="#tenants">The New Tenants</a><br /> + <a href="#inferential">Inferential</a><br /> + <a href="#rat">The Rat</a><br /> + <a href="#rahel">Rahel to Varnhagen</a><br /> + <a href="#nimmo">Nimmo</a><br /> + <a href="#peace">Peace on Earth</a><br /> + <a href="#summer">Late Summer</a><br /> + <a href="#wife">An Evangelist's Wife</a><br /> + <a href="#jester">The Old King's New Jester</a><br /> + <a href="#lazarus">Lazarus</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Several poems included in this book appeared originally +in American periodicals, as follows: The Three Taverns, London Bridge, +A Song at Shannon's, The New Tenants, Discovery, John Brown; +Archibald's Example, The Valley of the Shadow; Nimmo; The Wandering Jew, +Souvenir; Neighbors, Tact; Demos; The Mill, An Evangelist's Wife; +Firelight; Late Summer; Inferential; The Flying Dutchman; +On the Way, The False Gods; Peace on Earth; The Old King's New Jester. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> + —————————<br /> + The Three Taverns<br /> + —————————<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="valley"></a> + The Valley of the Shadow<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget;<br /> + There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes,<br /> + There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet.<br /> + For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation<br /> + At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus,<br /> + They were lost and unacquainted — till they found themselves in others,<br /> + Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions<br /> + Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows;<br /> + There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions,<br /> + All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows.<br /> + There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water,<br /> + And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys:<br /> + There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken,<br /> + Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes,<br /> + Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants<br /> + Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams.<br /> + There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood,<br /> + Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago:<br /> + There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them,<br /> + Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth;<br /> + And they were going forward only farther into darkness,<br /> + Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth;<br /> + And among them, giving always what was not for their possession,<br /> + There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes:<br /> + There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches,<br /> + Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves —<br /> + Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember<br /> + Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves.<br /> + There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation,<br /> + While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair:<br /> + There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them,<br /> + And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel;<br /> + And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing,<br /> + Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal.<br /> + Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation,<br /> + But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt:<br /> + There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals<br /> + There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well;<br /> + And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions<br /> + There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell.<br /> + Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless,<br /> + There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold:<br /> + There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow,<br /> + There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile;<br /> + And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers,<br /> + Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while.<br /> + There were many by the presence of the many disaffected,<br /> + Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore:<br /> + There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And they alone were there to find what they were looking for.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others,<br /> + And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn;<br /> + And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer<br /> + May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn.<br /> + For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched,<br /> + Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed:<br /> + There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow,<br /> + And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="jew"></a> + The Wandering Jew<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + I saw by looking in his eyes<br /> + That they remembered everything;<br /> + And this was how I came to know<br /> + That he was here, still wandering.<br /> + For though the figure and the scene<br /> + Were never to be reconciled,<br /> + I knew the man as I had known<br /> + His image when I was a child.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + With evidence at every turn,<br /> + I should have held it safe to guess<br /> + That all the newness of New York<br /> + Had nothing new in loneliness;<br /> + Yet here was one who might be Noah,<br /> + Or Nathan, or Abimelech,<br /> + Or Lamech, out of ages lost, —<br /> + Or, more than all, Melchizedek.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Assured that he was none of these,<br /> + I gave them back their names again,<br /> + To scan once more those endless eyes<br /> + Where all my questions ended then.<br /> + I found in them what they revealed<br /> + That I shall not live to forget,<br /> + And wondered if they found in mine<br /> + Compassion that I might regret.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Pity, I learned, was not the least<br /> + Of time's offending benefits<br /> + That had now for so long impugned<br /> + The conservation of his wits:<br /> + Rather it was that I should yield,<br /> + Alone, the fealty that presents<br /> + The tribute of a tempered ear<br /> + To an untempered eloquence.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before I pondered long enough<br /> + On whence he came and who he was,<br /> + I trembled at his ringing wealth<br /> + Of manifold anathemas;<br /> + I wondered, while he seared the world,<br /> + What new defection ailed the race,<br /> + And if it mattered how remote<br /> + Our fathers were from such a place.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before there was an hour for me<br /> + To contemplate with less concern<br /> + The crumbling realm awaiting us<br /> + Than his that was beyond return,<br /> + A dawning on the dust of years<br /> + Had shaped with an elusive light<br /> + Mirages of remembered scenes<br /> + That were no longer for the sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For now the gloom that hid the man<br /> + Became a daylight on his wrath,<br /> + And one wherein my fancy viewed<br /> + New lions ramping in his path.<br /> + The old were dead and had no fangs,<br /> + Wherefore he loved them — seeing not<br /> + They were the same that in their time<br /> + Had eaten everything they caught.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The world around him was a gift<br /> + Of anguish to his eyes and ears,<br /> + And one that he had long reviled<br /> + As fit for devils, not for seers.<br /> + Where, then, was there a place for him<br /> + That on this other side of death<br /> + Saw nothing good, as he had seen<br /> + No good come out of Nazareth?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yet here there was a reticence,<br /> + And I believe his only one,<br /> + That hushed him as if he beheld<br /> + A Presence that would not be gone.<br /> + In such a silence he confessed<br /> + How much there was to be denied;<br /> + And he would look at me and live,<br /> + As others might have looked and died.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + As if at last he knew again<br /> + That he had always known, his eyes<br /> + Were like to those of one who gazed<br /> + On those of One who never dies.<br /> + For such a moment he revealed<br /> + What life has in it to be lost;<br /> + And I could ask if what I saw,<br /> + Before me there, was man or ghost.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He may have died so many times<br /> + That all there was of him to see<br /> + Was pride, that kept itself alive<br /> + As too rebellious to be free;<br /> + He may have told, when more than once<br /> + Humility seemed imminent,<br /> + How many a lonely time in vain<br /> + The Second Coming came and went.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Whether he still defies or not<br /> + The failure of an angry task<br /> + That relegates him out of time<br /> + To chaos, I can only ask.<br /> + But as I knew him, so he was;<br /> + And somewhere among men to-day<br /> + Those old, unyielding eyes may flash,<br /> + And flinch — and look the other way.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="neighbors"></a> + Neighbors<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + As often as we thought of her,<br /> + We thought of a gray life<br /> + That made a quaint economist<br /> + Of a wolf-haunted wife;<br /> + We made the best of all she bore<br /> + That was not ours to bear,<br /> + And honored her for wearing things<br /> + That were not things to wear.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was a distance in her look<br /> + That made us look again;<br /> + And if she smiled, we might believe<br /> + That we had looked in vain.<br /> + Rarely she came inside our doors,<br /> + And had not long to stay;<br /> + And when she left, it seemed somehow<br /> + That she was far away.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last, when we had all forgot<br /> + That all is here to change,<br /> + A shadow on the commonplace<br /> + Was for a moment strange.<br /> + Yet there was nothing for surprise,<br /> + Nor much that need be told:<br /> + Love, with his gift of pain, had given<br /> + More than one heart could hold.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="mill"></a> + The Mill<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + The miller's wife had waited long,<br /> + The tea was cold, the fire was dead;<br /> + And there might yet be nothing wrong<br /> + In how he went and what he said:<br /> + "There are no millers any more,"<br /> + Was all that she had heard him say;<br /> + And he had lingered at the door<br /> + So long that it seemed yesterday.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Sick with a fear that had no form<br /> + She knew that she was there at last;<br /> + And in the mill there was a warm<br /> + And mealy fragrance of the past.<br /> + What else there was would only seem<br /> + To say again what he had meant;<br /> + And what was hanging from a beam<br /> + Would not have heeded where she went.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And if she thought it followed her,<br /> + She may have reasoned in the dark<br /> + That one way of the few there were<br /> + Would hide her and would leave no mark:<br /> + Black water, smooth above the weir<br /> + Like starry velvet in the night,<br /> + Though ruffled once, would soon appear<br /> + The same as ever to the sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="hills"></a> + The Dark Hills<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Dark hills at evening in the west,<br /> + Where sunset hovers like a sound<br /> + Of golden horns that sang to rest<br /> + Old bones of warriors under ground,<br /> + Far now from all the bannered ways<br /> + Where flash the legions of the sun,<br /> + You fade — as if the last of days<br /> + Were fading, and all wars were done.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="taverns"></a> + The Three Taverns<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us<br /> + as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.<br /> + (Acts 28:15)<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Herodion, Apelles, Amplias,<br /> + And Andronicus? Is it you I see —<br /> + At last? And is it you now that are gazing<br /> + As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying<br /> + That I should come to Rome? I did say that;<br /> + And I said furthermore that I should go<br /> + On westward, where the gateway of the world<br /> + Lets in the central sea. I did say that,<br /> + But I say only, now, that I am Paul —<br /> + A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord<br /> + A voice made free. If there be time enough<br /> + To live, I may have more to tell you then<br /> + Of western matters. I go now to Rome,<br /> + Where Caesar waits for me, and I shall wait,<br /> + And Caesar knows how long. In Caesarea<br /> + There was a legend of Agrippa saying<br /> + In a light way to Festus, having heard<br /> + My deposition, that I might be free,<br /> + Had I stayed free of Caesar; but the word<br /> + Of God would have it as you see it is —<br /> + And here I am. The cup that I shall drink<br /> + Is mine to drink — the moment or the place<br /> + Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome,<br /> + Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed<br /> + The shadow cast of hope, say not of me<br /> + Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck,<br /> + And all the many deserts I have crossed<br /> + That are not named or regioned, have undone<br /> + Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing<br /> + The part of me that is the least of me.<br /> + You see an older man than he who fell<br /> + Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus,<br /> + Where the great light came down; yet I am he<br /> + That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard.<br /> + And I am here, at last; and if at last<br /> + I give myself to make another crumb<br /> + For this pernicious feast of time and men —<br /> + Well, I have seen too much of time and men<br /> + To fear the ravening or the wrath of either.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, it is Paul you see — the Saul of Tarsus<br /> + That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain<br /> + For saying Something was beyond the Law,<br /> + And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul<br /> + Upon the Law till I went famishing,<br /> + Not knowing that I starved. How should I know,<br /> + More then than any, that the food I had —<br /> + What else it may have been — was not for me?<br /> + My fathers and their fathers and their fathers<br /> + Had found it good, and said there was no other,<br /> + And I was of the line. When Stephen fell,<br /> + Among the stones that crushed his life away,<br /> + There was no place alive that I could see<br /> + For such a man. Why should a man be given<br /> + To live beyond the Law? So I said then,<br /> + As men say now to me. How then do I<br /> + Persist in living? Is that what you ask?<br /> + If so, let my appearance be for you<br /> + No living answer; for Time writes of death<br /> + On men before they die, and what you see<br /> + Is not the man. The man that you see not —<br /> + The man within the man — is most alive;<br /> + Though hatred would have ended, long ago,<br /> + The bane of his activities. I have lived,<br /> + Because the faith within me that is life<br /> + Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late,<br /> + Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me<br /> + My toil is over and my work begun.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + How often, and how many a time again,<br /> + Have I said I should be with you in Rome!<br /> + He who is always coming never comes,<br /> + Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves;<br /> + And I may tell you now that after me,<br /> + Whether I stay for little or for long,<br /> + The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them,<br /> + And a more careful ear for their confusion<br /> + Than you need have much longer for the sound<br /> + Of what I tell you — should I live to say<br /> + More than I say to Caesar. What I know<br /> + Is down for you to read in what is written;<br /> + And if I cloud a little with my own<br /> + Mortality the gleam that is immortal,<br /> + I do it only because I am I —<br /> + Being on earth and of it, in so far<br /> + As time flays yet the remnant. This you know;<br /> + And if I sting men, as I do sometimes,<br /> + With a sharp word that hurts, it is because<br /> + Man's habit is to feel before he sees;<br /> + And I am of a race that feels. Moreover,<br /> + The world is here for what is not yet here<br /> + For more than are a few; and even in Rome,<br /> + Where men are so enamored of the Cross<br /> + That fame has echoed, and increasingly,<br /> + The music of your love and of your faith<br /> + To foreign ears that are as far away<br /> + As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder<br /> + How much of love you know, and if your faith<br /> + Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember<br /> + Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least<br /> + A Law to make them sorry they were born<br /> + If they go long without it; and these Gentiles,<br /> + For the first time in shrieking history,<br /> + Have love and law together, if so they will,<br /> + For their defense and their immunity<br /> + In these last days. Rome, if I know the name,<br /> + Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire<br /> + Made ready for the wreathing of new masters,<br /> + Of whom we are appointed, you and I, —<br /> + And you are still to be when I am gone,<br /> + Should I go presently. Let the word fall,<br /> + Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field<br /> + Of circumstance, either to live or die;<br /> + Concerning which there is a parable,<br /> + Made easy for the comfort and attention<br /> + Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain.<br /> + You are to plant, and then to plant again<br /> + Where you have gathered, gathering as you go;<br /> + For you are in the fields that are eternal,<br /> + And you have not the burden of the Lord<br /> + Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have<br /> + Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing,<br /> + Till it shall have the wonder and the weight<br /> + Of a clear jewel, shining with a light<br /> + Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars<br /> + May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said<br /> + That if they be of men these things are nothing,<br /> + But if they be of God they are for none<br /> + To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew,<br /> + And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all.<br /> + And you know, by the temper of your faith,<br /> + How far the fire is in you that I felt<br /> + Before I knew Damascus. A word here,<br /> + Or there, or not there, or not anywhere,<br /> + Is not the Word that lives and is the life;<br /> + And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves<br /> + With jealous aches of others. If the world<br /> + Were not a world of aches and innovations,<br /> + Attainment would have no more joy of it.<br /> + There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds,<br /> + And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done<br /> + To death because a farthing has two sides,<br /> + And is at last a farthing. Telling you this,<br /> + I, who bid men to live, appeal to Caesar.<br /> + Once I had said the ways of God were dark,<br /> + Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law.<br /> + Such is the glory of our tribulations;<br /> + For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law,<br /> + And we are then alive. We have eyes then;<br /> + And we have then the Cross between two worlds —<br /> + To guide us, or to blind us for a time,<br /> + Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites<br /> + A few on highways, changing all at once,<br /> + Is not for all. The power that holds the world<br /> + Away from God that holds himself away —<br /> + Farther away than all your works and words<br /> + Are like to fly without the wings of faith —<br /> + Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard<br /> + Enlivening the ways of easy leisure<br /> + Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes<br /> + Have wisdom, we see more than we remember;<br /> + And the old world of our captivities<br /> + May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin,<br /> + Like one where vanished hewers have had their day<br /> + Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see,<br /> + Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you,<br /> + At last, through many storms and through much night.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yet whatsoever I have undergone,<br /> + My keepers in this instance are not hard.<br /> + But for the chance of an ingratitude,<br /> + I might indeed be curious of their mercy,<br /> + And fearful of their leisure while I wait,<br /> + A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome,<br /> + Not always to return — but not that now.<br /> + Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me<br /> + With eyes that are at last more credulous<br /> + Of my identity. You remark in me<br /> + No sort of leaping giant, though some words<br /> + Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt<br /> + A little through your eyes into your soul.<br /> + I trust they were alive, and are alive<br /> + Today; for there be none that shall indite<br /> + So much of nothing as the man of words<br /> + Who writes in the Lord's name for his name's sake<br /> + And has not in his blood the fire of time<br /> + To warm eternity. Let such a man —<br /> + If once the light is in him and endures —<br /> + Content himself to be the general man,<br /> + Set free to sift the decencies and thereby<br /> + To learn, except he be one set aside<br /> + For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain;<br /> + Though if his light be not the light indeed,<br /> + But a brief shine that never really was,<br /> + And fails, leaving him worse than where he was,<br /> + Then shall he be of all men destitute.<br /> + And here were not an issue for much ink,<br /> + Or much offending faction among scribes.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The Kingdom is within us, we are told;<br /> + And when I say to you that we possess it<br /> + In such a measure as faith makes it ours,<br /> + I say it with a sinner's privilege<br /> + Of having seen and heard, and seen again,<br /> + After a darkness; and if I affirm<br /> + To the last hour that faith affords alone<br /> + The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment,<br /> + I do not see myself as one who says<br /> + To man that he shall sit with folded hands<br /> + Against the Coming. If I be anything,<br /> + I move a driven agent among my kind,<br /> + Establishing by the faith of Abraham,<br /> + And by the grace of their necessities,<br /> + The clamoring word that is the word of life<br /> + Nearer than heretofore to the solution<br /> + Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed<br /> + A shaft of language that has flown sometimes<br /> + A little higher than the hearts and heads<br /> + Of nature's minions, it will yet be heard,<br /> + Like a new song that waits for distant ears.<br /> + I cannot be the man that I am not;<br /> + And while I own that earth is my affliction,<br /> + I am a man of earth, who says not all<br /> + To all alike. That were impossible,<br /> + Even as it were so that He should plant<br /> + A larger garden first. But you today<br /> + Are for the larger sowing; and your seed,<br /> + A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw,<br /> + The foreign harvest of a wider growth,<br /> + And one without an end. Many there are,<br /> + And are to be, that shall partake of it,<br /> + Though none may share it with an understanding<br /> + That is not his alone. We are all alone;<br /> + And yet we are all parcelled of one order —<br /> + Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark<br /> + Of wildernesses that are not so much<br /> + As names yet in a book. And there are many,<br /> + Finding at last that words are not the Word,<br /> + And finding only that, will flourish aloft,<br /> + Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes,<br /> + Our contradictions and discrepancies;<br /> + And there are many more will hang themselves<br /> + Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word<br /> + The friend of all who fail, and in their faith<br /> + A sword of excellence to cut them down.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + As long as there are glasses that are dark —<br /> + And there are many — we see darkly through them;<br /> + All which have I conceded and set down<br /> + In words that have no shadow. What is dark<br /> + Is dark, and we may not say otherwise;<br /> + Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire<br /> + For one of us, may still be for another<br /> + A coming gleam across the gulf of ages,<br /> + And a way home from shipwreck to the shore;<br /> + And so, through pangs and ills and desperations,<br /> + There may be light for all. There shall be light.<br /> + As much as that, you know. You cannot say<br /> + This woman or that man will be the next<br /> + On whom it falls; you are not here for that.<br /> + Your ministration is to be for others<br /> + The firing of a rush that may for them<br /> + Be soon the fire itself. The few at first<br /> + Are fighting for the multitude at last;<br /> + Therefore remember what Gamaliel said<br /> + Before you, when the sick were lying down<br /> + In streets all night for Peter's passing shadow.<br /> + Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words.<br /> + Give men to know that even their days of earth<br /> + To come are more than ages that are gone.<br /> + Say what you feel, while you have time to say it.<br /> + Eternity will answer for itself,<br /> + Without your intercession; yet the way<br /> + For many is a long one, and as dark,<br /> + Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil<br /> + Too much, and if I be away from you,<br /> + Think of me as a brother to yourselves,<br /> + Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics,<br /> + And give your left hand to grammarians;<br /> + And when you seem, as many a time you may,<br /> + To have no other friend than hope, remember<br /> + That you are not the first, or yet the last.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The best of life, until we see beyond<br /> + The shadows of ourselves (and they are less<br /> + Than even the blindest of indignant eyes<br /> + Would have them) is in what we do not know.<br /> + Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep<br /> + With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves<br /> + Egregious and alone for your defects<br /> + Of youth and yesterday. I was young once;<br /> + And there's a question if you played the fool<br /> + With a more fervid and inherent zeal<br /> + Than I have in my story to remember,<br /> + Or gave your necks to folly's conquering foot,<br /> + Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim,<br /> + Less frequently than I. Never mind that.<br /> + Man's little house of days will hold enough,<br /> + Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his,<br /> + But it will not hold all. Things that are dead<br /> + Are best without it, and they own their death<br /> + By virtue of their dying. Let them go, —<br /> + But think you not the world is ashes yet,<br /> + And you have all the fire. The world is here<br /> + Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow;<br /> + For there are millions, and there may be more,<br /> + To make in turn a various estimation<br /> + Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps<br /> + Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears<br /> + That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them,<br /> + And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes<br /> + That are incredulous of the Mystery<br /> + Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read<br /> + Where language has an end and is a veil,<br /> + Not woven of our words. Many that hate<br /> + Their kind are soon to know that without love<br /> + Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing.<br /> + I that have done some hating in my time<br /> + See now no time for hate; I that have left,<br /> + Fading behind me like familiar lights<br /> + That are to shine no more for my returning,<br /> + Home, friends, and honors, — I that have lost all else<br /> + For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now<br /> + To you that out of wisdom has come love,<br /> + That measures and is of itself the measure<br /> + Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours<br /> + Are not so long that you may torture them<br /> + And harass not yourselves; and the last days<br /> + Are on the way that you prepare for them,<br /> + And was prepared for you, here in a world<br /> + Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen.<br /> + If you be not so hot for counting them<br /> + Before they come that you consume yourselves,<br /> + Peace may attend you all in these last days —<br /> + And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome.<br /> + Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear<br /> + My rest has not been yours; in which event,<br /> + Forgive one who is only seven leagues<br /> + From Caesar. When I told you I should come,<br /> + I did not see myself the criminal<br /> + You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law<br /> + That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed,<br /> + Was good of you, and I shall not forget;<br /> + No, I shall not forget you came so far<br /> + To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell.<br /> + They come to tell me I am going now —<br /> + With them. I hope that we shall meet again,<br /> + But none may say what he shall find in Rome.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="demos1"></a> + Demos I<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + All you that are enamored of my name<br /> + And least intent on what most I require,<br /> + Beware; for my design and your desire,<br /> + Deplorably, are not as yet the same.<br /> + Beware, I say, the failure and the shame<br /> + Of losing that for which you now aspire<br /> + So blindly, and of hazarding entire<br /> + The gift that I was bringing when I came.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Give as I will, I cannot give you sight<br /> + Whereby to see that with you there are some<br /> + To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb<br /> + Before the wrangling and the shrill delight<br /> + Of your deliverance that has not come,<br /> + And shall not, if I fail you — as I might.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="demos2"></a> + Demos II<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + So little have you seen of what awaits<br /> + Your fevered glimpse of a democracy<br /> + Confused and foiled with an equality<br /> + Not equal to the envy it creates,<br /> + That you see not how near you are the gates<br /> + Of an old king who listens fearfully<br /> + To you that are outside and are to be<br /> + The noisy lords of imminent estates.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Rather be then your prayer that you shall have<br /> + Your kingdom undishonored. Having all,<br /> + See not the great among you for the small,<br /> + But hear their silence; for the few shall save<br /> + The many, or the many are to fall —<br /> + Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="dutchman"></a> + The Flying Dutchman<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Unyielding in the pride of his defiance,<br /> + Afloat with none to serve or to command,<br /> + Lord of himself at last, and all by Science,<br /> + He seeks the Vanished Land.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Alone, by the one light of his one thought,<br /> + He steers to find the shore from which we came, —<br /> + Fearless of in what coil he may be caught<br /> + On seas that have no name.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Into the night he sails; and after night<br /> + There is a dawning, though there be no sun;<br /> + Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight,<br /> + Unsighted, he sails on.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last there is a lifting of the cloud<br /> + Between the flood before him and the sky;<br /> + And then — though he may curse the Power aloud<br /> + That has no power to die —<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He steers himself away from what is haunted<br /> + By the old ghost of what has been before, —<br /> + Abandoning, as always, and undaunted,<br /> + One fog-walled island more.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tact"></a> + Tact<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Observant of the way she told<br /> + So much of what was true,<br /> + No vanity could long withhold<br /> + Regard that was her due:<br /> + She spared him the familiar guile,<br /> + So easily achieved,<br /> + That only made a man to smile<br /> + And left him undeceived.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Aware that all imagining<br /> + Of more than what she meant<br /> + Would urge an end of everything,<br /> + He stayed; and when he went,<br /> + They parted with a merry word<br /> + That was to him as light<br /> + As any that was ever heard<br /> + Upon a starry night.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She smiled a little, knowing well<br /> + That he would not remark<br /> + The ruins of a day that fell<br /> + Around her in the dark:<br /> + He saw no ruins anywhere,<br /> + Nor fancied there were scars<br /> + On anyone who lingered there,<br /> + Alone below the stars.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="way"></a> + On the Way<br /> +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> + (Philadelphia, 1794)<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Note. — The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton +and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific incident +in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous +to Hamilton's retirement from Washington's Cabinet in 1795 +and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr — +who has been characterized, without much exaggeration, +as the inventor of American politics — began to be conspicuously formidable +to the Federalists. These activities on the part of Burr resulted, +as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency +in 1800, and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember<br /> + That I was here to speak, and so to save<br /> + Your fabric from catastrophe. That's good;<br /> + For I perceive that you observe him also.<br /> + A President, a-riding of his horse,<br /> + May dust a General and be forgiven;<br /> + But why be dusted — when we're all alike,<br /> + All equal, and all happy. Here he comes —<br /> + And there he goes. And we, by your new patent,<br /> + Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside,<br /> + With our two hats off to his Excellency.<br /> + Why not his Majesty, and done with it?<br /> + Forgive me if I shook your meditation,<br /> + But you that weld our credit should have eyes<br /> + To see what's coming. Bury me first if -I- do.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There's always in some pocket of your brain<br /> + A care for me; wherefore my gratitude<br /> + For your attention is commensurate<br /> + With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings;<br /> + We are as royal as two ditch-diggers;<br /> + But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days<br /> + When first a few seem all; but if we live,<br /> + We may again be seen to be the few<br /> + That we have always been. These are the days<br /> + When men forget the stars, and are forgotten.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But why forget them? They're the same that winked<br /> + Upon the world when Alcibiades<br /> + Cut off his dog's tail to induce distinction.<br /> + There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades<br /> + Is not forgotten.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, there are dogs enough,<br /> + God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Never a doubt. But what you hear the most<br /> + Is your new music, something out of tune<br /> + With your intention. How in the name of Cain,<br /> + I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance,<br /> + When all men are musicians. Tell me that,<br /> + I hear you saying, and I'll tell you the name<br /> + Of Samson's mother. But why shroud yourself<br /> + Before the coffin comes? For all you know,<br /> + The tree that is to fall for your last house<br /> + Is now a sapling. You may have to wait<br /> + So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it,<br /> + For you are not at home in your new Eden<br /> + Where chilly whispers of a likely frost<br /> + Accumulate already in the air.<br /> + I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton,<br /> + Would be for you in your autumnal mood<br /> + A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + If so it is you think, you may as well<br /> + Give over thinking. We are done with ermine.<br /> + What I fear most is not the multitude,<br /> + But those who are to loop it with a string<br /> + That has one end in France and one end here.<br /> + I'm not so fortified with observation<br /> + That I could swear that more than half a score<br /> + Among us who see lightning see that ruin<br /> + Is not the work of thunder. Since the world<br /> + Was ordered, there was never a long pause<br /> + For caution between doing and undoing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Go on, sir; my attention is a trap<br /> + Set for the catching of all compliments<br /> + To Monticello, and all else abroad<br /> + That has a name or an identity.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I leave to you the names — there are too many;<br /> + Yet one there is to sift and hold apart,<br /> + As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer<br /> + That is not always clouded, or too late.<br /> + But I was near and young, and had the reins<br /> + To play with while he manned a team so raw<br /> + That only God knows where the end had been<br /> + Of all that riding without Washington.<br /> + There was a nation in the man who passed us,<br /> + If there was not a world. I may have driven<br /> + Since then some restive horses, and alone,<br /> + And through a splashing of abundant mud;<br /> + But he who made the dust that sets you on<br /> + To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry,<br /> + And in a measure safe.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Here's a new tune<br /> + From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once,<br /> + And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle?<br /> + I have forgotten what my father said<br /> + When I was born, but there's a rustling of it<br /> + Among my memories, and it makes a noise<br /> + About as loud as all that I have held<br /> + And fondled heretofore of your same caution.<br /> + But that's affairs, not feelings. If our friends<br /> + Guessed half we say of them, our enemies<br /> + Would itch in our friends' jackets. Howsoever,<br /> + The world is of a sudden on its head,<br /> + And all are spilled — unless you cling alone<br /> + With Washington. Ask Adams about that.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + We'll not ask Adams about anything.<br /> + We fish for lizards when we choose to ask<br /> + For what we know already is not coming,<br /> + And we must eat the answer. Where's the use<br /> + Of asking when this man says everything,<br /> + With all his tongues of silence?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I dare say.<br /> + I dare say, but I won't. One of those tongues<br /> + I'll borrow for the nonce. He'll never miss it.<br /> + We mean his Western Majesty, King George.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I mean the man who rode by on his horse.<br /> + I'll beg of you the meed of your indulgence<br /> + If I should say this planet may have done<br /> + A deal of weary whirling when at last,<br /> + If ever, Time shall aggregate again<br /> + A majesty like his that has no name.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Then you concede his Majesty? That's good,<br /> + And what of yours? Here are two majesties.<br /> + Favor the Left a little, Hamilton,<br /> + Or you'll be floundering in the ditch that waits<br /> + For riders who forget where they are riding.<br /> + If we and France, as you anticipate,<br /> + Must eat each other, what Caesar, if not yourself,<br /> + Do you see for the master of the feast?<br /> + There may be a place waiting on your head<br /> + For laurel thick as Nero's. You don't know.<br /> + I have not crossed your glory, though I might<br /> + If I saw thrones at auction.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, you might.<br /> + If war is on the way, I shall be — here;<br /> + And I've no vision of your distant heels.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I see that I shall take an inference<br /> + To bed with me to-night to keep me warm.<br /> + I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve<br /> + Your fealty to the aggregated greatness<br /> + Of him you lean on while he leans on you.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + This easy phrasing is a game of yours<br /> + That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon,<br /> + But you that have the sight will not employ<br /> + The will to see with it. If you did so,<br /> + There might be fewer ditches dug for others<br /> + In your perspective; and there might be fewer<br /> + Contemporary motes of prejudice<br /> + Between you and the man who made the dust.<br /> + Call him a genius or a gentleman,<br /> + A prophet or a builder, or what not,<br /> + But hold your disposition off the balance,<br /> + And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe<br /> + I tell you nothing new to your surmise,<br /> + Or to the tongues of towns and villages)<br /> + I nourished with an adolescent fancy —<br /> + Surely forgivable to you, my friend —<br /> + An innocent and amiable conviction<br /> + That I was, by the grace of honest fortune,<br /> + A savior at his elbow through the war,<br /> + Where I might have observed, more than I did,<br /> + Patience and wholesome passion. I was there,<br /> + And for such honor I gave nothing worse<br /> + Than some advice at which he may have smiled.<br /> + I must have given a modicum besides,<br /> + Or the rough interval between those days<br /> + And these would never have made for me my friends,<br /> + Or enemies. I should be something somewhere —<br /> + I say not what — but I should not be here<br /> + If he had not been there. Possibly, too,<br /> + You might not — or that Quaker with his cane.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty<br /> + Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /> +</p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind;<br /> + No god, or ghost, or demon — only a man:<br /> + A man whose occupation is the need<br /> + Of those who would not feel it if it bit them;<br /> + And one who shapes an age while he endures<br /> + The pin pricks of inferiorities;<br /> + A cautious man, because he is but one;<br /> + A lonely man, because he is a thousand.<br /> + No marvel you are slow to find in him<br /> + The genius that is one spark or is nothing:<br /> + His genius is a flame that he must hold<br /> + So far above the common heads of men<br /> + That they may view him only through the mist<br /> + Of their defect, and wonder what he is.<br /> + It seems to me the mystery that is in him<br /> + That makes him only more to me a man<br /> + Than any other I have ever known.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I grant you that his worship is a man.<br /> + I'm not so much at home with mysteries,<br /> + May be, as you — so leave him with his fire:<br /> + God knows that I shall never put it out.<br /> + He has not made a cripple of himself<br /> + In his pursuit of me, though I have heard<br /> + His condescension honors me with parts.<br /> + Parts make a whole, if we've enough of them;<br /> + And once I figured a sufficiency<br /> + To be at least an atom in the annals<br /> + Of your republic. But I must have erred.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + You smile as if your spirit lived at ease<br /> + With error. I should not have named it so,<br /> + Failing assent from you; nor, if I did,<br /> + Should I be so complacent in my skill<br /> + To comb the tangled language of the people<br /> + As to be sure of anything in these days.<br /> + Put that much in account with modesty.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton,<br /> + Have you, in the last region of your dreaming,<br /> + To do with "people"? You may be the devil<br /> + In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals<br /> + Are waiting on the progress of our ship<br /> + Unless you steer it, but you'll find it irksome<br /> + Alone there in the stern; and some warm day<br /> + There'll be an inland music in the rigging,<br /> + And afterwards on deck. I'm not affined<br /> + Or favored overmuch at Monticello,<br /> + But there's a mighty swarming of new bees<br /> + About the premises, and all have wings.<br /> + If you hear something buzzing before long,<br /> + Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also<br /> + There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard,<br /> + And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I don't remember that he cut his hair off.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Somehow I rather fancy that he did.<br /> + If so, it's in the Book; and if not so,<br /> + He did the rest, and did it handsomely.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways<br /> + If they inveigle you to emulation;<br /> + But where, if I may ask it, are you tending<br /> + With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures?<br /> + You call to mind an eminent archangel<br /> + Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall<br /> + So far as he, to be so far remembered?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Before I fall or rise, or am an angel,<br /> + I shall acquaint myself a little further<br /> + With our new land's new language, which is not —<br /> + Peace to your dreams — an idiom to your liking.<br /> + I'm wondering if a man may always know<br /> + How old a man may be at thirty-seven;<br /> + I wonder likewise if a prettier time<br /> + Could be decreed for a good man to vanish<br /> + Than about now for you, before you fade,<br /> + And even your friends are seeing that you have had<br /> + Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph.<br /> + Well, you have had enough, and had it young;<br /> + And the old wine is nearer to the lees<br /> + Than you are to the work that you are doing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + When does this philological excursion<br /> + Into new lands and languages begin?<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Anon — that is, already. Only Fortune<br /> + Gave me this afternoon the benefaction<br /> + Of your blue back, which I for love pursued,<br /> + And in pursuing may have saved your life —<br /> + Also the world a pounding piece of news:<br /> + Hamilton bites the dust of Washington,<br /> + Or rather of his horse. For you alone,<br /> + Or for your fame, I'd wish it might have been so.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Not every man among us has a friend<br /> + So jealous for the other's fame. How long<br /> + Are you to diagnose the doubtful case<br /> + Of Demos — and what for? Have you a sword<br /> + For some new Damocles? If it's for me,<br /> + I have lost all official appetite,<br /> + And shall have faded, after January,<br /> + Into the law. I'm going to New York.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No matter where you are, one of these days<br /> + I shall come back to you and tell you something.<br /> + This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist<br /> + A pulse that no two doctors have as yet<br /> + Counted and found the same, and in his mouth<br /> + A tongue that has the like alacrity<br /> + For saying or not for saying what most it is<br /> + That pullulates in his ignoble mind.<br /> + One of these days I shall appear again,<br /> + To tell you more of him and his opinions;<br /> + I shall not be so long out of your sight,<br /> + Or take myself so far, that I may not,<br /> + Like Alcibiades, come back again.<br /> + He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There's an example in Themistocles:<br /> + He went away to Persia, and fared well.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + BURR<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so?<br /> + I had not planned it so. Is this the road<br /> + I take? If so, farewell.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> + HAMILTON<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Quite so. Farewell.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="john"></a> + John Brown<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Though for your sake I would not have you now<br /> + So near to me tonight as now you are,<br /> + God knows how much a stranger to my heart<br /> + Was any cold word that I may have written;<br /> + And you, poor woman that I made my wife,<br /> + You have had more of loneliness, I fear,<br /> + Than I — though I have been the most alone,<br /> + Even when the most attended. So it was<br /> + God set the mark of his inscrutable<br /> + Necessity on one that was to grope,<br /> + And serve, and suffer, and withal be glad<br /> + For what was his, and is, and is to be,<br /> + When his old bones, that are a burden now,<br /> + Are saying what the man who carried them<br /> + Had not the power to say. Bones in a grave,<br /> + Cover them as they will with choking earth,<br /> + May shout the truth to men who put them there,<br /> + More than all orators. And so, my dear,<br /> + Since you have cheated wisdom for the sake<br /> + Of sorrow, let your sorrow be for you,<br /> + This last of nights before the last of days,<br /> + The lying ghost of what there is of me<br /> + That is the most alive. There is no death<br /> + For me in what they do. Their death it is<br /> + They should heed most when the sun comes again<br /> + To make them solemn. There are some I know<br /> + Whose eyes will hardly see their occupation,<br /> + For tears in them — and all for one old man;<br /> + For some of them will pity this old man,<br /> + Who took upon himself the work of God<br /> + Because he pitied millions. That will be<br /> + For them, I fancy, their compassionate<br /> + Best way of saying what is best in them<br /> + To say; for they can say no more than that,<br /> + And they can do no more than what the dawn<br /> + Of one more day shall give them light enough<br /> + To do. But there are many days to be,<br /> + And there are many men to give their blood,<br /> + As I gave mine for them. May they come soon!<br /> +</p> + +<p> + May they come soon, I say. And when they come,<br /> + May all that I have said unheard be heard,<br /> + Proving at last, or maybe not — no matter —<br /> + What sort of madness was the part of me<br /> + That made me strike, whether I found the mark<br /> + Or missed it. Meanwhile, I've a strange content,<br /> + A patience, and a vast indifference<br /> + To what men say of me and what men fear<br /> + To say. There was a work to be begun,<br /> + And when the Voice, that I have heard so long,<br /> + Announced as in a thousand silences<br /> + An end of preparation, I began<br /> + The coming work of death which is to be,<br /> + That life may be. There is no other way<br /> + Than the old way of war for a new land<br /> + That will not know itself and is tonight<br /> + A stranger to itself, and to the world<br /> + A more prodigious upstart among states<br /> + Than I was among men, and so shall be<br /> + Till they are told and told, and told again;<br /> + For men are children, waiting to be told,<br /> + And most of them are children all their lives.<br /> + The good God in his wisdom had them so,<br /> + That now and then a madman or a seer<br /> + May shake them out of their complacency<br /> + And shame them into deeds. The major file<br /> + See only what their fathers may have seen,<br /> + Or may have said they saw when they saw nothing.<br /> + I do not say it matters what they saw.<br /> + Now and again to some lone soul or other<br /> + God speaks, and there is hanging to be done, —<br /> + As once there was a burning of our bodies<br /> + Alive, albeit our souls were sorry fuel.<br /> + But now the fires are few, and we are poised<br /> + Accordingly, for the state's benefit,<br /> + A few still minutes between heaven and earth.<br /> + The purpose is, when they have seen enough<br /> + Of what it is that they are not to see,<br /> + To pluck me as an unripe fruit of treason,<br /> + And then to fling me back to the same earth<br /> + Of which they are, as I suppose, the flower —<br /> + Not given to know the riper fruit that waits<br /> + For a more comprehensive harvesting.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Yes, may they come, and soon. Again I say,<br /> + May they come soon! — before too many of them<br /> + Shall be the bloody cost of our defection.<br /> + When hell waits on the dawn of a new state,<br /> + Better it were that hell should not wait long, —<br /> + Or so it is I see it who should see<br /> + As far or farther into time tonight<br /> + Than they who talk and tremble for me now,<br /> + Or wish me to those everlasting fires<br /> + That are for me no fear. Too many fires<br /> + Have sought me out and seared me to the bone —<br /> + Thereby, for all I know, to temper me<br /> + For what was mine to do. If I did ill<br /> + What I did well, let men say I was mad;<br /> + Or let my name for ever be a question<br /> + That will not sleep in history. What men say<br /> + I was will cool no cannon, dull no sword,<br /> + Invalidate no truth. Meanwhile, I was;<br /> + And the long train is lighted that shall burn,<br /> + Though floods of wrath may drench it, and hot feet<br /> + May stamp it for a slight time into smoke<br /> + That shall blaze up again with growing speed,<br /> + Until at last a fiery crash will come<br /> + To cleanse and shake a wounded hemisphere,<br /> + And heal it of a long malignity<br /> + That angry time discredits and disowns.<br /> + Tonight there are men saying many things;<br /> + And some who see life in the last of me<br /> + Will answer first the coming call to death;<br /> + For death is what is coming, and then life.<br /> + I do not say again for the dull sake<br /> + Of speech what you have heard me say before,<br /> + But rather for the sake of all I am,<br /> + And all God made of me. A man to die<br /> + As I do must have done some other work<br /> + Than man's alone. I was not after glory,<br /> + But there was glory with me, like a friend,<br /> + Throughout those crippling years when friends were few,<br /> + And fearful to be known by their own names<br /> + When mine was vilified for their approval.<br /> + Yet friends they are, and they did what was given<br /> + Their will to do; they could have done no more.<br /> + I was the one man mad enough, it seems,<br /> + To do my work; and now my work is over.<br /> + And you, my dear, are not to mourn for me,<br /> + Or for your sons, more than a soul should mourn<br /> + In Paradise, done with evil and with earth.<br /> + There is not much of earth in what remains<br /> + For you; and what there may be left of it<br /> + For your endurance you shall have at last<br /> + In peace, without the twinge of any fear<br /> + For my condition; for I shall be done<br /> + With plans and actions that have heretofore<br /> + Made your days long and your nights ominous<br /> + With darkness and the many distances<br /> + That were between us. When the silence comes,<br /> + I shall in faith be nearer to you then<br /> + Than I am now in fact. What you see now<br /> + Is only the outside of an old man,<br /> + Older than years have made him. Let him die,<br /> + And let him be a thing for little grief.<br /> + There was a time for service, and he served;<br /> + And there is no more time for anything<br /> + But a short gratefulness to those who gave<br /> + Their scared allegiance to an enterprise<br /> + That has the name of treason — which will serve<br /> + As well as any other for the present.<br /> + There are some deeds of men that have no names,<br /> + And mine may like as not be one of them.<br /> + I am not looking far for names tonight.<br /> + The King of Glory was without a name<br /> + Until men gave him one; yet there He was,<br /> + Before we found Him and affronted Him<br /> + With numerous ingenuities of evil,<br /> + Of which one, with His aid, is to be swept<br /> + And washed out of the world with fire and blood.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Once I believed it might have come to pass<br /> + With a small cost of blood; but I was dreaming —<br /> + Dreaming that I believed. The Voice I heard<br /> + When I left you behind me in the north, —<br /> + To wait there and to wonder and grow old<br /> + Of loneliness, — told only what was best,<br /> + And with a saving vagueness, I should know<br /> + Till I knew more. And had I known even then —<br /> + After grim years of search and suffering,<br /> + So many of them to end as they began —<br /> + After my sickening doubts and estimations<br /> + Of plans abandoned and of new plans vain —<br /> + After a weary delving everywhere<br /> + For men with every virtue but the Vision —<br /> + Could I have known, I say, before I left you<br /> + That summer morning, all there was to know —<br /> + Even unto the last consuming word<br /> + That would have blasted every mortal answer<br /> + As lightning would annihilate a leaf,<br /> + I might have trembled on that summer morning;<br /> + I might have wavered; and I might have failed.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there are many among men today<br /> + To say of me that I had best have wavered.<br /> + So has it been, so shall it always be,<br /> + For those of us who give ourselves to die<br /> + Before we are so parcelled and approved<br /> + As to be slaughtered by authority.<br /> + We do not make so much of what they say<br /> + As they of what our folly says of us;<br /> + They give us hardly time enough for that,<br /> + And thereby we gain much by losing little.<br /> + Few are alive to-day with less to lose<br /> + Than I who tell you this, or more to gain;<br /> + And whether I speak as one to be destroyed<br /> + For no good end outside his own destruction,<br /> + Time shall have more to say than men shall hear<br /> + Between now and the coming of that harvest<br /> + Which is to come. Before it comes, I go —<br /> + By the short road that mystery makes long<br /> + For man's endurance of accomplishment.<br /> + I shall have more to say when I am dead.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="gods"></a> + The False Gods<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit,<br /> + From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet.<br /> + You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes, —<br /> + Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong,<br /> + But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong;<br /> + You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence,<br /> + But your large admiration of us now is not for long.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that's never still,<br /> + And you pray to see our faces — pray in earnest, and you will.<br /> + You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion:<br /> + For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease<br /> + With an Art that's inorganic and is anything you please,<br /> + That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded,<br /> + Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ,<br /> + There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy;<br /> + Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing<br /> + Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive,<br /> + And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive,<br /> + Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations —<br /> + For there's grief always auditing where two and two are five.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know,<br /> + Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so.<br /> + If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition,<br /> + May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="example"></a> + Archibald's Example<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,<br /> + Where trespassers, whatever their degree,<br /> + Were soon frowned out again, was looking off<br /> + Across the clover when he said to me:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down<br /> + Without a scratch, was once inhabited<br /> + By trees that injured him — an evil trash<br /> + That made a cage, and held him while he bled.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Gone fifty years, I see them as they were<br /> + Before they fell. They were a crooked lot<br /> + To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time<br /> + In fifty years for crooked things to rot.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy<br /> + To God or man, for they were thieves of light.<br /> + So down they came. Nature and I looked on,<br /> + And we were glad when they were out of sight.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so,<br /> + So much for that." He twinkled in his chair,<br /> + And looked across the clover to the place<br /> + That he remembered when the trees were there.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="bridge"></a> + London Bridge<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing — and what of it?<br /> + Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that?<br /> + If I were not their father and if you were not their mother,<br /> + We might believe they made a noise. . . . What are you — driving at!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Well, be glad that you can hear them, and be glad they are so near us, —<br /> + For I have heard the stars of heaven, and they were nearer still.<br /> + All within an hour it is that I have heard them calling,<br /> + And though I pray for them to cease, I know they never will;<br /> + For their music on my heart, though you may freeze it, will fall always,<br /> + Like summer snow that never melts upon a mountain-top.<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead — the children — singing?<br /> + Do you hear the children singing? . . . God, will you make them stop!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And what now in his holy name have you to do with mountains?<br /> + We're back to town again, my dear, and we've a dance tonight.<br /> + Frozen hearts and falling music? Snow and stars, and — what the devil!<br /> + Say it over to me slowly, and be sure you have it right."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "God knows if I be right or wrong in saying what I tell you,<br /> + Or if I know the meaning any more of what I say.<br /> + All I know is, it will kill me if I try to keep it hidden —<br /> + Well, I met him. . . . Yes, I met him, and I talked with him — today."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "You met him? Did you meet the ghost of someone you had poisoned,<br /> + Long ago, before I knew you for the woman that you are?<br /> + Take a chair; and don't begin your stories always in the middle.<br /> + Was he man, or was he demon? Anyhow, you've gone too far<br /> + To go back, and I'm your servant. I'm the lord, but you're the master.<br /> + Now go on with what you know, for I'm excited."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you mean —<br /> + Do you mean to make me try to think that you know less than I do?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I know that you foreshadow the beginning of a scene.<br /> + Pray be careful, and as accurate as if the doors of heaven<br /> + Were to swing or to stay bolted from now on for evermore."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you conceive, with all your smooth contempt of every feeling,<br /> + Of hiding what you know and what you must have known before?<br /> + Is it worth a woman's torture to stand here and have you smiling,<br /> + With only your poor fetish of possession on your side?<br /> + No thing but one is wholly sure, and that's not one to scare me;<br /> + When I meet it I may say to God at last that I have tried.<br /> + And yet, for all I know, or all I dare believe, my trials<br /> + Henceforward will be more for you to bear than are your own;<br /> + And you must give me keys of yours to rooms I have not entered.<br /> + Do you see me on your threshold all my life, and there alone?<br /> + Will you tell me where you see me in your fancy — when it leads you<br /> + Far enough beyond the moment for a glance at the abyss?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Will you tell me what intrinsic and amazing sort of nonsense<br /> + You are crowding on the patience of the man who gives you — this?<br /> + Look around you and be sorry you're not living in an attic,<br /> + With a civet and a fish-net, and with you to pay the rent.<br /> + I say words that you can spell without the use of all your letters;<br /> + And I grant, if you insist, that I've a guess at what you meant."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Have I told you, then, for nothing, that I met him? Are you trying<br /> + To be merry while you try to make me hate you?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Think again,<br /> + My dear, before you tell me, in a language unbecoming<br /> + To a lady, what you plan to tell me next. If I complain,<br /> + If I seem an atom peevish at the preference you mention —<br /> + Or imply, to be precise — you may believe, or you may not,<br /> + That I'm a trifle more aware of what he wants than you are.<br /> + But I shouldn't throw that at you. Make believe that I forgot.<br /> + Make believe that he's a genius, if you like, — but in the meantime<br /> + Don't go back to rocking-horses. There, there, there, now."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Make believe!<br /> + When you see me standing helpless on a plank above a whirlpool,<br /> + Do I drown, or do I hear you when you say it? Make believe?<br /> + How much more am I to say or do for you before I tell you<br /> + That I met him! What's to follow now may be for you to choose.<br /> + Do you hear me? Won't you listen? It's an easy thing to listen. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "And it's easy to be crazy when there's everything to lose."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If at last you have a notion that I mean what I am saying,<br /> + Do I seem to tell you nothing when I tell you I shall try?<br /> + If you save me, and I lose him — I don't know — it won't much matter.<br /> + I dare say that I've lied enough, but now I do not lie."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Do you fancy me the one man who has waited and said nothing<br /> + While a wife has dragged an old infatuation from a tomb?<br /> + Give the thing a little air and it will vanish into ashes.<br /> + There you are — piff! presto!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "When I came into this room,<br /> + It seemed as if I saw the place, and you there at your table,<br /> + As you are now at this moment, for the last time in my life;<br /> + And I told myself before I came to find you, `I shall tell him,<br /> + If I can, what I have learned of him since I became his wife.'<br /> + And if you say, as I've no doubt you will before I finish,<br /> + That you have tried unceasingly, with all your might and main,<br /> + To teach me, knowing more than I of what it was I needed,<br /> + Don't think, with all you may have thought, that you have tried in vain;<br /> + For you have taught me more than hides in all the shelves of knowledge<br /> + Of how little you found that's in me and was in me all along.<br /> + I believed, if I intruded nothing on you that I cared for,<br /> + I'd be half as much as horses, — and it seems that I was wrong;<br /> + I believed there was enough of earth in me, with all my nonsense<br /> + Over things that made you sleepy, to keep something still awake;<br /> + But you taught me soon to read my book, and God knows I have read it —<br /> + Ages longer than an angel would have read it for your sake.<br /> + I have said that you must open other doors than I have entered,<br /> + But I wondered while I said it if I might not be obscure.<br /> + Is there anything in all your pedigrees and inventories<br /> + With a value more elusive than a dollar's? Are you sure<br /> + That if I starve another year for you I shall be stronger<br /> + To endure another like it — and another — till I'm dead?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Has your tame cat sold a picture? — or more likely had a windfall?<br /> + Or for God's sake, what's broke loose? Have you a bee-hive in your head?<br /> + A little more of this from you will not be easy hearing.<br /> + Do you know that? Understand it, if you do; for if you won't. . . .<br /> + What the devil are you saying! Make believe you never said it,<br /> + And I'll say I never heard it. . . . Oh, you. . . . If you. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If I don't?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "There are men who say there's reason hidden somewhere in a woman,<br /> + But I doubt if God himself remembers where the key was hung."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "He may not; for they say that even God himself is growing.<br /> + I wonder if he makes believe that he is growing young;<br /> + I wonder if he makes believe that women who are giving<br /> + All they have in holy loathing to a stranger all their lives<br /> + Are the wise ones who build houses in the Bible. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Stop — you devil!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + ". . . Or that souls are any whiter when their bodies are called wives.<br /> + If a dollar's worth of gold will hoop the walls of hell together,<br /> + Why need heaven be such a ruin of a place that never was?<br /> + And if at last I lied my starving soul away to nothing,<br /> + Are you sure you might not miss it? Have you come to such a pass<br /> + That you would have me longer in your arms if you discovered<br /> + That I made you into someone else. . . . Oh! . . . Well, there are<br /> + worse ways.<br /> + But why aim it at my feet — unless you fear you may be sorry. . . .<br /> + There are many days ahead of you."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I do not see those days."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I can see them. Granted even I am wrong, there are the children.<br /> + And are they to praise their father for his insight if we die?<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead — the children — singing?<br /> + Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Damn the children!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Why?<br /> + What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, — do it. . . . Do it now,<br /> + and have it over."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet —<br /> + One who sees the end already of so much that one end more<br /> + Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion,<br /> + Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before.<br /> + But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther<br /> + For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight.<br /> + Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations<br /> + For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to shine tonight.<br /> + We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres,<br /> + On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell;<br /> + We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance,<br /> + And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well.<br /> + There! — I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it.<br /> + Shut the drawer now.<br /> + No — no — don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop.<br /> + I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere,<br /> + and leave me. . . .<br /> + Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . God, will they never stop!"<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tasker"></a> + Tasker Norcross<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Whether all towns and all who live in them —<br /> + So long as they be somewhere in this world<br /> + That we in our complacency call ours —<br /> + Are more or less the same, I leave to you.<br /> + I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile,<br /> + We've all two legs — and as for that, we haven't —<br /> + There were three kinds of men where I was born:<br /> + The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross.<br /> + Now there are two kinds."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Meaning, as I divine,<br /> + Your friend is dead," I ventured.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson,<br /> + Who talked himself at last out of the world<br /> + He censured, and is therefore silent now,<br /> + Agreed indifferently: "My friends are dead —<br /> + Or most of them."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Remember one that isn't,"<br /> + I said, protesting. "Honor him for his ears;<br /> + Treasure him also for his understanding."<br /> + Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again:<br /> + "You have an overgrown alacrity<br /> + For saying nothing much and hearing less;<br /> + And I've a thankless wonder, at the start,<br /> + How much it is to you that I shall tell<br /> + What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross,<br /> + And how much to the air that is around you.<br /> + But given a patience that is not averse<br /> + To the slow tragedies of haunted men —<br /> + Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye<br /> + To know them at their firesides, or out walking, —"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Horrors," I said, "are my necessity;<br /> + And I would have them, for their best effect,<br /> + Always out walking."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson frowned at me:<br /> + "The wisest of us are not those who laugh<br /> + Before they know. Most of us never know —<br /> + Or the long toil of our mortality<br /> + Would not be done. Most of us never know —<br /> + And there you have a reason to believe<br /> + In God, if you may have no other. Norcross,<br /> + Or so I gather of his infirmity,<br /> + Was given to know more than he should have known,<br /> + And only God knows why. See for yourself<br /> + An old house full of ghosts of ancestors,<br /> + Who did their best, or worst, and having done it,<br /> + Died honorably; and each with a distinction<br /> + That hardly would have been for him that had it,<br /> + Had honor failed him wholly as a friend.<br /> + Honor that is a friend begets a friend.<br /> + Whether or not we love him, still we have him;<br /> + And we must live somehow by what we have,<br /> + Or then we die. If you say chemistry,<br /> + Then you must have your molecules in motion,<br /> + And in their right abundance. Failing either,<br /> + You have not long to dance. Failing a friend,<br /> + A genius, or a madness, or a faith<br /> + Larger than desperation, you are here<br /> + For as much longer than you like as may be.<br /> + Imagining now, by way of an example,<br /> + Myself a more or less remembered phantom —<br /> + Again, I should say less — how many times<br /> + A day should I come back to you? No answer.<br /> + Forgive me when I seem a little careless,<br /> + But we must have examples, or be lucid<br /> + Without them; and I question your adherence<br /> + To such an undramatic narrative<br /> + As this of mine, without the personal hook."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "A time is given in Ecclesiastes<br /> + For divers works," I told him. "Is there one<br /> + For saying nothing in return for nothing?<br /> + If not, there should be." I could feel his eyes,<br /> + And they were like two cold inquiring points<br /> + Of a sharp metal. When I looked again,<br /> + To see them shine, the cold that I had felt<br /> + Was gone to make way for a smouldering<br /> + Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then,<br /> + Could never quench with kindness or with lies.<br /> + I should have done whatever there was to do<br /> + For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned<br /> + In honesty for once around the clock<br /> + The loss of him, for my sake or for his,<br /> + Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve,<br /> + Had I the power and the unthinking will<br /> + To make him tread again without an aim<br /> + The road that was behind him — and without<br /> + The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness<br /> + That he contended was imperative.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + After a silence that had been too long,<br /> + "It may be quite as well we don't," he said;<br /> + "As well, I mean, that we don't always say it.<br /> + You know best what I mean, and I suppose<br /> + You might have said it better. What was that?<br /> + Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible?<br /> + Well, it's a word; and a word has its use,<br /> + Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave.<br /> + It's a good word enough. Incorrigible,<br /> + May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross.<br /> + See for yourself that house of his again<br /> + That he called home: An old house, painted white,<br /> + Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb<br /> + To look at or to live in. There were trees —<br /> + Too many of them, if such a thing may be —<br /> + Before it and around it. Down in front<br /> + There was a road, a railroad, and a river;<br /> + Then there were hills behind it, and more trees.<br /> + The thing would fairly stare at you through trees,<br /> + Like a pale inmate out of a barred window<br /> + With a green shade half down; and I dare say<br /> + People who passed have said: `There's where he lives.<br /> + We know him, but we do not seem to know<br /> + That we remember any good of him,<br /> + Or any evil that is interesting.<br /> + There you have all we know and all we care.'<br /> + They might have said it in all sorts of ways;<br /> + And then, if they perceived a cat, they might<br /> + Or might not have remembered what they said.<br /> + The cat might have a personality —<br /> + And maybe the same one the Lord left out<br /> + Of Tasker Norcross, who, for lack of it,<br /> + Saw the same sun go down year after year;<br /> + All which at last was my discovery.<br /> + And only mine, so far as evidence<br /> + Enlightens one more darkness. You have known<br /> + All round you, all your days, men who are nothing —<br /> + Nothing, I mean, so far as time tells yet<br /> + Of any other need it has of them<br /> + Than to make sextons hardy — but no less<br /> + Are to themselves incalculably something,<br /> + And therefore to be cherished. God, you see,<br /> + Being sorry for them in their fashioning,<br /> + Indemnified them with a quaint esteem<br /> + Of self, and with illusions long as life.<br /> + You know them well, and you have smiled at them;<br /> + And they, in their serenity, may have had<br /> + Their time to smile at you. Blessed are they<br /> + That see themselves for what they never were<br /> + Or were to be, and are, for their defect,<br /> + At ease with mirrors and the dim remarks<br /> + That pass their tranquil ears."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Come, come," said I;<br /> + "There may be names in your compendium<br /> + That we are not yet all on fire for shouting.<br /> + Skin most of us of our mediocrity,<br /> + We should have nothing then that we could scratch.<br /> + The picture smarts. Cover it, if you please,<br /> + And do so rather gently. Now for Norcross."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Ferguson closed his eyes in resignation,<br /> + While a dead sigh came out of him. "Good God!"<br /> + He said, and said it only half aloud,<br /> + As if he knew no longer now, nor cared,<br /> + If one were there to listen: "Have I said nothing —<br /> + Nothing at all — of Norcross? Do you mean<br /> + To patronize him till his name becomes<br /> + A toy made out of letters? If a name<br /> + Is all you need, arrange an honest column<br /> + Of all the people you have ever known<br /> + That you have never liked. You'll have enough;<br /> + And you'll have mine, moreover. No, not yet.<br /> + If I assume too many privileges,<br /> + I pay, and I alone, for their assumption;<br /> + By which, if I assume a darker knowledge<br /> + Of Norcross than another, let the weight<br /> + Of my injustice aggravate the load<br /> + That is not on your shoulders. When I came<br /> + To know this fellow Norcross in his house,<br /> + I found him as I found him in the street —<br /> + No more, no less; indifferent, but no better.<br /> + `Worse' were not quite the word: he was not bad;<br /> + He was not . . . well, he was not anything.<br /> + Has your invention ever entertained<br /> + The picture of a dusty worm so dry<br /> + That even the early bird would shake his head<br /> + And fly on farther for another breakfast?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "But why forget the fortune of the worm,"<br /> + I said, "if in the dryness you deplore<br /> + Salvation centred and endured? Your Norcross<br /> + May have been one for many to have envied."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Salvation? Fortune? Would the worm say that?<br /> + He might; and therefore I dismiss the worm<br /> + With all dry things but one. Figures away,<br /> + Do you begin to see this man a little?<br /> + Do you begin to see him in the air,<br /> + With all the vacant horrors of his outline<br /> + For you to fill with more than it will hold?<br /> + If so, you needn't crown yourself at once<br /> + With epic laurel if you seem to fill it.<br /> + Horrors, I say, for in the fires and forks<br /> + Of a new hell — if one were not enough —<br /> + I doubt if a new horror would have held him<br /> + With a malignant ingenuity<br /> + More to be feared than his before he died.<br /> + You smile, as if in doubt. Well, smile again.<br /> + Now come into his house, along with me:<br /> + The four square sombre things that you see first<br /> + Around you are four walls that go as high<br /> + As to the ceiling. Norcross knew them well,<br /> + And he knew others like them. Fasten to that<br /> + With all the claws of your intelligence;<br /> + And hold the man before you in his house<br /> + As if he were a white rat in a box,<br /> + And one that knew himself to be no other.<br /> + I tell you twice that he knew all about it,<br /> + That you may not forget the worst of all<br /> + Our tragedies begin with what we know.<br /> + Could Norcross only not have known, I wonder<br /> + How many would have blessed and envied him!<br /> + Could he have had the usual eye for spots<br /> + On others, and for none upon himself,<br /> + I smile to ponder on the carriages<br /> + That might as well as not have clogged the town<br /> + In honor of his end. For there was gold,<br /> + You see, though all he needed was a little,<br /> + And what he gave said nothing of who gave it.<br /> + He would have given it all if in return<br /> + There might have been a more sufficient face<br /> + To greet him when he shaved. Though you insist<br /> + It is the dower, and always, of our degree<br /> + Not to be cursed with such invidious insight,<br /> + Remember that you stand, you and your fancy,<br /> + Now in his house; and since we are together,<br /> + See for yourself and tell me what you see.<br /> + Tell me the best you see. Make a slight noise<br /> + Of recognition when you find a book<br /> + That you would not as lief read upside down<br /> + As otherwise, for example. If there you fail,<br /> + Observe the walls and lead me to the place,<br /> + Where you are led. If there you meet a picture<br /> + That holds you near it for a longer time<br /> + Than you are sorry, you may call it yours,<br /> + And hang it in the dark of your remembrance,<br /> + Where Norcross never sees. How can he see<br /> + That has no eyes to see? And as for music,<br /> + He paid with empty wonder for the pangs<br /> + Of his infrequent forced endurance of it;<br /> + And having had no pleasure, paid no more<br /> + For needless immolation, or for the sight<br /> + Of those who heard what he was never to hear.<br /> + To see them listening was itself enough<br /> + To make him suffer; and to watch worn eyes,<br /> + On other days, of strangers who forgot<br /> + Their sorrows and their failures and themselves<br /> + Before a few mysterious odds and ends<br /> + Of marble carted from the Parthenon —<br /> + And all for seeing what he was never to see,<br /> + Because it was alive and he was dead —<br /> + Here was a wonder that was more profound<br /> + Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "He knew, and in his knowledge there was death.<br /> + He knew there was a region all around him<br /> + That lay outside man's havoc and affairs,<br /> + And yet was not all hostile to their tumult,<br /> + Where poets would have served and honored him,<br /> + And saved him, had there been anything to save.<br /> + But there was nothing, and his tethered range<br /> + Was only a small desert. Kings of song<br /> + Are not for thrones in deserts. Towers of sound<br /> + And flowers of sense are but a waste of heaven<br /> + Where there is none to know them from the rocks<br /> + And sand-grass of his own monotony<br /> + That makes earth less than earth. He could see that,<br /> + And he could see no more. The captured light<br /> + That may have been or not, for all he cared,<br /> + The song that is in sculpture was not his,<br /> + But only, to his God-forgotten eyes,<br /> + One more immortal nonsense in a world<br /> + Where all was mortal, or had best be so,<br /> + And so be done with. `Art,' he would have said,<br /> + `Is not life, and must therefore be a lie;'<br /> + And with a few profundities like that<br /> + He would have controverted and dismissed<br /> + The benefit of the Greeks. He had heard of them,<br /> + As he had heard of his aspiring soul —<br /> + Never to the perceptible advantage,<br /> + In his esteem, of either. `Faith,' he said,<br /> + Or would have said if he had thought of it,<br /> + `Lives in the same house with Philosophy,<br /> + Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn<br /> + As orphans after war. He could see stars,<br /> + On a clear night, but he had not an eye<br /> + To see beyond them. He could hear spoken words,<br /> + But had no ear for silence when alone.<br /> + He could eat food of which he knew the savor,<br /> + But had no palate for the Bread of Life,<br /> + That human desperation, to his thinking,<br /> + Made famous long ago, having no other.<br /> + Now do you see? Do you begin to see?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I told him that I did begin to see;<br /> + And I was nearer than I should have been<br /> + To laughing at his malign inclusiveness,<br /> + When I considered that, with all our speed,<br /> + We are not laughing yet at funerals.<br /> + I see him now as I could see him then,<br /> + And I see now that it was good for me,<br /> + As it was good for him, that I was quiet;<br /> + For Time's eye was on Ferguson, and the shaft<br /> + Of its inquiring hesitancy had touched him,<br /> + Or so I chose to fancy more than once<br /> + Before he told of Norcross. When the word<br /> + Of his release (he would have called it so)<br /> + Made half an inch of news, there were no tears<br /> + That are recorded. Women there may have been<br /> + To wish him back, though I should say, not knowing,<br /> + The few there were to mourn were not for love,<br /> + And were not lovely. Nothing of them, at least,<br /> + Was in the meagre legend that I gathered<br /> + Years after, when a chance of travel took me<br /> + So near the region of his nativity<br /> + That a few miles of leisure brought me there;<br /> + For there I found a friendly citizen<br /> + Who led me to his house among the trees<br /> + That were above a railroad and a river.<br /> + Square as a box and chillier than a tomb<br /> + It was indeed, to look at or to live in —<br /> + All which had I been told. "Ferguson died,"<br /> + The stranger said, "and then there was an auction.<br /> + I live here, but I've never yet been warm.<br /> + Remember him? Yes, I remember him.<br /> + I knew him — as a man may know a tree —<br /> + For twenty years. He may have held himself<br /> + A little high when he was here, but now . . .<br /> + Yes, I remember Ferguson. Oh, yes."<br /> + Others, I found, remembered Ferguson,<br /> + But none of them had heard of Tasker Norcross.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="song"></a> + A Song at Shannon's<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Two men came out of Shannon's having known<br /> + The faces of each other for as long<br /> + As they had listened there to an old song,<br /> + Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone<br /> + By some unhappy night-bird, who had flown<br /> + Too many times and with a wing too strong<br /> + To save himself, and so done heavy wrong<br /> + To more frail elements than his alone.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Slowly away they went, leaving behind<br /> + More light than was before them. Neither met<br /> + The other's eyes again or said a word.<br /> + Each to his loneliness or to his kind,<br /> + Went his own way, and with his own regret,<br /> + Not knowing what the other may have heard.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="souvenir"></a> + Souvenir<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + A vanished house that for an hour I knew<br /> + By some forgotten chance when I was young<br /> + Had once a glimmering window overhung<br /> + With honeysuckle wet with evening dew.<br /> + Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew,<br /> + And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung<br /> + Ferociously; and over me, among<br /> + The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Somewhere within there were dim presences<br /> + Of days that hovered and of years gone by.<br /> + I waited, and between their silences<br /> + There was an evanescent faded noise;<br /> + And though a child, I knew it was the voice<br /> + Of one whose occupation was to die.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="discovery"></a> + Discovery<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + We told of him as one who should have soared<br /> + And seen for us the devastating light<br /> + Whereof there is not either day or night,<br /> + And shared with us the glamour of the Word<br /> + That fell once upon Amos to record<br /> + For men at ease in Zion, when the sight<br /> + Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might<br /> + Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Assured somehow that he would make us wise,<br /> + Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise<br /> + Was hard when we confessed the dry return<br /> + Of his regret. For we were still to learn<br /> + That earth has not a school where we may go<br /> + For wisdom, or for more than we may know.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="firelight"></a> + Firelight<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Ten years together without yet a cloud,<br /> + They seek each other's eyes at intervals<br /> + Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls<br /> + For love's obliteration of the crowd.<br /> + Serenely and perennially endowed<br /> + And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls<br /> + No snake, no sword; and over them there falls<br /> + The blessing of what neither says aloud.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Wiser for silence, they were not so glad<br /> + Were she to read the graven tale of lines<br /> + On the wan face of one somewhere alone;<br /> + Nor were they more content could he have had<br /> + Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines<br /> + Apart, and would be hers if he had known.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="tenants"></a> + The New Tenants<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + The day was here when it was his to know<br /> + How fared the barriers he had built between<br /> + His triumph and his enemies unseen,<br /> + For them to undermine and overthrow;<br /> + And it was his no longer to forego<br /> + The sight of them, insidious and serene,<br /> + Where they were delving always and had been<br /> + Left always to be vicious and to grow.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And there were the new tenants who had come,<br /> + By doors that were left open unawares,<br /> + Into his house, and were so much at home<br /> + There now that he would hardly have to guess,<br /> + By the slow guile of their vindictiveness,<br /> + What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="inferential"></a> + Inferential<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Although I saw before me there the face<br /> + Of one whom I had honored among men<br /> + The least, and on regarding him again<br /> + Would not have had him in another place,<br /> + He fitted with an unfamiliar grace<br /> + The coffin where I could not see him then<br /> + As I had seen him and appraised him when<br /> + I deemed him unessential to the race.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For there was more of him than what I saw.<br /> + And there was on me more than the old awe<br /> + That is the common genius of the dead.<br /> + I might as well have heard him: "Never mind;<br /> + If some of us were not so far behind,<br /> + The rest of us were not so far ahead."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="rat"></a> + The Rat<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + As often as he let himself be seen<br /> + We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored<br /> + The inscrutable profusion of the Lord<br /> + Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean —<br /> + Who made him human when he might have been<br /> + A rat, and so been wholly in accord<br /> + With any other creature we abhorred<br /> + As always useless and not always clean.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now he is hiding all alone somewhere,<br /> + And in a final hole not ready then;<br /> + For now he is among those over there<br /> + Who are not coming back to us again.<br /> + And we who do the fiction of our share<br /> + Say less of rats and rather more of men.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="rahel"></a> + Rahel to Varnhagen<br /> +</h3> + +<p> +Note. — Rahel Robert and Varnhagen von Ense were married, +after many protestations on her part, in 1814. The marriage — so far +as he was concerned, at any rate — appears to have been satisfactory. +</p> + +<p> + Now you have read them all; or if not all,<br /> + As many as in all conscience I should fancy<br /> + To be enough. There are no more of them —<br /> + Or none to burn your sleep, or to bring dreams<br /> + Of devils. If these are not sufficient, surely<br /> + You are a strange young man. I might live on<br /> + Alone, and for another forty years,<br /> + Or not quite forty, — are you happier now? —<br /> + Always to ask if there prevailed elsewhere<br /> + Another like yourself that would have held<br /> + These aged hands as long as you have held them,<br /> + Not once observing, for all I can see,<br /> + How they are like your mother's. Well, you have read<br /> + His letters now, and you have heard me say<br /> + That in them are the cinders of a passion<br /> + That was my life; and you have not yet broken<br /> + Your way out of my house, out of my sight, —<br /> + Into the street. You are a strange young man.<br /> + I know as much as that of you, for certain;<br /> + And I'm already praying, for your sake,<br /> + That you be not too strange. Too much of that<br /> + May lead you bye and bye through gloomy lanes<br /> + To a sad wilderness, where one may grope<br /> + Alone, and always, or until he feels<br /> + Ferocious and invisible animals<br /> + That wait for men and eat them in the dark.<br /> + Why do you sit there on the floor so long,<br /> + Smiling at me while I try to be solemn?<br /> + Do you not hear it said for your salvation,<br /> + When I say truth? Are you, at four and twenty,<br /> + So little deceived in us that you interpret<br /> + The humor of a woman to be noticed<br /> + As her choice between you and Acheron?<br /> + Are you so unscathed yet as to infer<br /> + That if a woman worries when a man,<br /> + Or a man-child, has wet shoes on his feet<br /> + She may as well commemorate with ashes<br /> + The last eclipse of her tranquillity?<br /> + If you look up at me and blink again,<br /> + I shall not have to make you tell me lies<br /> + To know the letters you have not been reading.<br /> + I see now that I may have had for nothing<br /> + A most unpleasant shivering in my conscience<br /> + When I laid open for your contemplation<br /> + The wealth of my worn casket. If I did,<br /> + The fault was not yours wholly. Search again<br /> + This wreckage we may call for sport a face,<br /> + And you may chance upon the price of havoc<br /> + That I have paid for a few sorry stones<br /> + That shine and have no light — yet once were stars,<br /> + And sparkled on a crown. Little and weak<br /> + They seem; and they are cold, I fear, for you.<br /> + But they that once were fire for me may not<br /> + Be cold again for me until I die;<br /> + And only God knows if they may be then.<br /> + There is a love that ceases to be love<br /> + In being ourselves. How, then, are we to lose it?<br /> + You that are sure that you know everything<br /> + There is to know of love, answer me that.<br /> + Well? . . . You are not even interested.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Once on a far off time when I was young,<br /> + I felt with your assurance, and all through me,<br /> + That I had undergone the last and worst<br /> + Of love's inventions. There was a boy who brought<br /> + The sun with him and woke me up with it,<br /> + And that was every morning; every night<br /> + I tried to dream of him, but never could,<br /> + More than I might have seen in Adam's eyes<br /> + Their fond uncertainty when Eve began<br /> + The play that all her tireless progeny<br /> + Are not yet weary of. One scene of it<br /> + Was brief, but was eternal while it lasted;<br /> + And that was while I was the happiest<br /> + Of an imaginary six or seven,<br /> + Somewhere in history but not on earth,<br /> + For whom the sky had shaken and let stars<br /> + Rain down like diamonds. Then there were clouds,<br /> + And a sad end of diamonds; whereupon<br /> + Despair came, like a blast that would have brought<br /> + Tears to the eyes of all the bears in Finland,<br /> + And love was done. That was how much I knew.<br /> + Poor little wretch! I wonder where he is<br /> + This afternoon. Out of this rain, I hope.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + At last, when I had seen so many days<br /> + Dressed all alike, and in their marching order,<br /> + Go by me that I would not always count them,<br /> + One stopped — shattering the whole file of Time,<br /> + Or so it seemed; and when I looked again,<br /> + There was a man. He struck once with his eyes,<br /> + And then there was a woman. I, who had come<br /> + To wisdom, or to vision, or what you like,<br /> + By the old hidden road that has no name, —<br /> + I, who was used to seeing without flying<br /> + So much that others fly from without seeing,<br /> + Still looked, and was afraid, and looked again.<br /> + And after that, when I had read the story<br /> + Told in his eyes, and felt within my heart<br /> + The bleeding wound of their necessity,<br /> + I knew the fear was his. If I had failed him<br /> + And flown away from him, I should have lost<br /> + Ingloriously my wings in scrambling back,<br /> + And found them arms again. If he had struck me<br /> + Not only with his eyes but with his hands,<br /> + I might have pitied him and hated love,<br /> + And then gone mad. I, who have been so strong —<br /> + Why don't you laugh? — might even have done all that.<br /> + I, who have learned so much, and said so much,<br /> + And had the commendations of the great<br /> + For one who rules herself — why don't you cry? —<br /> + And own a certain small authority<br /> + Among the blind, who see no more than ever,<br /> + But like my voice, — I would have tossed it all<br /> + To Tophet for one man; and he was jealous.<br /> + I would have wound a snake around my neck<br /> + And then have let it bite me till I died,<br /> + If my so doing would have made me sure<br /> + That one man might have lived; and he was jealous.<br /> + I would have driven these hands into a cage<br /> + That held a thousand scorpions, and crushed them,<br /> + If only by so poisonous a trial<br /> + I could have crushed his doubt. I would have wrung<br /> + My living blood with mediaeval engines<br /> + Out of my screaming flesh, if only that<br /> + Would have made one man sure. I would have paid<br /> + For him the tiresome price of body and soul,<br /> + And let the lash of a tongue-weary town<br /> + Fall as it might upon my blistered name;<br /> + And while it fell I could have laughed at it,<br /> + Knowing that he had found out finally<br /> + Where the wrong was. But there was evil in him<br /> + That would have made no more of his possession<br /> + Than confirmation of another fault;<br /> + And there was honor — if you call it honor<br /> + That hoods itself with doubt and wears a crown<br /> + Of lead that might as well be gold and fire.<br /> + Give it as heavy or as light a name<br /> + As any there is that fits. I see myself<br /> + Without the power to swear to this or that<br /> + That I might be if he had been without it.<br /> + Whatever I might have been that I was not,<br /> + It only happened that it wasn't so.<br /> + Meanwhile, you might seem to be listening:<br /> + If you forget yourself and go to sleep,<br /> + My treasure, I shall not say this again.<br /> + Look up once more into my poor old face,<br /> + Where you see beauty, or the Lord knows what,<br /> + And say to me aloud what else there is<br /> + Than ruins in it that you most admire.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No, there was never anything like that;<br /> + Nature has never fastened such a mask<br /> + Of radiant and impenetrable merit<br /> + On any woman as you say there is<br /> + On this one. Not a mask? I thank you, sir,<br /> + But you see more with your determination,<br /> + I fear, than with your prudence or your conscience;<br /> + And you have never met me with my eyes<br /> + In all the mirrors I've made faces at.<br /> + No, I shall never call you strange again:<br /> + You are the young and inconvincible<br /> + Epitome of all blind men since Adam.<br /> + May the blind lead the blind, if that be so?<br /> + And we shall need no mirrors? You are saying<br /> + What most I feared you might. But if the blind,<br /> + Or one of them, be not so fortunate<br /> + As to put out the eyes of recollection,<br /> + She might at last, without her meaning it,<br /> + Lead on the other, without his knowing it,<br /> + Until the two of them should lose themselves<br /> + Among dead craters in a lava-field<br /> + As empty as a desert on the moon.<br /> + I am not speaking in a theatre,<br /> + But in a room so real and so familiar<br /> + That sometimes I would wreck it. Then I pause,<br /> + Remembering there is a King in Weimar —<br /> + A monarch, and a poet, and a shepherd<br /> + Of all who are astray and are outside<br /> + The realm where they should rule. I think of him,<br /> + And save the furniture; I think of you,<br /> + And am forlorn, finding in you the one<br /> + To lavish aspirations and illusions<br /> + Upon a faded and forsaken house<br /> + Where love, being locked alone, was nigh to burning<br /> + House and himself together. Yes, you are strange,<br /> + To see in such an injured architecture<br /> + Room for new love to live in. Are you laughing?<br /> + No? Well, you are not crying, as you should be.<br /> + Tears, even if they told only gratitude<br /> + For your escape, and had no other story,<br /> + Were surely more becoming than a smile<br /> + For my unwomanly straightforwardness<br /> + In seeing for you, through my close gate of years<br /> + Your forty ways to freedom. Why do you smile?<br /> + And while I'm trembling at my faith in you<br /> + In giving you to read this book of danger<br /> + That only one man living might have written —<br /> + These letters, which have been a part of me<br /> + So long that you may read them all again<br /> + As often as you look into my face,<br /> + And hear them when I speak to you, and feel them<br /> + Whenever you have to touch me with your hand, —<br /> + Why are you so unwilling to be spared?<br /> + Why do you still believe in me? But no,<br /> + I'll find another way to ask you that.<br /> + I wonder if there is another way<br /> + That says it better, and means anything.<br /> + There is no other way that could be worse?<br /> + I was not asking you; it was myself<br /> + Alone that I was asking. Why do I dip<br /> + For lies, when there is nothing in my well<br /> + But shining truth, you say? How do you know?<br /> + Truth has a lonely life down where she lives;<br /> + And many a time, when she comes up to breathe,<br /> + She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples.<br /> + Possibly you may know no more of me<br /> + Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone,<br /> + Leaving you then with all my shining truth<br /> + Drowned in a shining water; and when you look<br /> + You may not see me there, but something else<br /> + That never was a woman — being yourself.<br /> + You say to me my truth is past all drowning,<br /> + And safe with you for ever? You know all that?<br /> + How do you know all that, and who has told you?<br /> + You know so much that I'm an atom frightened<br /> + Because you know so little. And what is this?<br /> + You know the luxury there is in haunting<br /> + The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion —<br /> + If that's your name for them — with only ghosts<br /> + For company? You know that when a woman<br /> + Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience<br /> + (Another name of yours for a bad temper)<br /> + She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it<br /> + (That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it),<br /> + Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby<br /> + Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom,<br /> + Given in vain to make a food for those<br /> + Who are without it, will be seen at last,<br /> + And even at last only by those who gave it,<br /> + As one or more of the forgotten crumbs<br /> + That others leave? You know that men's applause<br /> + And women's envy savor so much of dust<br /> + That I go hungry, having at home no fare<br /> + But the same changeless bread that I may swallow<br /> + Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that?<br /> + You know that if I read, and read alone,<br /> + Too many books that no men yet have written,<br /> + I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself,<br /> + Of all insistent and insidious creatures,<br /> + To be the one to save me, and to guard<br /> + For me their flaming language? And you know<br /> + That if I give much headway to the whim<br /> + That's in me never to be quite sure that even<br /> + Through all those years of storm and fire I waited<br /> + For this one rainy day, I may go on,<br /> + And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes,<br /> + To a cold end? You know so dismal much<br /> + As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="nimmo"></a> + Nimmo<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive<br /> + At such a false and florid and far drawn<br /> + Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive<br /> + No longer, though I may have led you on.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + So much is told and heard and told again,<br /> + So many with his legend are engrossed,<br /> + That I, more sorry now than I was then,<br /> + May live on to be sorry for his ghost.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, —<br /> + How deep they were, and what a velvet light<br /> + Came out of them when anger or surprise,<br /> + Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, —<br /> + And you say nothing of them. Very well.<br /> + I wonder if all history's worth a wink,<br /> + Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + For they began to lose their velvet light;<br /> + Their fire grew dead without and small within;<br /> + And many of you deplored the needless fight<br /> + That somewhere in the dark there must have been.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + All fights are needless, when they're not our own,<br /> + But Nimmo and Francesca never fought.<br /> + Remember that; and when you are alone,<br /> + Remember me — and think what I have thought.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was,<br /> + Or never was, or could or could not be:<br /> + Bring not suspicion's candle to the glass<br /> + That mirrors a friend's face to memory.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Of what you see, see all, — but see no more;<br /> + For what I show you here will not be there.<br /> + The devil has had his way with paint before,<br /> + And he's an artist, — and you needn't stare.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was a painter and he painted well:<br /> + He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den,<br /> + Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell.<br /> + I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + The painter put the devil in those eyes,<br /> + Unless the devil did, and there he stayed;<br /> + And then the lady fled from paradise,<br /> + And there's your fact. The lady was afraid.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She must have been afraid, or may have been,<br /> + Of evil in their velvet all the while;<br /> + But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin,<br /> + I'll trust the man as long as he can smile.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I trust him who can smile and then may live<br /> + In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today.<br /> + God knows if I have more than men forgive<br /> + To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I knew him then, and if I know him yet,<br /> + I know in him, defeated and estranged,<br /> + The calm of men forbidden to forget<br /> + The calm of women who have loved and changed.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But there are ways that are beyond our ways,<br /> + Or he would not be calm and she be mute,<br /> + As one by one their lost and empty days<br /> + Pass without even the warmth of a dispute.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + God help us all when women think they see;<br /> + God save us when they do. I'm fair; but though<br /> + I know him only as he looks to me,<br /> + I know him, — and I tell Francesca so.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask<br /> + Of him, could you but see him as I can,<br /> + At his bewildered and unfruitful task<br /> + Of being what he was born to be — a man.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Better forget that I said anything<br /> + Of what your tortured memory may disclose;<br /> + I know him, and your worst remembering<br /> + Would count as much as nothing, I suppose.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way<br /> + Of trusting me, as always in his youth.<br /> + I'm painting here a better man, you say,<br /> + Than I, the painter; and you say the truth.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="peace"></a> + Peace on Earth<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + He took a frayed hat from his head,<br /> + And "Peace on Earth" was what he said.<br /> + "A morsel out of what you're worth,<br /> + And there we have it: Peace on Earth.<br /> + Not much, although a little more<br /> + Than what there was on earth before.<br /> + I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, —<br /> + But never mind the ways I've trod;<br /> + I'm sober now, so help me God."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + I could not pass the fellow by.<br /> + "Do you believe in God?" said I;<br /> + "And is there to be Peace on Earth?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Tonight we celebrate the birth,"<br /> + He said, "of One who died for men;<br /> + The Son of God, we say. What then?<br /> + Your God, or mine? I'd make you laugh<br /> + Were I to tell you even half<br /> + That I have learned of mine today<br /> + Where yours would hardly seem to stay.<br /> + Could He but follow in and out<br /> + Some anthropoids I know about,<br /> + The God to whom you may have prayed<br /> + Might see a world He never made."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Your words are flowing full," said I;<br /> + "But yet they give me no reply;<br /> + Your fountain might as well be dry."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "A wiser One than you, my friend,<br /> + Would wait and hear me to the end;<br /> + And for His eyes a light would shine<br /> + Through this unpleasant shell of mine<br /> + That in your fancy makes of me<br /> + A Christmas curiosity.<br /> + All right, I might be worse than that;<br /> + And you might now be lying flat;<br /> + I might have done it from behind,<br /> + And taken what there was to find.<br /> + Don't worry, for I'm not that kind.<br /> + `Do I believe in God?' Is that<br /> + The price tonight of a new hat?<br /> + Has He commanded that His name<br /> + Be written everywhere the same?<br /> + Have all who live in every place<br /> + Identified His hidden face?<br /> + Who knows but He may like as well<br /> + My story as one you may tell?<br /> + And if He show me there be Peace<br /> + On Earth, as there be fields and trees<br /> + Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong<br /> + If now I sing Him a new song?<br /> + Your world is in yourself, my friend,<br /> + For your endurance to the end;<br /> + And all the Peace there is on Earth<br /> + Is faith in what your world is worth,<br /> + And saying, without any lies,<br /> + Your world could not be otherwise."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "One might say that and then be shot,"<br /> + I told him; and he said: "Why not?"<br /> + I ceased, and gave him rather more<br /> + Than he was counting of my store.<br /> + "And since I have it, thanks to you,<br /> + Don't ask me what I mean to do,"<br /> + Said he. "Believe that even I<br /> + Would rather tell the truth than lie —<br /> + On Christmas Eve. No matter why."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + His unshaved, educated face,<br /> + His inextinguishable grace,<br /> + And his hard smile, are with me still,<br /> + Deplore the vision as I will;<br /> + For whatsoever he be at,<br /> + So droll a derelict as that<br /> + Should have at least another hat.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="summer"></a> + Late Summer<br /> +</h3> + +<p class="t3"> + (Alcaics)<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Confused, he found her lavishing feminine<br /> + Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable;<br /> + And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors<br /> + Be as they were, without end, her playthings?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And why were dead years hungrily telling her<br /> + Lies of the dead, who told them again to her?<br /> + If now she knew, there might be kindness<br /> + Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + A little faith in him, and the ruinous<br /> + Past would be for time to annihilate,<br /> + And wash out, like a tide that washes<br /> + Out of the sand what a child has drawn there.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + God, what a shining handful of happiness,<br /> + Made out of days and out of eternities,<br /> + Were now the pulsing end of patience —<br /> + Could he but have what a ghost had stolen!<br /> +</p> + +<p> + What was a man before him, or ten of them,<br /> + While he was here alive who could answer them,<br /> + And in their teeth fling confirmations<br /> + Harder than agates against an egg-shell?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But now the man was dead, and would come again<br /> + Never, though she might honor ineffably<br /> + The flimsy wraith of him she conjured<br /> + Out of a dream with his wand of absence.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + And if the truth were now but a mummery,<br /> + Meriting pride's implacable irony,<br /> + So much the worse for pride. Moreover,<br /> + Save her or fail, there was conscience always.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence,<br /> + Imploring to be sheltered and credited,<br /> + Were not amiss when she revealed them.<br /> + Whether she struggled or not, he saw them.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Also, he saw that while she was hearing him<br /> + Her eyes had more and more of the past in them;<br /> + And while he told what cautious honor<br /> + Told him was all he had best be sure of,<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He wondered once or twice, inadvertently,<br /> + Where shifting winds were driving his argosies,<br /> + Long anchored and as long unladen,<br /> + Over the foam for the golden chances.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If men were not for killing so carelessly,<br /> + And women were for wiser endurances,"<br /> + He said, "we might have yet a world here<br /> + Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in;<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness,<br /> + And we were less forbidden to look at it,<br /> + We might not have to look." He stared then<br /> + Down at the sand where the tide threw forward<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly<br /> + Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough,<br /> + Although he knew he might be silenced<br /> + Out of all calm; and the night was coming.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I climb for you the peak of his infamy<br /> + That you may choose your fall if you cling to it.<br /> + No more for me unless you say more.<br /> + All you have left of a dream defends you:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "The truth may be as evil an augury<br /> + As it was needful now for the two of us.<br /> + We cannot have the dead between us.<br /> + Tell me to go, and I go." — She pondered:<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "What you believe is right for the two of us<br /> + Makes it as right that you are not one of us.<br /> + If this be needful truth you tell me,<br /> + Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She gazed away where shadows were covering<br /> + The whole cold ocean's healing indifference.<br /> + No ship was coming. When the darkness<br /> + Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="wife"></a> + An Evangelist's Wife<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "Why am I not myself these many days,<br /> + You ask? And have you nothing more to ask?<br /> + I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise<br /> + To God for giving you me to share your task?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Jealous — of Her? Because her cheeks are pink,<br /> + And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven.<br /> + If you should only steal an hour to think,<br /> + Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "No, you are never cruel. If once or twice<br /> + I found you so, I could applaud and sing.<br /> + Jealous of — What? You are not very wise.<br /> + Does not the good Book tell you anything?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "In David's time poor Michal had to go.<br /> + Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="jester"></a> + The Old King's New Jester<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + You that in vain would front the coming order<br /> + With eyes that meet forlornly what they must,<br /> + And only with a furtive recognition<br /> + See dust where there is dust, —<br /> + Be sure you like it always in your faces,<br /> + Obscuring your best graces,<br /> + Blinding your speech and sight,<br /> + Before you seek again your dusty places<br /> + Where the old wrong seems right.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Longer ago than cave-men had their changes<br /> + Our fathers may have slain a son or two,<br /> + Discouraging a further dialectic<br /> + Regarding what was new;<br /> + And after their unstudied admonition<br /> + Occasional contrition<br /> + For their old-fashioned ways<br /> + May have reduced their doubts, and in addition<br /> + Softened their final days.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Farther away than feet shall ever travel<br /> + Are the vague towers of our unbuilded State;<br /> + But there are mightier things than we to lead us,<br /> + That will not let us wait.<br /> + And we go on with none to tell us whether<br /> + Or not we've each a tether<br /> + Determining how fast or far we go;<br /> + And it is well, since we must go together,<br /> + That we are not to know.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + If the old wrong and all its injured glamour<br /> + Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace,<br /> + You may as well, agreeably and serenely,<br /> + Give the new wrong its lease;<br /> + For should you nourish a too fervid yearning<br /> + For what is not returning,<br /> + The vicious and unfused ingredient<br /> + May give you qualms — and one or two concerning<br /> + The last of your content.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h3> +<a id="lazarus"></a> + Lazarus<br /> +</h3> + +<p> + "No, Mary, there was nothing — not a word.<br /> + Nothing, and always nothing. Go again<br /> + Yourself, and he may listen — or at least<br /> + Look up at you, and let you see his eyes.<br /> + I might as well have been the sound of rain,<br /> + A wind among the cedars, or a bird;<br /> + Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you;<br /> + And even if he should say that we are nothing,<br /> + To know that you have heard him will be something.<br /> + And yet he loved us, and it was for love<br /> + The Master gave him back. Why did He wait<br /> + So long before He came? Why did He weep?<br /> + I thought He would be glad — and Lazarus —<br /> + To see us all again as He had left us —<br /> + All as it was, all as it was before."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary, who felt her sister's frightened arms<br /> + Like those of someone drowning who had seized her,<br /> + Fearing at last they were to fail and sink<br /> + Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness,<br /> + Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes,<br /> + To find again the fading shores of home<br /> + That she had seen but now could see no longer.<br /> + Now she could only gaze into the twilight,<br /> + And in the dimness know that he was there,<br /> + Like someone that was not. He who had been<br /> + Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive<br /> + Only in death again — or worse than death;<br /> + For tombs at least, always until today,<br /> + Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain<br /> + For man or God in such a day as this;<br /> + For there they were alone, and there was he —<br /> + Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany,<br /> + The Master — who had come to them so late,<br /> + Only for love of them and then so slowly,<br /> + And was for their sake hunted now by men<br /> + Who feared Him as they feared no other prey —<br /> + For the world's sake was hidden. "Better the tomb<br /> + For Lazarus than life, if this be life,"<br /> + She thought; and then to Martha, "No, my dear,"<br /> + She said aloud; "not as it was before.<br /> + Nothing is ever as it was before,<br /> + Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time;<br /> + And we that are so lonely and so far<br /> + From home, since he is with us here again,<br /> + Are farther now from him and from ourselves<br /> + Than we are from the stars. He will not speak<br /> + Until the spirit that is in him speaks;<br /> + And we must wait for all we are to know,<br /> + Or even to learn that we are not to know.<br /> + Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge,<br /> + And that is why it is that we must wait.<br /> + Our friends are coming if we call for them,<br /> + And there are covers we'll put over him<br /> + To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps,<br /> + To say that we know better what is best<br /> + Than he. We do not know how old he is.<br /> + If you remember what the Master said,<br /> + Try to believe that we need have no fear.<br /> + Let me, the selfish and the careless one,<br /> + Be housewife and a mother for tonight;<br /> + For I am not so fearful as you are,<br /> + And I was not so eager."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Martha sank<br /> + Down at her sister's feet and there sat watching<br /> + A flower that had a small familiar name<br /> + That was as old as memory, but was not<br /> + The name of what she saw now in its brief<br /> + And infinite mystery that so frightened her<br /> + That life became a terror. Tears again<br /> + Flooded her eyes and overflowed. "No, Mary,"<br /> + She murmured slowly, hating her own words<br /> + Before she heard them, "you are not so eager<br /> + To see our brother as we see him now;<br /> + Neither is He who gave him back to us.<br /> + I was to be the simple one, as always,<br /> + And this was all for me." She stared again<br /> + Over among the trees where Lazarus,<br /> + Who seemed to be a man who was not there,<br /> + Might have been one more shadow among shadows,<br /> + If she had not remembered. Then she felt<br /> + The cool calm hands of Mary on her face,<br /> + And shivered, wondering if such hands were real.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "The Master loved you as He loved us all,<br /> + Martha; and you are saying only things<br /> + That children say when they have had no sleep.<br /> + Try somehow now to rest a little while;<br /> + You know that I am here, and that our friends<br /> + Are coming if I call."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Martha at last<br /> + Arose, and went with Mary to the door,<br /> + Where they stood looking off at the same place,<br /> + And at the same shape that was always there<br /> + As if it would not ever move or speak,<br /> + And always would be there. "Mary, go now,<br /> + Before the dark that will be coming hides him.<br /> + I am afraid of him out there alone,<br /> + Unless I see him; and I have forgotten<br /> + What sleep is. Go now — make him look at you —<br /> + And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers.<br /> + Go! — or I'll scream and bring all Bethany<br /> + To come and make him speak. Make him say once<br /> + That he is glad, and God may say the rest.<br /> + Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever,<br /> + I shall not care for that . . . Go!"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary, moving<br /> + Almost as if an angry child had pushed her,<br /> + Went forward a few steps; and having waited<br /> + As long as Martha's eyes would look at hers,<br /> + Went forward a few more, and a few more;<br /> + And so, until she came to Lazarus,<br /> + Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands,<br /> + Like one that had no face. Before she spoke,<br /> + Feeling her sister's eyes that were behind her<br /> + As if the door where Martha stood were now<br /> + As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned<br /> + Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly,<br /> + Fearing him not so much as wondering<br /> + What his first word might be, said, "Lazarus,<br /> + Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;"<br /> + And having spoken, pitied her poor speech<br /> + That had so little seeming gladness in it,<br /> + So little comfort, and so little love.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + There was no sign from him that he had heard,<br /> + Or that he knew that she was there, or cared<br /> + Whether she spoke to him again or died<br /> + There at his feet. "We love you, Lazarus,<br /> + And we are not afraid. The Master said<br /> + We need not be afraid. Will you not say<br /> + To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus!<br /> + Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + She found his hands and held them. They were cool,<br /> + Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers.<br /> + Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him<br /> + When he had groped out of that awful sleep,<br /> + She felt him trembling and she was afraid.<br /> + At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily<br /> + To God that she might have again the voice<br /> + Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now<br /> + The recognition of a living pressure<br /> + That was almost a language. When he spoke,<br /> + Only one word that she had waited for<br /> + Came from his lips, and that word was her name.<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I heard them saying, Mary, that He wept<br /> + Before I woke." The words were low and shaken,<br /> + Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them<br /> + Was Lazarus; and that would be enough<br /> + Until there should be more . . . "Who made Him come,<br /> + That He should weep for me? . . . Was it you, Mary?"<br /> + The questions held in his incredulous eyes<br /> + Were more than she would see. She looked away;<br /> + But she had felt them and should feel for ever,<br /> + She thought, their cold and lonely desperation<br /> + That had the bitterness of all cold things<br /> + That were not cruel. "I should have wept," he said,<br /> + "If I had been the Master. . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Now she could feel<br /> + His hands above her hair — the same black hair<br /> + That once he made a jest of, praising it,<br /> + While Martha's busy eyes had left their work<br /> + To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that<br /> + Was to be theirs again; and such a thought<br /> + Was like the flying by of a quick bird<br /> + Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight.<br /> + For now she felt his hands upon her head,<br /> + Like weights of kindness: "I forgive you, Mary. . . .<br /> + You did not know — Martha could not have known —<br /> + Only the Master knew. . . . Where is He now?<br /> + Yes, I remember. They came after Him.<br /> + May the good God forgive Him. . . . I forgive Him.<br /> + I must; and I may know only from Him<br /> + The burden of all this. . . . Martha was here —<br /> + But I was not yet here. She was afraid. . . .<br /> + Why did He do it, Mary? Was it — you?<br /> + Was it for you? . . . Where are the friends I saw?<br /> + Yes, I remember. They all went away.<br /> + I made them go away. . . . Where is He now? . . .<br /> + What do I see down there? Do I see Martha —<br /> + Down by the door? . . . I must have time for this."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Lazarus looked about him fearfully,<br /> + And then again at Mary, who discovered<br /> + Awakening apprehension in his eyes,<br /> + And shivered at his feet. All she had feared<br /> + Was here; and only in the slow reproach<br /> + Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude.<br /> + Why had he asked if it was all for her<br /> + That he was here? And what had Martha meant?<br /> + Why had the Master waited? What was coming<br /> + To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come?<br /> + What had the Master seen before He came,<br /> + That He had come so late?<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Where is He, Mary?"<br /> + Lazarus asked again. "Where did He go?"<br /> + Once more he gazed about him, and once more<br /> + At Mary for an answer. "Have they found Him?<br /> + Or did He go away because He wished<br /> + Never to look into my eyes again? . . .<br /> + That, I could understand. . . . Where is He, Mary?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I do not know," she said. "Yet in my heart<br /> + I know that He is living, as you are living —<br /> + Living, and here. He is not far from us.<br /> + He will come back to us and find us all —<br /> + Lazarus, Martha, Mary — everything —<br /> + All as it was before. Martha said that.<br /> + And He said we were not to be afraid."<br /> + Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face<br /> + A tortured adumbration of a smile<br /> + Flickered an instant. "All as it was before,"<br /> + He murmured wearily. "Martha said that;<br /> + And He said you were not to be afraid . . .<br /> + Not you . . . Not you . . . Why should you be afraid?<br /> + Give all your little fears, and Martha's with them,<br /> + To me; and I will add them unto mine,<br /> + Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "If you had frightened me in other ways,<br /> + Not willing it," Mary said, "I should have known<br /> + You still for Lazarus. But who is this?<br /> + Tell me again that you are Lazarus;<br /> + And tell me if the Master gave to you<br /> + No sign of a new joy that shall be coming<br /> + To this house that He loved. Are you afraid?<br /> + Are you afraid, who have felt everything —<br /> + And seen . . . ?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + But Lazarus only shook his head,<br /> + Staring with his bewildered shining eyes<br /> + Hard into Mary's face. "I do not know,<br /> + Mary," he said, after a long time.<br /> + "When I came back, I knew the Master's eyes<br /> + Were looking into mine. I looked at His,<br /> + And there was more in them than I could see.<br /> + At first I could see nothing but His eyes;<br /> + Nothing else anywhere was to be seen —<br /> + Only His eyes. And they looked into mine —<br /> + Long into mine, Mary, as if He knew."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + Mary began to be afraid of words<br /> + As she had never been afraid before<br /> + Of loneliness or darkness, or of death,<br /> + But now she must have more of them or die:<br /> + "He cannot know that there is worse than death,"<br /> + She said. "And you . . ."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "Yes, there is worse than death."<br /> + Said Lazarus; "and that was what He knew;<br /> + And that is what it was that I could see<br /> + This morning in his eyes. I was afraid,<br /> + But not as you are. There is worse than death,<br /> + Mary; and there is nothing that is good<br /> + For you in dying while you are still here.<br /> + Mary, never go back to that again.<br /> + You would not hear me if I told you more,<br /> + For I should say it only in a language<br /> + That you are not to learn by going back.<br /> + To be a child again is to go forward —<br /> + And that is much to know. Many grow old,<br /> + And fade, and go away, not knowing how much<br /> + That is to know. Mary, the night is coming,<br /> + And there will soon be darkness all around you.<br /> + Let us go down where Martha waits for us,<br /> + And let there be light shining in this house."<br /> +</p> + +<p> + He rose, but Mary would not let him go:<br /> + "Martha, when she came back from here, said only<br /> + That she heard nothing. And have you no more<br /> + For Mary now than you had then for Martha?<br /> + Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me?<br /> + Was Nothing all you found where you have been?<br /> + If that be so, what is there worse than that —<br /> + Or better — if that be so? And why should you,<br /> + With even our love, go the same dark road over?"<br /> +</p> + +<p> + "I could not answer that, if that were so,"<br /> + Said Lazarus, — "not even if I were God.<br /> + Why should He care whether I came or stayed,<br /> + If that were so? Why should the Master weep —<br /> + For me, or for the world, — or save Himself<br /> + Longer for nothing? And if that were so,<br /> + Why should a few years' more mortality<br /> + Make Him a fugitive where flight were needless,<br /> + Had He but held his peace and given his nod<br /> + To an old Law that would be new as any?<br /> + I cannot say the answer to all that;<br /> + Though I may say that He is not afraid,<br /> + And that it is not for the joy there is<br /> + In serving an eternal Ignorance<br /> + Of our futility that He is here.<br /> + Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing?<br /> + Is that what you are fearing? If that be so,<br /> + There are more weeds than lentils in your garden.<br /> + And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest<br /> + May as well have no garden; for not there<br /> + Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts<br /> + Of life that are to save him. For my part,<br /> + I am again with you, here among shadows<br /> + That will not always be so dark as this;<br /> + Though now I see there's yet an evil in me<br /> + That made me let you be afraid of me.<br /> + No, I was not afraid — not even of life.<br /> + I thought I was . . . I must have time for this;<br /> + And all the time there is will not be long.<br /> + I cannot tell you what the Master saw<br /> + This morning in my eyes. I do not know.<br /> + I cannot yet say how far I have gone,<br /> + Or why it is that I am here again,<br /> + Or where the old road leads. I do not know.<br /> + I know that when I did come back, I saw<br /> + His eyes again among the trees and faces —<br /> + Only His eyes; and they looked into mine —<br /> + Long into mine — long, long, as if He knew."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Taverns, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE TAVERNS *** + +***** This file should be named 1040-h.htm or 1040-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/4/1040/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Three Taverns + +Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson + +Posting Date: December 12, 2014 [EBook #1040] +Release Date: September, 1997 +First Posted: September 20, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE TAVERNS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED. +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + + + + + The Three Taverns + + A Book of Poems + + By Edwin Arlington Robinson + + Author of "The Man Against the Sky", "Merlin, A Poem", etc. + + [American (Maine) Poet. 1869-1935.] + + + + + To THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY and LILLA CABOT PERRY + + + + + Contents + + + + The Valley of the Shadow + The Wandering Jew + Neighbors + The Mill + The Dark Hills + The Three Taverns + Demos I + Demos II + The Flying Dutchman + Tact + On the Way + John Brown + The False Gods + Archibald's Example + London Bridge + Tasker Norcross + A Song at Shannon's + Souvenir + Discovery + Firelight + The New Tenants + Inferential + The Rat + Rahel to Varnhagen + Nimmo + Peace on Earth + Late Summer + An Evangelist's Wife + The Old King's New Jester + Lazarus + + +Several poems included in this book appeared originally +in American periodicals, as follows: The Three Taverns, London Bridge, +A Song at Shannon's, The New Tenants, Discovery, John Brown; +Archibald's Example, The Valley of the Shadow; Nimmo; The Wandering Jew, +Souvenir; Neighbors, Tact; Demos; The Mill, An Evangelist's Wife; +Firelight; Late Summer; Inferential; The Flying Dutchman; +On the Way, The False Gods; Peace on Earth; The Old King's New Jester. + + + + + + ------------------- + The Three Taverns + ------------------- + + + + + + The Valley of the Shadow + + There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow, + There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget; + There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes, + There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet. + For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation + At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus, + They were lost and unacquainted -- till they found themselves in others, + Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous. + + There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions + Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows; + There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions, + All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows. + There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water, + And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys: + There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow, + Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise. + + There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken, + Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes, + Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants + Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams. + There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood, + Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago: + There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow, + The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know. + + And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them, + Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth; + And they were going forward only farther into darkness, + Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth; + And among them, giving always what was not for their possession, + There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes: + There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow, + Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice. + + There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches, + Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves -- + Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember + Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves. + There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation, + While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair: + There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow, + And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there. + + There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them, + And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel; + And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing, + Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal. + Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation, + But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt: + There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow, + Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out. + + And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals + There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well; + And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions + There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell. + Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless, + There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold: + There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow, + Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old. + + Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow, + There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile; + And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers, + Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while. + There were many by the presence of the many disaffected, + Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore: + There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow, + And they alone were there to find what they were looking for. + + So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others, + And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn; + And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer + May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn. + For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched, + Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed: + There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow, + And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed. + + + + + The Wandering Jew + + I saw by looking in his eyes + That they remembered everything; + And this was how I came to know + That he was here, still wandering. + For though the figure and the scene + Were never to be reconciled, + I knew the man as I had known + His image when I was a child. + + With evidence at every turn, + I should have held it safe to guess + That all the newness of New York + Had nothing new in loneliness; + Yet here was one who might be Noah, + Or Nathan, or Abimelech, + Or Lamech, out of ages lost, -- + Or, more than all, Melchizedek. + + Assured that he was none of these, + I gave them back their names again, + To scan once more those endless eyes + Where all my questions ended then. + I found in them what they revealed + That I shall not live to forget, + And wondered if they found in mine + Compassion that I might regret. + + Pity, I learned, was not the least + Of time's offending benefits + That had now for so long impugned + The conservation of his wits: + Rather it was that I should yield, + Alone, the fealty that presents + The tribute of a tempered ear + To an untempered eloquence. + + Before I pondered long enough + On whence he came and who he was, + I trembled at his ringing wealth + Of manifold anathemas; + I wondered, while he seared the world, + What new defection ailed the race, + And if it mattered how remote + Our fathers were from such a place. + + Before there was an hour for me + To contemplate with less concern + The crumbling realm awaiting us + Than his that was beyond return, + A dawning on the dust of years + Had shaped with an elusive light + Mirages of remembered scenes + That were no longer for the sight. + + For now the gloom that hid the man + Became a daylight on his wrath, + And one wherein my fancy viewed + New lions ramping in his path. + The old were dead and had no fangs, + Wherefore he loved them -- seeing not + They were the same that in their time + Had eaten everything they caught. + + The world around him was a gift + Of anguish to his eyes and ears, + And one that he had long reviled + As fit for devils, not for seers. + Where, then, was there a place for him + That on this other side of death + Saw nothing good, as he had seen + No good come out of Nazareth? + + Yet here there was a reticence, + And I believe his only one, + That hushed him as if he beheld + A Presence that would not be gone. + In such a silence he confessed + How much there was to be denied; + And he would look at me and live, + As others might have looked and died. + + As if at last he knew again + That he had always known, his eyes + Were like to those of one who gazed + On those of One who never dies. + For such a moment he revealed + What life has in it to be lost; + And I could ask if what I saw, + Before me there, was man or ghost. + + He may have died so many times + That all there was of him to see + Was pride, that kept itself alive + As too rebellious to be free; + He may have told, when more than once + Humility seemed imminent, + How many a lonely time in vain + The Second Coming came and went. + + Whether he still defies or not + The failure of an angry task + That relegates him out of time + To chaos, I can only ask. + But as I knew him, so he was; + And somewhere among men to-day + Those old, unyielding eyes may flash, + And flinch -- and look the other way. + + + + + Neighbors + + As often as we thought of her, + We thought of a gray life + That made a quaint economist + Of a wolf-haunted wife; + We made the best of all she bore + That was not ours to bear, + And honored her for wearing things + That were not things to wear. + + There was a distance in her look + That made us look again; + And if she smiled, we might believe + That we had looked in vain. + Rarely she came inside our doors, + And had not long to stay; + And when she left, it seemed somehow + That she was far away. + + At last, when we had all forgot + That all is here to change, + A shadow on the commonplace + Was for a moment strange. + Yet there was nothing for surprise, + Nor much that need be told: + Love, with his gift of pain, had given + More than one heart could hold. + + + + + The Mill + + The miller's wife had waited long, + The tea was cold, the fire was dead; + And there might yet be nothing wrong + In how he went and what he said: + "There are no millers any more," + Was all that she had heard him say; + And he had lingered at the door + So long that it seemed yesterday. + + Sick with a fear that had no form + She knew that she was there at last; + And in the mill there was a warm + And mealy fragrance of the past. + What else there was would only seem + To say again what he had meant; + And what was hanging from a beam + Would not have heeded where she went. + + And if she thought it followed her, + She may have reasoned in the dark + That one way of the few there were + Would hide her and would leave no mark: + Black water, smooth above the weir + Like starry velvet in the night, + Though ruffled once, would soon appear + The same as ever to the sight. + + + + + The Dark Hills + + Dark hills at evening in the west, + Where sunset hovers like a sound + Of golden horns that sang to rest + Old bones of warriors under ground, + Far now from all the bannered ways + Where flash the legions of the sun, + You fade -- as if the last of days + Were fading, and all wars were done. + + + + + The Three Taverns + + When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us + as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns. + (Acts 28:15) + + Herodion, Apelles, Amplias, + And Andronicus? Is it you I see -- + At last? And is it you now that are gazing + As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying + That I should come to Rome? I did say that; + And I said furthermore that I should go + On westward, where the gateway of the world + Lets in the central sea. I did say that, + But I say only, now, that I am Paul -- + A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord + A voice made free. If there be time enough + To live, I may have more to tell you then + Of western matters. I go now to Rome, + Where Caesar waits for me, and I shall wait, + And Caesar knows how long. In Caesarea + There was a legend of Agrippa saying + In a light way to Festus, having heard + My deposition, that I might be free, + Had I stayed free of Caesar; but the word + Of God would have it as you see it is -- + And here I am. The cup that I shall drink + Is mine to drink -- the moment or the place + Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome, + Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed + The shadow cast of hope, say not of me + Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck, + And all the many deserts I have crossed + That are not named or regioned, have undone + Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing + The part of me that is the least of me. + You see an older man than he who fell + Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus, + Where the great light came down; yet I am he + That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard. + And I am here, at last; and if at last + I give myself to make another crumb + For this pernicious feast of time and men -- + Well, I have seen too much of time and men + To fear the ravening or the wrath of either. + + Yes, it is Paul you see -- the Saul of Tarsus + That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain + For saying Something was beyond the Law, + And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul + Upon the Law till I went famishing, + Not knowing that I starved. How should I know, + More then than any, that the food I had -- + What else it may have been -- was not for me? + My fathers and their fathers and their fathers + Had found it good, and said there was no other, + And I was of the line. When Stephen fell, + Among the stones that crushed his life away, + There was no place alive that I could see + For such a man. Why should a man be given + To live beyond the Law? So I said then, + As men say now to me. How then do I + Persist in living? Is that what you ask? + If so, let my appearance be for you + No living answer; for Time writes of death + On men before they die, and what you see + Is not the man. The man that you see not -- + The man within the man -- is most alive; + Though hatred would have ended, long ago, + The bane of his activities. I have lived, + Because the faith within me that is life + Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late, + Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me + My toil is over and my work begun. + + How often, and how many a time again, + Have I said I should be with you in Rome! + He who is always coming never comes, + Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves; + And I may tell you now that after me, + Whether I stay for little or for long, + The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them, + And a more careful ear for their confusion + Than you need have much longer for the sound + Of what I tell you -- should I live to say + More than I say to Caesar. What I know + Is down for you to read in what is written; + And if I cloud a little with my own + Mortality the gleam that is immortal, + I do it only because I am I -- + Being on earth and of it, in so far + As time flays yet the remnant. This you know; + And if I sting men, as I do sometimes, + With a sharp word that hurts, it is because + Man's habit is to feel before he sees; + And I am of a race that feels. Moreover, + The world is here for what is not yet here + For more than are a few; and even in Rome, + Where men are so enamored of the Cross + That fame has echoed, and increasingly, + The music of your love and of your faith + To foreign ears that are as far away + As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder + How much of love you know, and if your faith + Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember + Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least + A Law to make them sorry they were born + If they go long without it; and these Gentiles, + For the first time in shrieking history, + Have love and law together, if so they will, + For their defense and their immunity + In these last days. Rome, if I know the name, + Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire + Made ready for the wreathing of new masters, + Of whom we are appointed, you and I, -- + And you are still to be when I am gone, + Should I go presently. Let the word fall, + Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field + Of circumstance, either to live or die; + Concerning which there is a parable, + Made easy for the comfort and attention + Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain. + You are to plant, and then to plant again + Where you have gathered, gathering as you go; + For you are in the fields that are eternal, + And you have not the burden of the Lord + Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have + Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing, + Till it shall have the wonder and the weight + Of a clear jewel, shining with a light + Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars + May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said + That if they be of men these things are nothing, + But if they be of God they are for none + To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew, + And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all. + And you know, by the temper of your faith, + How far the fire is in you that I felt + Before I knew Damascus. A word here, + Or there, or not there, or not anywhere, + Is not the Word that lives and is the life; + And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves + With jealous aches of others. If the world + Were not a world of aches and innovations, + Attainment would have no more joy of it. + There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds, + And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done + To death because a farthing has two sides, + And is at last a farthing. Telling you this, + I, who bid men to live, appeal to Caesar. + Once I had said the ways of God were dark, + Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law. + Such is the glory of our tribulations; + For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law, + And we are then alive. We have eyes then; + And we have then the Cross between two worlds -- + To guide us, or to blind us for a time, + Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites + A few on highways, changing all at once, + Is not for all. The power that holds the world + Away from God that holds himself away -- + Farther away than all your works and words + Are like to fly without the wings of faith -- + Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard + Enlivening the ways of easy leisure + Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes + Have wisdom, we see more than we remember; + And the old world of our captivities + May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin, + Like one where vanished hewers have had their day + Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see, + Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you, + At last, through many storms and through much night. + + Yet whatsoever I have undergone, + My keepers in this instance are not hard. + But for the chance of an ingratitude, + I might indeed be curious of their mercy, + And fearful of their leisure while I wait, + A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome, + Not always to return -- but not that now. + Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me + With eyes that are at last more credulous + Of my identity. You remark in me + No sort of leaping giant, though some words + Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt + A little through your eyes into your soul. + I trust they were alive, and are alive + Today; for there be none that shall indite + So much of nothing as the man of words + Who writes in the Lord's name for his name's sake + And has not in his blood the fire of time + To warm eternity. Let such a man -- + If once the light is in him and endures -- + Content himself to be the general man, + Set free to sift the decencies and thereby + To learn, except he be one set aside + For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain; + Though if his light be not the light indeed, + But a brief shine that never really was, + And fails, leaving him worse than where he was, + Then shall he be of all men destitute. + And here were not an issue for much ink, + Or much offending faction among scribes. + + The Kingdom is within us, we are told; + And when I say to you that we possess it + In such a measure as faith makes it ours, + I say it with a sinner's privilege + Of having seen and heard, and seen again, + After a darkness; and if I affirm + To the last hour that faith affords alone + The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment, + I do not see myself as one who says + To man that he shall sit with folded hands + Against the Coming. If I be anything, + I move a driven agent among my kind, + Establishing by the faith of Abraham, + And by the grace of their necessities, + The clamoring word that is the word of life + Nearer than heretofore to the solution + Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed + A shaft of language that has flown sometimes + A little higher than the hearts and heads + Of nature's minions, it will yet be heard, + Like a new song that waits for distant ears. + I cannot be the man that I am not; + And while I own that earth is my affliction, + I am a man of earth, who says not all + To all alike. That were impossible, + Even as it were so that He should plant + A larger garden first. But you today + Are for the larger sowing; and your seed, + A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw, + The foreign harvest of a wider growth, + And one without an end. Many there are, + And are to be, that shall partake of it, + Though none may share it with an understanding + That is not his alone. We are all alone; + And yet we are all parcelled of one order -- + Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark + Of wildernesses that are not so much + As names yet in a book. And there are many, + Finding at last that words are not the Word, + And finding only that, will flourish aloft, + Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes, + Our contradictions and discrepancies; + And there are many more will hang themselves + Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word + The friend of all who fail, and in their faith + A sword of excellence to cut them down. + + As long as there are glasses that are dark -- + And there are many -- we see darkly through them; + All which have I conceded and set down + In words that have no shadow. What is dark + Is dark, and we may not say otherwise; + Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire + For one of us, may still be for another + A coming gleam across the gulf of ages, + And a way home from shipwreck to the shore; + And so, through pangs and ills and desperations, + There may be light for all. There shall be light. + As much as that, you know. You cannot say + This woman or that man will be the next + On whom it falls; you are not here for that. + Your ministration is to be for others + The firing of a rush that may for them + Be soon the fire itself. The few at first + Are fighting for the multitude at last; + Therefore remember what Gamaliel said + Before you, when the sick were lying down + In streets all night for Peter's passing shadow. + Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words. + Give men to know that even their days of earth + To come are more than ages that are gone. + Say what you feel, while you have time to say it. + Eternity will answer for itself, + Without your intercession; yet the way + For many is a long one, and as dark, + Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil + Too much, and if I be away from you, + Think of me as a brother to yourselves, + Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics, + And give your left hand to grammarians; + And when you seem, as many a time you may, + To have no other friend than hope, remember + That you are not the first, or yet the last. + + The best of life, until we see beyond + The shadows of ourselves (and they are less + Than even the blindest of indignant eyes + Would have them) is in what we do not know. + Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep + With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves + Egregious and alone for your defects + Of youth and yesterday. I was young once; + And there's a question if you played the fool + With a more fervid and inherent zeal + Than I have in my story to remember, + Or gave your necks to folly's conquering foot, + Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim, + Less frequently than I. Never mind that. + Man's little house of days will hold enough, + Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his, + But it will not hold all. Things that are dead + Are best without it, and they own their death + By virtue of their dying. Let them go, -- + But think you not the world is ashes yet, + And you have all the fire. The world is here + Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow; + For there are millions, and there may be more, + To make in turn a various estimation + Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps + Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears + That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them, + And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes + That are incredulous of the Mystery + Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read + Where language has an end and is a veil, + Not woven of our words. Many that hate + Their kind are soon to know that without love + Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing. + I that have done some hating in my time + See now no time for hate; I that have left, + Fading behind me like familiar lights + That are to shine no more for my returning, + Home, friends, and honors, -- I that have lost all else + For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now + To you that out of wisdom has come love, + That measures and is of itself the measure + Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours + Are not so long that you may torture them + And harass not yourselves; and the last days + Are on the way that you prepare for them, + And was prepared for you, here in a world + Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen. + If you be not so hot for counting them + Before they come that you consume yourselves, + Peace may attend you all in these last days -- + And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome. + Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear + My rest has not been yours; in which event, + Forgive one who is only seven leagues + From Caesar. When I told you I should come, + I did not see myself the criminal + You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law + That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed, + Was good of you, and I shall not forget; + No, I shall not forget you came so far + To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell. + They come to tell me I am going now -- + With them. I hope that we shall meet again, + But none may say what he shall find in Rome. + + + + + Demos I + + All you that are enamored of my name + And least intent on what most I require, + Beware; for my design and your desire, + Deplorably, are not as yet the same. + Beware, I say, the failure and the shame + Of losing that for which you now aspire + So blindly, and of hazarding entire + The gift that I was bringing when I came. + + Give as I will, I cannot give you sight + Whereby to see that with you there are some + To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb + Before the wrangling and the shrill delight + Of your deliverance that has not come, + And shall not, if I fail you -- as I might. + + + + + Demos II + + So little have you seen of what awaits + Your fevered glimpse of a democracy + Confused and foiled with an equality + Not equal to the envy it creates, + That you see not how near you are the gates + Of an old king who listens fearfully + To you that are outside and are to be + The noisy lords of imminent estates. + + Rather be then your prayer that you shall have + Your kingdom undishonored. Having all, + See not the great among you for the small, + But hear their silence; for the few shall save + The many, or the many are to fall -- + Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave. + + + + + The Flying Dutchman + + Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, + Afloat with none to serve or to command, + Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, + He seeks the Vanished Land. + + Alone, by the one light of his one thought, + He steers to find the shore from which we came, -- + Fearless of in what coil he may be caught + On seas that have no name. + + Into the night he sails; and after night + There is a dawning, though there be no sun; + Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, + Unsighted, he sails on. + + At last there is a lifting of the cloud + Between the flood before him and the sky; + And then -- though he may curse the Power aloud + That has no power to die -- + + He steers himself away from what is haunted + By the old ghost of what has been before, -- + Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, + One fog-walled island more. + + + + + Tact + + Observant of the way she told + So much of what was true, + No vanity could long withhold + Regard that was her due: + She spared him the familiar guile, + So easily achieved, + That only made a man to smile + And left him undeceived. + + Aware that all imagining + Of more than what she meant + Would urge an end of everything, + He stayed; and when he went, + They parted with a merry word + That was to him as light + As any that was ever heard + Upon a starry night. + + She smiled a little, knowing well + That he would not remark + The ruins of a day that fell + Around her in the dark: + He saw no ruins anywhere, + Nor fancied there were scars + On anyone who lingered there, + Alone below the stars. + + + + + On the Way + + (Philadelphia, 1794) + +Note. -- The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton +and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific incident +in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous +to Hamilton's retirement from Washington's Cabinet in 1795 +and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr -- +who has been characterized, without much exaggeration, +as the inventor of American politics -- began to be conspicuously formidable +to the Federalists. These activities on the part of Burr resulted, +as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency +in 1800, and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804. + + + + BURR + + Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember + That I was here to speak, and so to save + Your fabric from catastrophe. That's good; + For I perceive that you observe him also. + A President, a-riding of his horse, + May dust a General and be forgiven; + But why be dusted -- when we're all alike, + All equal, and all happy. Here he comes -- + And there he goes. And we, by your new patent, + Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside, + With our two hats off to his Excellency. + Why not his Majesty, and done with it? + Forgive me if I shook your meditation, + But you that weld our credit should have eyes + To see what's coming. Bury me first if -I- do. + + + HAMILTON + + There's always in some pocket of your brain + A care for me; wherefore my gratitude + For your attention is commensurate + With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings; + We are as royal as two ditch-diggers; + But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days + When first a few seem all; but if we live, + We may again be seen to be the few + That we have always been. These are the days + When men forget the stars, and are forgotten. + + + BURR + + But why forget them? They're the same that winked + Upon the world when Alcibiades + Cut off his dog's tail to induce distinction. + There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades + Is not forgotten. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, there are dogs enough, + God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams. + + + BURR + + Never a doubt. But what you hear the most + Is your new music, something out of tune + With your intention. How in the name of Cain, + I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance, + When all men are musicians. Tell me that, + I hear you saying, and I'll tell you the name + Of Samson's mother. But why shroud yourself + Before the coffin comes? For all you know, + The tree that is to fall for your last house + Is now a sapling. You may have to wait + So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it, + For you are not at home in your new Eden + Where chilly whispers of a likely frost + Accumulate already in the air. + I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton, + Would be for you in your autumnal mood + A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders. + + + HAMILTON + + If so it is you think, you may as well + Give over thinking. We are done with ermine. + What I fear most is not the multitude, + But those who are to loop it with a string + That has one end in France and one end here. + I'm not so fortified with observation + That I could swear that more than half a score + Among us who see lightning see that ruin + Is not the work of thunder. Since the world + Was ordered, there was never a long pause + For caution between doing and undoing. + + + BURR + + Go on, sir; my attention is a trap + Set for the catching of all compliments + To Monticello, and all else abroad + That has a name or an identity. + + + HAMILTON + + I leave to you the names -- there are too many; + Yet one there is to sift and hold apart, + As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer + That is not always clouded, or too late. + But I was near and young, and had the reins + To play with while he manned a team so raw + That only God knows where the end had been + Of all that riding without Washington. + There was a nation in the man who passed us, + If there was not a world. I may have driven + Since then some restive horses, and alone, + And through a splashing of abundant mud; + But he who made the dust that sets you on + To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry, + And in a measure safe. + + + BURR + + Here's a new tune + From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once, + And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle? + I have forgotten what my father said + When I was born, but there's a rustling of it + Among my memories, and it makes a noise + About as loud as all that I have held + And fondled heretofore of your same caution. + But that's affairs, not feelings. If our friends + Guessed half we say of them, our enemies + Would itch in our friends' jackets. Howsoever, + The world is of a sudden on its head, + And all are spilled -- unless you cling alone + With Washington. Ask Adams about that. + + + HAMILTON + + We'll not ask Adams about anything. + We fish for lizards when we choose to ask + For what we know already is not coming, + And we must eat the answer. Where's the use + Of asking when this man says everything, + With all his tongues of silence? + + + BURR + + I dare say. + I dare say, but I won't. One of those tongues + I'll borrow for the nonce. He'll never miss it. + We mean his Western Majesty, King George. + + + HAMILTON + + I mean the man who rode by on his horse. + I'll beg of you the meed of your indulgence + If I should say this planet may have done + A deal of weary whirling when at last, + If ever, Time shall aggregate again + A majesty like his that has no name. + + + BURR + + Then you concede his Majesty? That's good, + And what of yours? Here are two majesties. + Favor the Left a little, Hamilton, + Or you'll be floundering in the ditch that waits + For riders who forget where they are riding. + If we and France, as you anticipate, + Must eat each other, what Caesar, if not yourself, + Do you see for the master of the feast? + There may be a place waiting on your head + For laurel thick as Nero's. You don't know. + I have not crossed your glory, though I might + If I saw thrones at auction. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, you might. + If war is on the way, I shall be -- here; + And I've no vision of your distant heels. + + + BURR + + I see that I shall take an inference + To bed with me to-night to keep me warm. + I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve + Your fealty to the aggregated greatness + Of him you lean on while he leans on you. + + + HAMILTON + + This easy phrasing is a game of yours + That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon, + But you that have the sight will not employ + The will to see with it. If you did so, + There might be fewer ditches dug for others + In your perspective; and there might be fewer + Contemporary motes of prejudice + Between you and the man who made the dust. + Call him a genius or a gentleman, + A prophet or a builder, or what not, + But hold your disposition off the balance, + And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe + I tell you nothing new to your surmise, + Or to the tongues of towns and villages) + I nourished with an adolescent fancy -- + Surely forgivable to you, my friend -- + An innocent and amiable conviction + That I was, by the grace of honest fortune, + A savior at his elbow through the war, + Where I might have observed, more than I did, + Patience and wholesome passion. I was there, + And for such honor I gave nothing worse + Than some advice at which he may have smiled. + I must have given a modicum besides, + Or the rough interval between those days + And these would never have made for me my friends, + Or enemies. I should be something somewhere -- + I say not what -- but I should not be here + If he had not been there. Possibly, too, + You might not -- or that Quaker with his cane. + + + BURR + + Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty + Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it. + + + HAMILTON + + It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind; + No god, or ghost, or demon -- only a man: + A man whose occupation is the need + Of those who would not feel it if it bit them; + And one who shapes an age while he endures + The pin pricks of inferiorities; + A cautious man, because he is but one; + A lonely man, because he is a thousand. + No marvel you are slow to find in him + The genius that is one spark or is nothing: + His genius is a flame that he must hold + So far above the common heads of men + That they may view him only through the mist + Of their defect, and wonder what he is. + It seems to me the mystery that is in him + That makes him only more to me a man + Than any other I have ever known. + + + BURR + + I grant you that his worship is a man. + I'm not so much at home with mysteries, + May be, as you -- so leave him with his fire: + God knows that I shall never put it out. + He has not made a cripple of himself + In his pursuit of me, though I have heard + His condescension honors me with parts. + Parts make a whole, if we've enough of them; + And once I figured a sufficiency + To be at least an atom in the annals + Of your republic. But I must have erred. + + + HAMILTON + + You smile as if your spirit lived at ease + With error. I should not have named it so, + Failing assent from you; nor, if I did, + Should I be so complacent in my skill + To comb the tangled language of the people + As to be sure of anything in these days. + Put that much in account with modesty. + + + BURR + + What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton, + Have you, in the last region of your dreaming, + To do with "people"? You may be the devil + In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals + Are waiting on the progress of our ship + Unless you steer it, but you'll find it irksome + Alone there in the stern; and some warm day + There'll be an inland music in the rigging, + And afterwards on deck. I'm not affined + Or favored overmuch at Monticello, + But there's a mighty swarming of new bees + About the premises, and all have wings. + If you hear something buzzing before long, + Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also + There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard, + And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly. + + + HAMILTON + + I don't remember that he cut his hair off. + + + BURR + + Somehow I rather fancy that he did. + If so, it's in the Book; and if not so, + He did the rest, and did it handsomely. + + + HAMILTON + + Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways + If they inveigle you to emulation; + But where, if I may ask it, are you tending + With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures? + You call to mind an eminent archangel + Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall + So far as he, to be so far remembered? + + + BURR + + Before I fall or rise, or am an angel, + I shall acquaint myself a little further + With our new land's new language, which is not -- + Peace to your dreams -- an idiom to your liking. + I'm wondering if a man may always know + How old a man may be at thirty-seven; + I wonder likewise if a prettier time + Could be decreed for a good man to vanish + Than about now for you, before you fade, + And even your friends are seeing that you have had + Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph. + Well, you have had enough, and had it young; + And the old wine is nearer to the lees + Than you are to the work that you are doing. + + + HAMILTON + + When does this philological excursion + Into new lands and languages begin? + + + BURR + + Anon -- that is, already. Only Fortune + Gave me this afternoon the benefaction + Of your blue back, which I for love pursued, + And in pursuing may have saved your life -- + Also the world a pounding piece of news: + Hamilton bites the dust of Washington, + Or rather of his horse. For you alone, + Or for your fame, I'd wish it might have been so. + + + HAMILTON + + Not every man among us has a friend + So jealous for the other's fame. How long + Are you to diagnose the doubtful case + Of Demos -- and what for? Have you a sword + For some new Damocles? If it's for me, + I have lost all official appetite, + And shall have faded, after January, + Into the law. I'm going to New York. + + + BURR + + No matter where you are, one of these days + I shall come back to you and tell you something. + This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist + A pulse that no two doctors have as yet + Counted and found the same, and in his mouth + A tongue that has the like alacrity + For saying or not for saying what most it is + That pullulates in his ignoble mind. + One of these days I shall appear again, + To tell you more of him and his opinions; + I shall not be so long out of your sight, + Or take myself so far, that I may not, + Like Alcibiades, come back again. + He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill. + + + HAMILTON + + There's an example in Themistocles: + He went away to Persia, and fared well. + + + BURR + + So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so? + I had not planned it so. Is this the road + I take? If so, farewell. + + + HAMILTON + + Quite so. Farewell. + + + + + John Brown + + Though for your sake I would not have you now + So near to me tonight as now you are, + God knows how much a stranger to my heart + Was any cold word that I may have written; + And you, poor woman that I made my wife, + You have had more of loneliness, I fear, + Than I -- though I have been the most alone, + Even when the most attended. So it was + God set the mark of his inscrutable + Necessity on one that was to grope, + And serve, and suffer, and withal be glad + For what was his, and is, and is to be, + When his old bones, that are a burden now, + Are saying what the man who carried them + Had not the power to say. Bones in a grave, + Cover them as they will with choking earth, + May shout the truth to men who put them there, + More than all orators. And so, my dear, + Since you have cheated wisdom for the sake + Of sorrow, let your sorrow be for you, + This last of nights before the last of days, + The lying ghost of what there is of me + That is the most alive. There is no death + For me in what they do. Their death it is + They should heed most when the sun comes again + To make them solemn. There are some I know + Whose eyes will hardly see their occupation, + For tears in them -- and all for one old man; + For some of them will pity this old man, + Who took upon himself the work of God + Because he pitied millions. That will be + For them, I fancy, their compassionate + Best way of saying what is best in them + To say; for they can say no more than that, + And they can do no more than what the dawn + Of one more day shall give them light enough + To do. But there are many days to be, + And there are many men to give their blood, + As I gave mine for them. May they come soon! + + May they come soon, I say. And when they come, + May all that I have said unheard be heard, + Proving at last, or maybe not -- no matter -- + What sort of madness was the part of me + That made me strike, whether I found the mark + Or missed it. Meanwhile, I've a strange content, + A patience, and a vast indifference + To what men say of me and what men fear + To say. There was a work to be begun, + And when the Voice, that I have heard so long, + Announced as in a thousand silences + An end of preparation, I began + The coming work of death which is to be, + That life may be. There is no other way + Than the old way of war for a new land + That will not know itself and is tonight + A stranger to itself, and to the world + A more prodigious upstart among states + Than I was among men, and so shall be + Till they are told and told, and told again; + For men are children, waiting to be told, + And most of them are children all their lives. + The good God in his wisdom had them so, + That now and then a madman or a seer + May shake them out of their complacency + And shame them into deeds. The major file + See only what their fathers may have seen, + Or may have said they saw when they saw nothing. + I do not say it matters what they saw. + Now and again to some lone soul or other + God speaks, and there is hanging to be done, -- + As once there was a burning of our bodies + Alive, albeit our souls were sorry fuel. + But now the fires are few, and we are poised + Accordingly, for the state's benefit, + A few still minutes between heaven and earth. + The purpose is, when they have seen enough + Of what it is that they are not to see, + To pluck me as an unripe fruit of treason, + And then to fling me back to the same earth + Of which they are, as I suppose, the flower -- + Not given to know the riper fruit that waits + For a more comprehensive harvesting. + + Yes, may they come, and soon. Again I say, + May they come soon! -- before too many of them + Shall be the bloody cost of our defection. + When hell waits on the dawn of a new state, + Better it were that hell should not wait long, -- + Or so it is I see it who should see + As far or farther into time tonight + Than they who talk and tremble for me now, + Or wish me to those everlasting fires + That are for me no fear. Too many fires + Have sought me out and seared me to the bone -- + Thereby, for all I know, to temper me + For what was mine to do. If I did ill + What I did well, let men say I was mad; + Or let my name for ever be a question + That will not sleep in history. What men say + I was will cool no cannon, dull no sword, + Invalidate no truth. Meanwhile, I was; + And the long train is lighted that shall burn, + Though floods of wrath may drench it, and hot feet + May stamp it for a slight time into smoke + That shall blaze up again with growing speed, + Until at last a fiery crash will come + To cleanse and shake a wounded hemisphere, + And heal it of a long malignity + That angry time discredits and disowns. + Tonight there are men saying many things; + And some who see life in the last of me + Will answer first the coming call to death; + For death is what is coming, and then life. + I do not say again for the dull sake + Of speech what you have heard me say before, + But rather for the sake of all I am, + And all God made of me. A man to die + As I do must have done some other work + Than man's alone. I was not after glory, + But there was glory with me, like a friend, + Throughout those crippling years when friends were few, + And fearful to be known by their own names + When mine was vilified for their approval. + Yet friends they are, and they did what was given + Their will to do; they could have done no more. + I was the one man mad enough, it seems, + To do my work; and now my work is over. + And you, my dear, are not to mourn for me, + Or for your sons, more than a soul should mourn + In Paradise, done with evil and with earth. + There is not much of earth in what remains + For you; and what there may be left of it + For your endurance you shall have at last + In peace, without the twinge of any fear + For my condition; for I shall be done + With plans and actions that have heretofore + Made your days long and your nights ominous + With darkness and the many distances + That were between us. When the silence comes, + I shall in faith be nearer to you then + Than I am now in fact. What you see now + Is only the outside of an old man, + Older than years have made him. Let him die, + And let him be a thing for little grief. + There was a time for service, and he served; + And there is no more time for anything + But a short gratefulness to those who gave + Their scared allegiance to an enterprise + That has the name of treason -- which will serve + As well as any other for the present. + There are some deeds of men that have no names, + And mine may like as not be one of them. + I am not looking far for names tonight. + The King of Glory was without a name + Until men gave him one; yet there He was, + Before we found Him and affronted Him + With numerous ingenuities of evil, + Of which one, with His aid, is to be swept + And washed out of the world with fire and blood. + + Once I believed it might have come to pass + With a small cost of blood; but I was dreaming -- + Dreaming that I believed. The Voice I heard + When I left you behind me in the north, -- + To wait there and to wonder and grow old + Of loneliness, -- told only what was best, + And with a saving vagueness, I should know + Till I knew more. And had I known even then -- + After grim years of search and suffering, + So many of them to end as they began -- + After my sickening doubts and estimations + Of plans abandoned and of new plans vain -- + After a weary delving everywhere + For men with every virtue but the Vision -- + Could I have known, I say, before I left you + That summer morning, all there was to know -- + Even unto the last consuming word + That would have blasted every mortal answer + As lightning would annihilate a leaf, + I might have trembled on that summer morning; + I might have wavered; and I might have failed. + + And there are many among men today + To say of me that I had best have wavered. + So has it been, so shall it always be, + For those of us who give ourselves to die + Before we are so parcelled and approved + As to be slaughtered by authority. + We do not make so much of what they say + As they of what our folly says of us; + They give us hardly time enough for that, + And thereby we gain much by losing little. + Few are alive to-day with less to lose + Than I who tell you this, or more to gain; + And whether I speak as one to be destroyed + For no good end outside his own destruction, + Time shall have more to say than men shall hear + Between now and the coming of that harvest + Which is to come. Before it comes, I go -- + By the short road that mystery makes long + For man's endurance of accomplishment. + I shall have more to say when I am dead. + + + + + The False Gods + + "We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit, + From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet. + You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes, -- + Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet. + + "You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong, + But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong; + You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence, + But your large admiration of us now is not for long. + + "If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that's never still, + And you pray to see our faces -- pray in earnest, and you will. + You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion: + For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill. + + "And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease + With an Art that's inorganic and is anything you please, + That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded, + Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees. + + "Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ, + There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy; + Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing + Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy. + + "When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive, + And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive, + Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations -- + For there's grief always auditing where two and two are five. + + "There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know, + Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so. + If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition, + May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go." + + + + + Archibald's Example + + Old Archibald, in his eternal chair, + Where trespassers, whatever their degree, + Were soon frowned out again, was looking off + Across the clover when he said to me: + + "My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down + Without a scratch, was once inhabited + By trees that injured him -- an evil trash + That made a cage, and held him while he bled. + + "Gone fifty years, I see them as they were + Before they fell. They were a crooked lot + To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time + In fifty years for crooked things to rot. + + "Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy + To God or man, for they were thieves of light. + So down they came. Nature and I looked on, + And we were glad when they were out of sight. + + "Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, + So much for that." He twinkled in his chair, + And looked across the clover to the place + That he remembered when the trees were there. + + + + + London Bridge + + "Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing -- and what of it? + Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that? + If I were not their father and if you were not their mother, + We might believe they made a noise. . . . What are you -- driving at!" + + "Well, be glad that you can hear them, and be glad they are so near us, -- + For I have heard the stars of heaven, and they were nearer still. + All within an hour it is that I have heard them calling, + And though I pray for them to cease, I know they never will; + For their music on my heart, though you may freeze it, will fall always, + Like summer snow that never melts upon a mountain-top. + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? + Do you hear the children singing? . . . God, will you make them stop!" + + "And what now in his holy name have you to do with mountains? + We're back to town again, my dear, and we've a dance tonight. + Frozen hearts and falling music? Snow and stars, and -- what the devil! + Say it over to me slowly, and be sure you have it right." + + "God knows if I be right or wrong in saying what I tell you, + Or if I know the meaning any more of what I say. + All I know is, it will kill me if I try to keep it hidden -- + Well, I met him. . . . Yes, I met him, and I talked with him -- today." + + "You met him? Did you meet the ghost of someone you had poisoned, + Long ago, before I knew you for the woman that you are? + Take a chair; and don't begin your stories always in the middle. + Was he man, or was he demon? Anyhow, you've gone too far + To go back, and I'm your servant. I'm the lord, but you're the master. + Now go on with what you know, for I'm excited." + + "Do you mean -- + Do you mean to make me try to think that you know less than I do?" + + "I know that you foreshadow the beginning of a scene. + Pray be careful, and as accurate as if the doors of heaven + Were to swing or to stay bolted from now on for evermore." + + "Do you conceive, with all your smooth contempt of every feeling, + Of hiding what you know and what you must have known before? + Is it worth a woman's torture to stand here and have you smiling, + With only your poor fetish of possession on your side? + No thing but one is wholly sure, and that's not one to scare me; + When I meet it I may say to God at last that I have tried. + And yet, for all I know, or all I dare believe, my trials + Henceforward will be more for you to bear than are your own; + And you must give me keys of yours to rooms I have not entered. + Do you see me on your threshold all my life, and there alone? + Will you tell me where you see me in your fancy -- when it leads you + Far enough beyond the moment for a glance at the abyss?" + + "Will you tell me what intrinsic and amazing sort of nonsense + You are crowding on the patience of the man who gives you -- this? + Look around you and be sorry you're not living in an attic, + With a civet and a fish-net, and with you to pay the rent. + I say words that you can spell without the use of all your letters; + And I grant, if you insist, that I've a guess at what you meant." + + "Have I told you, then, for nothing, that I met him? Are you trying + To be merry while you try to make me hate you?" + + "Think again, + My dear, before you tell me, in a language unbecoming + To a lady, what you plan to tell me next. If I complain, + If I seem an atom peevish at the preference you mention -- + Or imply, to be precise -- you may believe, or you may not, + That I'm a trifle more aware of what he wants than you are. + But I shouldn't throw that at you. Make believe that I forgot. + Make believe that he's a genius, if you like, -- but in the meantime + Don't go back to rocking-horses. There, there, there, now." + + "Make believe! + When you see me standing helpless on a plank above a whirlpool, + Do I drown, or do I hear you when you say it? Make believe? + How much more am I to say or do for you before I tell you + That I met him! What's to follow now may be for you to choose. + Do you hear me? Won't you listen? It's an easy thing to listen. . . ." + + "And it's easy to be crazy when there's everything to lose." + + "If at last you have a notion that I mean what I am saying, + Do I seem to tell you nothing when I tell you I shall try? + If you save me, and I lose him -- I don't know -- it won't much matter. + I dare say that I've lied enough, but now I do not lie." + + "Do you fancy me the one man who has waited and said nothing + While a wife has dragged an old infatuation from a tomb? + Give the thing a little air and it will vanish into ashes. + There you are -- piff! presto!" + + "When I came into this room, + It seemed as if I saw the place, and you there at your table, + As you are now at this moment, for the last time in my life; + And I told myself before I came to find you, `I shall tell him, + If I can, what I have learned of him since I became his wife.' + And if you say, as I've no doubt you will before I finish, + That you have tried unceasingly, with all your might and main, + To teach me, knowing more than I of what it was I needed, + Don't think, with all you may have thought, that you have tried in vain; + For you have taught me more than hides in all the shelves of knowledge + Of how little you found that's in me and was in me all along. + I believed, if I intruded nothing on you that I cared for, + I'd be half as much as horses, -- and it seems that I was wrong; + I believed there was enough of earth in me, with all my nonsense + Over things that made you sleepy, to keep something still awake; + But you taught me soon to read my book, and God knows I have read it -- + Ages longer than an angel would have read it for your sake. + I have said that you must open other doors than I have entered, + But I wondered while I said it if I might not be obscure. + Is there anything in all your pedigrees and inventories + With a value more elusive than a dollar's? Are you sure + That if I starve another year for you I shall be stronger + To endure another like it -- and another -- till I'm dead?" + + "Has your tame cat sold a picture? -- or more likely had a windfall? + Or for God's sake, what's broke loose? Have you a bee-hive in your head? + A little more of this from you will not be easy hearing. + Do you know that? Understand it, if you do; for if you won't. . . . + What the devil are you saying! Make believe you never said it, + And I'll say I never heard it. . . . Oh, you. . . . If you. . . ." + + "If I don't?" + + "There are men who say there's reason hidden somewhere in a woman, + But I doubt if God himself remembers where the key was hung." + + "He may not; for they say that even God himself is growing. + I wonder if he makes believe that he is growing young; + I wonder if he makes believe that women who are giving + All they have in holy loathing to a stranger all their lives + Are the wise ones who build houses in the Bible. . . ." + + "Stop -- you devil!" + + ". . . Or that souls are any whiter when their bodies are called wives. + If a dollar's worth of gold will hoop the walls of hell together, + Why need heaven be such a ruin of a place that never was? + And if at last I lied my starving soul away to nothing, + Are you sure you might not miss it? Have you come to such a pass + That you would have me longer in your arms if you discovered + That I made you into someone else. . . . Oh! . . . Well, there are + worse ways. + But why aim it at my feet -- unless you fear you may be sorry. . . . + There are many days ahead of you." + + "I do not see those days." + + "I can see them. Granted even I am wrong, there are the children. + And are they to praise their father for his insight if we die? + Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? + Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?" + + "Damn the children!" + + "Why? + What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, -- do it. . . . Do it now, + and have it over." + + "Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . ." + + "No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet -- + One who sees the end already of so much that one end more + Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion, + Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before. + But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther + For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight. + Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations + For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to shine tonight. + We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres, + On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell; + We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance, + And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well. + There! -- I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it. + Shut the drawer now. + No -- no -- don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop. + I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere, + and leave me. . . . + Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . God, will they never stop!" + + + + + Tasker Norcross + + "Whether all towns and all who live in them -- + So long as they be somewhere in this world + That we in our complacency call ours -- + Are more or less the same, I leave to you. + I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile, + We've all two legs -- and as for that, we haven't -- + There were three kinds of men where I was born: + The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross. + Now there are two kinds." + + "Meaning, as I divine, + Your friend is dead," I ventured. + + Ferguson, + Who talked himself at last out of the world + He censured, and is therefore silent now, + Agreed indifferently: "My friends are dead -- + Or most of them." + + "Remember one that isn't," + I said, protesting. "Honor him for his ears; + Treasure him also for his understanding." + Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again: + "You have an overgrown alacrity + For saying nothing much and hearing less; + And I've a thankless wonder, at the start, + How much it is to you that I shall tell + What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross, + And how much to the air that is around you. + But given a patience that is not averse + To the slow tragedies of haunted men -- + Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye + To know them at their firesides, or out walking, --" + + "Horrors," I said, "are my necessity; + And I would have them, for their best effect, + Always out walking." + + Ferguson frowned at me: + "The wisest of us are not those who laugh + Before they know. Most of us never know -- + Or the long toil of our mortality + Would not be done. Most of us never know -- + And there you have a reason to believe + In God, if you may have no other. Norcross, + Or so I gather of his infirmity, + Was given to know more than he should have known, + And only God knows why. See for yourself + An old house full of ghosts of ancestors, + Who did their best, or worst, and having done it, + Died honorably; and each with a distinction + That hardly would have been for him that had it, + Had honor failed him wholly as a friend. + Honor that is a friend begets a friend. + Whether or not we love him, still we have him; + And we must live somehow by what we have, + Or then we die. If you say chemistry, + Then you must have your molecules in motion, + And in their right abundance. Failing either, + You have not long to dance. Failing a friend, + A genius, or a madness, or a faith + Larger than desperation, you are here + For as much longer than you like as may be. + Imagining now, by way of an example, + Myself a more or less remembered phantom -- + Again, I should say less -- how many times + A day should I come back to you? No answer. + Forgive me when I seem a little careless, + But we must have examples, or be lucid + Without them; and I question your adherence + To such an undramatic narrative + As this of mine, without the personal hook." + + "A time is given in Ecclesiastes + For divers works," I told him. "Is there one + For saying nothing in return for nothing? + If not, there should be." I could feel his eyes, + And they were like two cold inquiring points + Of a sharp metal. When I looked again, + To see them shine, the cold that I had felt + Was gone to make way for a smouldering + Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then, + Could never quench with kindness or with lies. + I should have done whatever there was to do + For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned + In honesty for once around the clock + The loss of him, for my sake or for his, + Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve, + Had I the power and the unthinking will + To make him tread again without an aim + The road that was behind him -- and without + The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness + That he contended was imperative. + + After a silence that had been too long, + "It may be quite as well we don't," he said; + "As well, I mean, that we don't always say it. + You know best what I mean, and I suppose + You might have said it better. What was that? + Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible? + Well, it's a word; and a word has its use, + Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave. + It's a good word enough. Incorrigible, + May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross. + See for yourself that house of his again + That he called home: An old house, painted white, + Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb + To look at or to live in. There were trees -- + Too many of them, if such a thing may be -- + Before it and around it. Down in front + There was a road, a railroad, and a river; + Then there were hills behind it, and more trees. + The thing would fairly stare at you through trees, + Like a pale inmate out of a barred window + With a green shade half down; and I dare say + People who passed have said: `There's where he lives. + We know him, but we do not seem to know + That we remember any good of him, + Or any evil that is interesting. + There you have all we know and all we care.' + They might have said it in all sorts of ways; + And then, if they perceived a cat, they might + Or might not have remembered what they said. + The cat might have a personality -- + And maybe the same one the Lord left out + Of Tasker Norcross, who, for lack of it, + Saw the same sun go down year after year; + All which at last was my discovery. + And only mine, so far as evidence + Enlightens one more darkness. You have known + All round you, all your days, men who are nothing -- + Nothing, I mean, so far as time tells yet + Of any other need it has of them + Than to make sextons hardy -- but no less + Are to themselves incalculably something, + And therefore to be cherished. God, you see, + Being sorry for them in their fashioning, + Indemnified them with a quaint esteem + Of self, and with illusions long as life. + You know them well, and you have smiled at them; + And they, in their serenity, may have had + Their time to smile at you. Blessed are they + That see themselves for what they never were + Or were to be, and are, for their defect, + At ease with mirrors and the dim remarks + That pass their tranquil ears." + + "Come, come," said I; + "There may be names in your compendium + That we are not yet all on fire for shouting. + Skin most of us of our mediocrity, + We should have nothing then that we could scratch. + The picture smarts. Cover it, if you please, + And do so rather gently. Now for Norcross." + + Ferguson closed his eyes in resignation, + While a dead sigh came out of him. "Good God!" + He said, and said it only half aloud, + As if he knew no longer now, nor cared, + If one were there to listen: "Have I said nothing -- + Nothing at all -- of Norcross? Do you mean + To patronize him till his name becomes + A toy made out of letters? If a name + Is all you need, arrange an honest column + Of all the people you have ever known + That you have never liked. You'll have enough; + And you'll have mine, moreover. No, not yet. + If I assume too many privileges, + I pay, and I alone, for their assumption; + By which, if I assume a darker knowledge + Of Norcross than another, let the weight + Of my injustice aggravate the load + That is not on your shoulders. When I came + To know this fellow Norcross in his house, + I found him as I found him in the street -- + No more, no less; indifferent, but no better. + `Worse' were not quite the word: he was not bad; + He was not . . . well, he was not anything. + Has your invention ever entertained + The picture of a dusty worm so dry + That even the early bird would shake his head + And fly on farther for another breakfast?" + + "But why forget the fortune of the worm," + I said, "if in the dryness you deplore + Salvation centred and endured? Your Norcross + May have been one for many to have envied." + + "Salvation? Fortune? Would the worm say that? + He might; and therefore I dismiss the worm + With all dry things but one. Figures away, + Do you begin to see this man a little? + Do you begin to see him in the air, + With all the vacant horrors of his outline + For you to fill with more than it will hold? + If so, you needn't crown yourself at once + With epic laurel if you seem to fill it. + Horrors, I say, for in the fires and forks + Of a new hell -- if one were not enough -- + I doubt if a new horror would have held him + With a malignant ingenuity + More to be feared than his before he died. + You smile, as if in doubt. Well, smile again. + Now come into his house, along with me: + The four square sombre things that you see first + Around you are four walls that go as high + As to the ceiling. Norcross knew them well, + And he knew others like them. Fasten to that + With all the claws of your intelligence; + And hold the man before you in his house + As if he were a white rat in a box, + And one that knew himself to be no other. + I tell you twice that he knew all about it, + That you may not forget the worst of all + Our tragedies begin with what we know. + Could Norcross only not have known, I wonder + How many would have blessed and envied him! + Could he have had the usual eye for spots + On others, and for none upon himself, + I smile to ponder on the carriages + That might as well as not have clogged the town + In honor of his end. For there was gold, + You see, though all he needed was a little, + And what he gave said nothing of who gave it. + He would have given it all if in return + There might have been a more sufficient face + To greet him when he shaved. Though you insist + It is the dower, and always, of our degree + Not to be cursed with such invidious insight, + Remember that you stand, you and your fancy, + Now in his house; and since we are together, + See for yourself and tell me what you see. + Tell me the best you see. Make a slight noise + Of recognition when you find a book + That you would not as lief read upside down + As otherwise, for example. If there you fail, + Observe the walls and lead me to the place, + Where you are led. If there you meet a picture + That holds you near it for a longer time + Than you are sorry, you may call it yours, + And hang it in the dark of your remembrance, + Where Norcross never sees. How can he see + That has no eyes to see? And as for music, + He paid with empty wonder for the pangs + Of his infrequent forced endurance of it; + And having had no pleasure, paid no more + For needless immolation, or for the sight + Of those who heard what he was never to hear. + To see them listening was itself enough + To make him suffer; and to watch worn eyes, + On other days, of strangers who forgot + Their sorrows and their failures and themselves + Before a few mysterious odds and ends + Of marble carted from the Parthenon -- + And all for seeing what he was never to see, + Because it was alive and he was dead -- + Here was a wonder that was more profound + Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns. + + "He knew, and in his knowledge there was death. + He knew there was a region all around him + That lay outside man's havoc and affairs, + And yet was not all hostile to their tumult, + Where poets would have served and honored him, + And saved him, had there been anything to save. + But there was nothing, and his tethered range + Was only a small desert. Kings of song + Are not for thrones in deserts. Towers of sound + And flowers of sense are but a waste of heaven + Where there is none to know them from the rocks + And sand-grass of his own monotony + That makes earth less than earth. He could see that, + And he could see no more. The captured light + That may have been or not, for all he cared, + The song that is in sculpture was not his, + But only, to his God-forgotten eyes, + One more immortal nonsense in a world + Where all was mortal, or had best be so, + And so be done with. `Art,' he would have said, + `Is not life, and must therefore be a lie;' + And with a few profundities like that + He would have controverted and dismissed + The benefit of the Greeks. He had heard of them, + As he had heard of his aspiring soul -- + Never to the perceptible advantage, + In his esteem, of either. `Faith,' he said, + Or would have said if he had thought of it, + `Lives in the same house with Philosophy, + Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn + As orphans after war. He could see stars, + On a clear night, but he had not an eye + To see beyond them. He could hear spoken words, + But had no ear for silence when alone. + He could eat food of which he knew the savor, + But had no palate for the Bread of Life, + That human desperation, to his thinking, + Made famous long ago, having no other. + Now do you see? Do you begin to see?" + + I told him that I did begin to see; + And I was nearer than I should have been + To laughing at his malign inclusiveness, + When I considered that, with all our speed, + We are not laughing yet at funerals. + I see him now as I could see him then, + And I see now that it was good for me, + As it was good for him, that I was quiet; + For Time's eye was on Ferguson, and the shaft + Of its inquiring hesitancy had touched him, + Or so I chose to fancy more than once + Before he told of Norcross. When the word + Of his release (he would have called it so) + Made half an inch of news, there were no tears + That are recorded. Women there may have been + To wish him back, though I should say, not knowing, + The few there were to mourn were not for love, + And were not lovely. Nothing of them, at least, + Was in the meagre legend that I gathered + Years after, when a chance of travel took me + So near the region of his nativity + That a few miles of leisure brought me there; + For there I found a friendly citizen + Who led me to his house among the trees + That were above a railroad and a river. + Square as a box and chillier than a tomb + It was indeed, to look at or to live in -- + All which had I been told. "Ferguson died," + The stranger said, "and then there was an auction. + I live here, but I've never yet been warm. + Remember him? Yes, I remember him. + I knew him -- as a man may know a tree -- + For twenty years. He may have held himself + A little high when he was here, but now . . . + Yes, I remember Ferguson. Oh, yes." + Others, I found, remembered Ferguson, + But none of them had heard of Tasker Norcross. + + + + + A Song at Shannon's + + Two men came out of Shannon's having known + The faces of each other for as long + As they had listened there to an old song, + Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone + By some unhappy night-bird, who had flown + Too many times and with a wing too strong + To save himself, and so done heavy wrong + To more frail elements than his alone. + + Slowly away they went, leaving behind + More light than was before them. Neither met + The other's eyes again or said a word. + Each to his loneliness or to his kind, + Went his own way, and with his own regret, + Not knowing what the other may have heard. + + + + + Souvenir + + A vanished house that for an hour I knew + By some forgotten chance when I was young + Had once a glimmering window overhung + With honeysuckle wet with evening dew. + Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew, + And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung + Ferociously; and over me, among + The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew. + + Somewhere within there were dim presences + Of days that hovered and of years gone by. + I waited, and between their silences + There was an evanescent faded noise; + And though a child, I knew it was the voice + Of one whose occupation was to die. + + + + + Discovery + + We told of him as one who should have soared + And seen for us the devastating light + Whereof there is not either day or night, + And shared with us the glamour of the Word + That fell once upon Amos to record + For men at ease in Zion, when the sight + Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might + Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord. + + Assured somehow that he would make us wise, + Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise + Was hard when we confessed the dry return + Of his regret. For we were still to learn + That earth has not a school where we may go + For wisdom, or for more than we may know. + + + + + Firelight + + Ten years together without yet a cloud, + They seek each other's eyes at intervals + Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls + For love's obliteration of the crowd. + Serenely and perennially endowed + And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls + No snake, no sword; and over them there falls + The blessing of what neither says aloud. + + Wiser for silence, they were not so glad + Were she to read the graven tale of lines + On the wan face of one somewhere alone; + Nor were they more content could he have had + Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines + Apart, and would be hers if he had known. + + + + + The New Tenants + + The day was here when it was his to know + How fared the barriers he had built between + His triumph and his enemies unseen, + For them to undermine and overthrow; + And it was his no longer to forego + The sight of them, insidious and serene, + Where they were delving always and had been + Left always to be vicious and to grow. + + And there were the new tenants who had come, + By doors that were left open unawares, + Into his house, and were so much at home + There now that he would hardly have to guess, + By the slow guile of their vindictiveness, + What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs. + + + + + Inferential + + Although I saw before me there the face + Of one whom I had honored among men + The least, and on regarding him again + Would not have had him in another place, + He fitted with an unfamiliar grace + The coffin where I could not see him then + As I had seen him and appraised him when + I deemed him unessential to the race. + + For there was more of him than what I saw. + And there was on me more than the old awe + That is the common genius of the dead. + I might as well have heard him: "Never mind; + If some of us were not so far behind, + The rest of us were not so far ahead." + + + + + The Rat + + As often as he let himself be seen + We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored + The inscrutable profusion of the Lord + Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean -- + Who made him human when he might have been + A rat, and so been wholly in accord + With any other creature we abhorred + As always useless and not always clean. + + Now he is hiding all alone somewhere, + And in a final hole not ready then; + For now he is among those over there + Who are not coming back to us again. + And we who do the fiction of our share + Say less of rats and rather more of men. + + + + + Rahel to Varnhagen + +Note. -- Rahel Robert and Varnhagen von Ense were married, +after many protestations on her part, in 1814. The marriage -- so far +as he was concerned, at any rate -- appears to have been satisfactory. + + Now you have read them all; or if not all, + As many as in all conscience I should fancy + To be enough. There are no more of them -- + Or none to burn your sleep, or to bring dreams + Of devils. If these are not sufficient, surely + You are a strange young man. I might live on + Alone, and for another forty years, + Or not quite forty, -- are you happier now? -- + Always to ask if there prevailed elsewhere + Another like yourself that would have held + These aged hands as long as you have held them, + Not once observing, for all I can see, + How they are like your mother's. Well, you have read + His letters now, and you have heard me say + That in them are the cinders of a passion + That was my life; and you have not yet broken + Your way out of my house, out of my sight, -- + Into the street. You are a strange young man. + I know as much as that of you, for certain; + And I'm already praying, for your sake, + That you be not too strange. Too much of that + May lead you bye and bye through gloomy lanes + To a sad wilderness, where one may grope + Alone, and always, or until he feels + Ferocious and invisible animals + That wait for men and eat them in the dark. + Why do you sit there on the floor so long, + Smiling at me while I try to be solemn? + Do you not hear it said for your salvation, + When I say truth? Are you, at four and twenty, + So little deceived in us that you interpret + The humor of a woman to be noticed + As her choice between you and Acheron? + Are you so unscathed yet as to infer + That if a woman worries when a man, + Or a man-child, has wet shoes on his feet + She may as well commemorate with ashes + The last eclipse of her tranquillity? + If you look up at me and blink again, + I shall not have to make you tell me lies + To know the letters you have not been reading. + I see now that I may have had for nothing + A most unpleasant shivering in my conscience + When I laid open for your contemplation + The wealth of my worn casket. If I did, + The fault was not yours wholly. Search again + This wreckage we may call for sport a face, + And you may chance upon the price of havoc + That I have paid for a few sorry stones + That shine and have no light -- yet once were stars, + And sparkled on a crown. Little and weak + They seem; and they are cold, I fear, for you. + But they that once were fire for me may not + Be cold again for me until I die; + And only God knows if they may be then. + There is a love that ceases to be love + In being ourselves. How, then, are we to lose it? + You that are sure that you know everything + There is to know of love, answer me that. + Well? . . . You are not even interested. + + Once on a far off time when I was young, + I felt with your assurance, and all through me, + That I had undergone the last and worst + Of love's inventions. There was a boy who brought + The sun with him and woke me up with it, + And that was every morning; every night + I tried to dream of him, but never could, + More than I might have seen in Adam's eyes + Their fond uncertainty when Eve began + The play that all her tireless progeny + Are not yet weary of. One scene of it + Was brief, but was eternal while it lasted; + And that was while I was the happiest + Of an imaginary six or seven, + Somewhere in history but not on earth, + For whom the sky had shaken and let stars + Rain down like diamonds. Then there were clouds, + And a sad end of diamonds; whereupon + Despair came, like a blast that would have brought + Tears to the eyes of all the bears in Finland, + And love was done. That was how much I knew. + Poor little wretch! I wonder where he is + This afternoon. Out of this rain, I hope. + + At last, when I had seen so many days + Dressed all alike, and in their marching order, + Go by me that I would not always count them, + One stopped -- shattering the whole file of Time, + Or so it seemed; and when I looked again, + There was a man. He struck once with his eyes, + And then there was a woman. I, who had come + To wisdom, or to vision, or what you like, + By the old hidden road that has no name, -- + I, who was used to seeing without flying + So much that others fly from without seeing, + Still looked, and was afraid, and looked again. + And after that, when I had read the story + Told in his eyes, and felt within my heart + The bleeding wound of their necessity, + I knew the fear was his. If I had failed him + And flown away from him, I should have lost + Ingloriously my wings in scrambling back, + And found them arms again. If he had struck me + Not only with his eyes but with his hands, + I might have pitied him and hated love, + And then gone mad. I, who have been so strong -- + Why don't you laugh? -- might even have done all that. + I, who have learned so much, and said so much, + And had the commendations of the great + For one who rules herself -- why don't you cry? -- + And own a certain small authority + Among the blind, who see no more than ever, + But like my voice, -- I would have tossed it all + To Tophet for one man; and he was jealous. + I would have wound a snake around my neck + And then have let it bite me till I died, + If my so doing would have made me sure + That one man might have lived; and he was jealous. + I would have driven these hands into a cage + That held a thousand scorpions, and crushed them, + If only by so poisonous a trial + I could have crushed his doubt. I would have wrung + My living blood with mediaeval engines + Out of my screaming flesh, if only that + Would have made one man sure. I would have paid + For him the tiresome price of body and soul, + And let the lash of a tongue-weary town + Fall as it might upon my blistered name; + And while it fell I could have laughed at it, + Knowing that he had found out finally + Where the wrong was. But there was evil in him + That would have made no more of his possession + Than confirmation of another fault; + And there was honor -- if you call it honor + That hoods itself with doubt and wears a crown + Of lead that might as well be gold and fire. + Give it as heavy or as light a name + As any there is that fits. I see myself + Without the power to swear to this or that + That I might be if he had been without it. + Whatever I might have been that I was not, + It only happened that it wasn't so. + Meanwhile, you might seem to be listening: + If you forget yourself and go to sleep, + My treasure, I shall not say this again. + Look up once more into my poor old face, + Where you see beauty, or the Lord knows what, + And say to me aloud what else there is + Than ruins in it that you most admire. + + No, there was never anything like that; + Nature has never fastened such a mask + Of radiant and impenetrable merit + On any woman as you say there is + On this one. Not a mask? I thank you, sir, + But you see more with your determination, + I fear, than with your prudence or your conscience; + And you have never met me with my eyes + In all the mirrors I've made faces at. + No, I shall never call you strange again: + You are the young and inconvincible + Epitome of all blind men since Adam. + May the blind lead the blind, if that be so? + And we shall need no mirrors? You are saying + What most I feared you might. But if the blind, + Or one of them, be not so fortunate + As to put out the eyes of recollection, + She might at last, without her meaning it, + Lead on the other, without his knowing it, + Until the two of them should lose themselves + Among dead craters in a lava-field + As empty as a desert on the moon. + I am not speaking in a theatre, + But in a room so real and so familiar + That sometimes I would wreck it. Then I pause, + Remembering there is a King in Weimar -- + A monarch, and a poet, and a shepherd + Of all who are astray and are outside + The realm where they should rule. I think of him, + And save the furniture; I think of you, + And am forlorn, finding in you the one + To lavish aspirations and illusions + Upon a faded and forsaken house + Where love, being locked alone, was nigh to burning + House and himself together. Yes, you are strange, + To see in such an injured architecture + Room for new love to live in. Are you laughing? + No? Well, you are not crying, as you should be. + Tears, even if they told only gratitude + For your escape, and had no other story, + Were surely more becoming than a smile + For my unwomanly straightforwardness + In seeing for you, through my close gate of years + Your forty ways to freedom. Why do you smile? + And while I'm trembling at my faith in you + In giving you to read this book of danger + That only one man living might have written -- + These letters, which have been a part of me + So long that you may read them all again + As often as you look into my face, + And hear them when I speak to you, and feel them + Whenever you have to touch me with your hand, -- + Why are you so unwilling to be spared? + Why do you still believe in me? But no, + I'll find another way to ask you that. + I wonder if there is another way + That says it better, and means anything. + There is no other way that could be worse? + I was not asking you; it was myself + Alone that I was asking. Why do I dip + For lies, when there is nothing in my well + But shining truth, you say? How do you know? + Truth has a lonely life down where she lives; + And many a time, when she comes up to breathe, + She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples. + Possibly you may know no more of me + Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone, + Leaving you then with all my shining truth + Drowned in a shining water; and when you look + You may not see me there, but something else + That never was a woman -- being yourself. + You say to me my truth is past all drowning, + And safe with you for ever? You know all that? + How do you know all that, and who has told you? + You know so much that I'm an atom frightened + Because you know so little. And what is this? + You know the luxury there is in haunting + The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion -- + If that's your name for them -- with only ghosts + For company? You know that when a woman + Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience + (Another name of yours for a bad temper) + She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it + (That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it), + Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby + Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom, + Given in vain to make a food for those + Who are without it, will be seen at last, + And even at last only by those who gave it, + As one or more of the forgotten crumbs + That others leave? You know that men's applause + And women's envy savor so much of dust + That I go hungry, having at home no fare + But the same changeless bread that I may swallow + Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that? + You know that if I read, and read alone, + Too many books that no men yet have written, + I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself, + Of all insistent and insidious creatures, + To be the one to save me, and to guard + For me their flaming language? And you know + That if I give much headway to the whim + That's in me never to be quite sure that even + Through all those years of storm and fire I waited + For this one rainy day, I may go on, + And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes, + To a cold end? You know so dismal much + As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do. + + + + + Nimmo + + Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive + At such a false and florid and far drawn + Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive + No longer, though I may have led you on. + + So much is told and heard and told again, + So many with his legend are engrossed, + That I, more sorry now than I was then, + May live on to be sorry for his ghost. + + You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, -- + How deep they were, and what a velvet light + Came out of them when anger or surprise, + Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright. + + No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, -- + And you say nothing of them. Very well. + I wonder if all history's worth a wink, + Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell. + + For they began to lose their velvet light; + Their fire grew dead without and small within; + And many of you deplored the needless fight + That somewhere in the dark there must have been. + + All fights are needless, when they're not our own, + But Nimmo and Francesca never fought. + Remember that; and when you are alone, + Remember me -- and think what I have thought. + + Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was, + Or never was, or could or could not be: + Bring not suspicion's candle to the glass + That mirrors a friend's face to memory. + + Of what you see, see all, -- but see no more; + For what I show you here will not be there. + The devil has had his way with paint before, + And he's an artist, -- and you needn't stare. + + There was a painter and he painted well: + He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den, + Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell. + I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again. + + The painter put the devil in those eyes, + Unless the devil did, and there he stayed; + And then the lady fled from paradise, + And there's your fact. The lady was afraid. + + She must have been afraid, or may have been, + Of evil in their velvet all the while; + But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin, + I'll trust the man as long as he can smile. + + I trust him who can smile and then may live + In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today. + God knows if I have more than men forgive + To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay. + + I knew him then, and if I know him yet, + I know in him, defeated and estranged, + The calm of men forbidden to forget + The calm of women who have loved and changed. + + But there are ways that are beyond our ways, + Or he would not be calm and she be mute, + As one by one their lost and empty days + Pass without even the warmth of a dispute. + + God help us all when women think they see; + God save us when they do. I'm fair; but though + I know him only as he looks to me, + I know him, -- and I tell Francesca so. + + And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask + Of him, could you but see him as I can, + At his bewildered and unfruitful task + Of being what he was born to be -- a man. + + Better forget that I said anything + Of what your tortured memory may disclose; + I know him, and your worst remembering + Would count as much as nothing, I suppose. + + Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way + Of trusting me, as always in his youth. + I'm painting here a better man, you say, + Than I, the painter; and you say the truth. + + + + + Peace on Earth + + He took a frayed hat from his head, + And "Peace on Earth" was what he said. + "A morsel out of what you're worth, + And there we have it: Peace on Earth. + Not much, although a little more + Than what there was on earth before. + I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, -- + But never mind the ways I've trod; + I'm sober now, so help me God." + + I could not pass the fellow by. + "Do you believe in God?" said I; + "And is there to be Peace on Earth?" + + "Tonight we celebrate the birth," + He said, "of One who died for men; + The Son of God, we say. What then? + Your God, or mine? I'd make you laugh + Were I to tell you even half + That I have learned of mine today + Where yours would hardly seem to stay. + Could He but follow in and out + Some anthropoids I know about, + The God to whom you may have prayed + Might see a world He never made." + + "Your words are flowing full," said I; + "But yet they give me no reply; + Your fountain might as well be dry." + + "A wiser One than you, my friend, + Would wait and hear me to the end; + And for His eyes a light would shine + Through this unpleasant shell of mine + That in your fancy makes of me + A Christmas curiosity. + All right, I might be worse than that; + And you might now be lying flat; + I might have done it from behind, + And taken what there was to find. + Don't worry, for I'm not that kind. + `Do I believe in God?' Is that + The price tonight of a new hat? + Has He commanded that His name + Be written everywhere the same? + Have all who live in every place + Identified His hidden face? + Who knows but He may like as well + My story as one you may tell? + And if He show me there be Peace + On Earth, as there be fields and trees + Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong + If now I sing Him a new song? + Your world is in yourself, my friend, + For your endurance to the end; + And all the Peace there is on Earth + Is faith in what your world is worth, + And saying, without any lies, + Your world could not be otherwise." + + "One might say that and then be shot," + I told him; and he said: "Why not?" + I ceased, and gave him rather more + Than he was counting of my store. + "And since I have it, thanks to you, + Don't ask me what I mean to do," + Said he. "Believe that even I + Would rather tell the truth than lie -- + On Christmas Eve. No matter why." + + His unshaved, educated face, + His inextinguishable grace, + And his hard smile, are with me still, + Deplore the vision as I will; + For whatsoever he be at, + So droll a derelict as that + Should have at least another hat. + + + + + Late Summer + + (Alcaics) + + Confused, he found her lavishing feminine + Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; + And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors + Be as they were, without end, her playthings? + + And why were dead years hungrily telling her + Lies of the dead, who told them again to her? + If now she knew, there might be kindness + Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled. + + A little faith in him, and the ruinous + Past would be for time to annihilate, + And wash out, like a tide that washes + Out of the sand what a child has drawn there. + + God, what a shining handful of happiness, + Made out of days and out of eternities, + Were now the pulsing end of patience -- + Could he but have what a ghost had stolen! + + What was a man before him, or ten of them, + While he was here alive who could answer them, + And in their teeth fling confirmations + Harder than agates against an egg-shell? + + But now the man was dead, and would come again + Never, though she might honor ineffably + The flimsy wraith of him she conjured + Out of a dream with his wand of absence. + + And if the truth were now but a mummery, + Meriting pride's implacable irony, + So much the worse for pride. Moreover, + Save her or fail, there was conscience always. + + Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, + Imploring to be sheltered and credited, + Were not amiss when she revealed them. + Whether she struggled or not, he saw them. + + Also, he saw that while she was hearing him + Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; + And while he told what cautious honor + Told him was all he had best be sure of, + + He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, + Where shifting winds were driving his argosies, + Long anchored and as long unladen, + Over the foam for the golden chances. + + "If men were not for killing so carelessly, + And women were for wiser endurances," + He said, "we might have yet a world here + Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in; + + "If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness, + And we were less forbidden to look at it, + We might not have to look." He stared then + Down at the sand where the tide threw forward + + Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly + Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough, + Although he knew he might be silenced + Out of all calm; and the night was coming. + + "I climb for you the peak of his infamy + That you may choose your fall if you cling to it. + No more for me unless you say more. + All you have left of a dream defends you: + + "The truth may be as evil an augury + As it was needful now for the two of us. + We cannot have the dead between us. + Tell me to go, and I go." -- She pondered: + + "What you believe is right for the two of us + Makes it as right that you are not one of us. + If this be needful truth you tell me, + Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter." + + She gazed away where shadows were covering + The whole cold ocean's healing indifference. + No ship was coming. When the darkness + Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing. + + + + + An Evangelist's Wife + + "Why am I not myself these many days, + You ask? And have you nothing more to ask? + I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise + To God for giving you me to share your task? + + "Jealous -- of Her? Because her cheeks are pink, + And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven. + If you should only steal an hour to think, + Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven. + + "No, you are never cruel. If once or twice + I found you so, I could applaud and sing. + Jealous of -- What? You are not very wise. + Does not the good Book tell you anything? + + "In David's time poor Michal had to go. + Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so." + + + + + The Old King's New Jester + + You that in vain would front the coming order + With eyes that meet forlornly what they must, + And only with a furtive recognition + See dust where there is dust, -- + Be sure you like it always in your faces, + Obscuring your best graces, + Blinding your speech and sight, + Before you seek again your dusty places + Where the old wrong seems right. + + Longer ago than cave-men had their changes + Our fathers may have slain a son or two, + Discouraging a further dialectic + Regarding what was new; + And after their unstudied admonition + Occasional contrition + For their old-fashioned ways + May have reduced their doubts, and in addition + Softened their final days. + + Farther away than feet shall ever travel + Are the vague towers of our unbuilded State; + But there are mightier things than we to lead us, + That will not let us wait. + And we go on with none to tell us whether + Or not we've each a tether + Determining how fast or far we go; + And it is well, since we must go together, + That we are not to know. + + If the old wrong and all its injured glamour + Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace, + You may as well, agreeably and serenely, + Give the new wrong its lease; + For should you nourish a too fervid yearning + For what is not returning, + The vicious and unfused ingredient + May give you qualms -- and one or two concerning + The last of your content. + + + + + Lazarus + + "No, Mary, there was nothing -- not a word. + Nothing, and always nothing. Go again + Yourself, and he may listen -- or at least + Look up at you, and let you see his eyes. + I might as well have been the sound of rain, + A wind among the cedars, or a bird; + Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you; + And even if he should say that we are nothing, + To know that you have heard him will be something. + And yet he loved us, and it was for love + The Master gave him back. Why did He wait + So long before He came? Why did He weep? + I thought He would be glad -- and Lazarus -- + To see us all again as He had left us -- + All as it was, all as it was before." + + Mary, who felt her sister's frightened arms + Like those of someone drowning who had seized her, + Fearing at last they were to fail and sink + Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness, + Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes, + To find again the fading shores of home + That she had seen but now could see no longer. + Now she could only gaze into the twilight, + And in the dimness know that he was there, + Like someone that was not. He who had been + Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive + Only in death again -- or worse than death; + For tombs at least, always until today, + Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain + For man or God in such a day as this; + For there they were alone, and there was he -- + Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany, + The Master -- who had come to them so late, + Only for love of them and then so slowly, + And was for their sake hunted now by men + Who feared Him as they feared no other prey -- + For the world's sake was hidden. "Better the tomb + For Lazarus than life, if this be life," + She thought; and then to Martha, "No, my dear," + She said aloud; "not as it was before. + Nothing is ever as it was before, + Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time; + And we that are so lonely and so far + From home, since he is with us here again, + Are farther now from him and from ourselves + Than we are from the stars. He will not speak + Until the spirit that is in him speaks; + And we must wait for all we are to know, + Or even to learn that we are not to know. + Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge, + And that is why it is that we must wait. + Our friends are coming if we call for them, + And there are covers we'll put over him + To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps, + To say that we know better what is best + Than he. We do not know how old he is. + If you remember what the Master said, + Try to believe that we need have no fear. + Let me, the selfish and the careless one, + Be housewife and a mother for tonight; + For I am not so fearful as you are, + And I was not so eager." + + Martha sank + Down at her sister's feet and there sat watching + A flower that had a small familiar name + That was as old as memory, but was not + The name of what she saw now in its brief + And infinite mystery that so frightened her + That life became a terror. Tears again + Flooded her eyes and overflowed. "No, Mary," + She murmured slowly, hating her own words + Before she heard them, "you are not so eager + To see our brother as we see him now; + Neither is He who gave him back to us. + I was to be the simple one, as always, + And this was all for me." She stared again + Over among the trees where Lazarus, + Who seemed to be a man who was not there, + Might have been one more shadow among shadows, + If she had not remembered. Then she felt + The cool calm hands of Mary on her face, + And shivered, wondering if such hands were real. + + "The Master loved you as He loved us all, + Martha; and you are saying only things + That children say when they have had no sleep. + Try somehow now to rest a little while; + You know that I am here, and that our friends + Are coming if I call." + + Martha at last + Arose, and went with Mary to the door, + Where they stood looking off at the same place, + And at the same shape that was always there + As if it would not ever move or speak, + And always would be there. "Mary, go now, + Before the dark that will be coming hides him. + I am afraid of him out there alone, + Unless I see him; and I have forgotten + What sleep is. Go now -- make him look at you -- + And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers. + Go! -- or I'll scream and bring all Bethany + To come and make him speak. Make him say once + That he is glad, and God may say the rest. + Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever, + I shall not care for that . . . Go!" + + Mary, moving + Almost as if an angry child had pushed her, + Went forward a few steps; and having waited + As long as Martha's eyes would look at hers, + Went forward a few more, and a few more; + And so, until she came to Lazarus, + Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands, + Like one that had no face. Before she spoke, + Feeling her sister's eyes that were behind her + As if the door where Martha stood were now + As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned + Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly, + Fearing him not so much as wondering + What his first word might be, said, "Lazarus, + Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;" + And having spoken, pitied her poor speech + That had so little seeming gladness in it, + So little comfort, and so little love. + + There was no sign from him that he had heard, + Or that he knew that she was there, or cared + Whether she spoke to him again or died + There at his feet. "We love you, Lazarus, + And we are not afraid. The Master said + We need not be afraid. Will you not say + To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus! + Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary." + + She found his hands and held them. They were cool, + Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers. + Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him + When he had groped out of that awful sleep, + She felt him trembling and she was afraid. + At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily + To God that she might have again the voice + Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now + The recognition of a living pressure + That was almost a language. When he spoke, + Only one word that she had waited for + Came from his lips, and that word was her name. + + "I heard them saying, Mary, that He wept + Before I woke." The words were low and shaken, + Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them + Was Lazarus; and that would be enough + Until there should be more . . . "Who made Him come, + That He should weep for me? . . . Was it you, Mary?" + The questions held in his incredulous eyes + Were more than she would see. She looked away; + But she had felt them and should feel for ever, + She thought, their cold and lonely desperation + That had the bitterness of all cold things + That were not cruel. "I should have wept," he said, + "If I had been the Master. . . ." + + Now she could feel + His hands above her hair -- the same black hair + That once he made a jest of, praising it, + While Martha's busy eyes had left their work + To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that + Was to be theirs again; and such a thought + Was like the flying by of a quick bird + Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight. + For now she felt his hands upon her head, + Like weights of kindness: "I forgive you, Mary. . . . + You did not know -- Martha could not have known -- + Only the Master knew. . . . Where is He now? + Yes, I remember. They came after Him. + May the good God forgive Him. . . . I forgive Him. + I must; and I may know only from Him + The burden of all this. . . . Martha was here -- + But I was not yet here. She was afraid. . . . + Why did He do it, Mary? Was it -- you? + Was it for you? . . . Where are the friends I saw? + Yes, I remember. They all went away. + I made them go away. . . . Where is He now? . . . + What do I see down there? Do I see Martha -- + Down by the door? . . . I must have time for this." + + Lazarus looked about him fearfully, + And then again at Mary, who discovered + Awakening apprehension in his eyes, + And shivered at his feet. All she had feared + Was here; and only in the slow reproach + Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude. + Why had he asked if it was all for her + That he was here? And what had Martha meant? + Why had the Master waited? What was coming + To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come? + What had the Master seen before He came, + That He had come so late? + + "Where is He, Mary?" + Lazarus asked again. "Where did He go?" + Once more he gazed about him, and once more + At Mary for an answer. "Have they found Him? + Or did He go away because He wished + Never to look into my eyes again? . . . + That, I could understand. . . . Where is He, Mary?" + + "I do not know," she said. "Yet in my heart + I know that He is living, as you are living -- + Living, and here. He is not far from us. + He will come back to us and find us all -- + Lazarus, Martha, Mary -- everything -- + All as it was before. Martha said that. + And He said we were not to be afraid." + Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face + A tortured adumbration of a smile + Flickered an instant. "All as it was before," + He murmured wearily. "Martha said that; + And He said you were not to be afraid . . . + Not you . . . Not you . . . Why should you be afraid? + Give all your little fears, and Martha's with them, + To me; and I will add them unto mine, + Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret." + + "If you had frightened me in other ways, + Not willing it," Mary said, "I should have known + You still for Lazarus. But who is this? + Tell me again that you are Lazarus; + And tell me if the Master gave to you + No sign of a new joy that shall be coming + To this house that He loved. Are you afraid? + Are you afraid, who have felt everything -- + And seen . . . ?" + + But Lazarus only shook his head, + Staring with his bewildered shining eyes + Hard into Mary's face. "I do not know, + Mary," he said, after a long time. + "When I came back, I knew the Master's eyes + Were looking into mine. I looked at His, + And there was more in them than I could see. + At first I could see nothing but His eyes; + Nothing else anywhere was to be seen -- + Only His eyes. And they looked into mine -- + Long into mine, Mary, as if He knew." + + Mary began to be afraid of words + As she had never been afraid before + Of loneliness or darkness, or of death, + But now she must have more of them or die: + "He cannot know that there is worse than death," + She said. "And you . . ." + + "Yes, there is worse than death." + Said Lazarus; "and that was what He knew; + And that is what it was that I could see + This morning in his eyes. I was afraid, + But not as you are. There is worse than death, + Mary; and there is nothing that is good + For you in dying while you are still here. + Mary, never go back to that again. + You would not hear me if I told you more, + For I should say it only in a language + That you are not to learn by going back. + To be a child again is to go forward -- + And that is much to know. Many grow old, + And fade, and go away, not knowing how much + That is to know. Mary, the night is coming, + And there will soon be darkness all around you. + Let us go down where Martha waits for us, + And let there be light shining in this house." + + He rose, but Mary would not let him go: + "Martha, when she came back from here, said only + That she heard nothing. And have you no more + For Mary now than you had then for Martha? + Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me? + Was Nothing all you found where you have been? + If that be so, what is there worse than that -- + Or better -- if that be so? And why should you, + With even our love, go the same dark road over?" + + "I could not answer that, if that were so," + Said Lazarus, -- "not even if I were God. + Why should He care whether I came or stayed, + If that were so? Why should the Master weep -- + For me, or for the world, -- or save Himself + Longer for nothing? And if that were so, + Why should a few years' more mortality + Make Him a fugitive where flight were needless, + Had He but held his peace and given his nod + To an old Law that would be new as any? + I cannot say the answer to all that; + Though I may say that He is not afraid, + And that it is not for the joy there is + In serving an eternal Ignorance + Of our futility that He is here. + Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing? + Is that what you are fearing? If that be so, + There are more weeds than lentils in your garden. + And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest + May as well have no garden; for not there + Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts + Of life that are to save him. For my part, + I am again with you, here among shadows + That will not always be so dark as this; + Though now I see there's yet an evil in me + That made me let you be afraid of me. + No, I was not afraid -- not even of life. + I thought I was . . . I must have time for this; + And all the time there is will not be long. + I cannot tell you what the Master saw + This morning in my eyes. I do not know. + I cannot yet say how far I have gone, + Or why it is that I am here again, + Or where the old road leads. I do not know. + I know that when I did come back, I saw + His eyes again among the trees and faces -- + Only His eyes; and they looked into mine -- + Long into mine -- long, long, as if He knew." + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Taverns, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE TAVERNS *** + +***** This file should be named 1040.txt or 1040.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/4/1040/ + +Produced by Alan R. Light. 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To assure a high quality text, +the original was typed in (manually) twice and electronically compared. + + + + + +The Three Taverns +A Book of Poems +By Edwin Arlington Robinson [American (Maine) Poet. 1869-1935.] + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED. +Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation +is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + + + + +The Three Taverns +A Book of Poems +By Edwin Arlington Robinson +Author of "The Man Against the Sky", "Merlin, A Poem", etc. + + + + +To THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY and LILLA CABOT PERRY + + + + +Contents + + + +The Valley of the Shadow +The Wandering Jew +Neighbors +The Mill +The Dark Hills +The Three Taverns +Demos I +Demos II +The Flying Dutchman +Tact +On the Way +John Brown +The False Gods +Archibald's Example +London Bridge +Tasker Norcross +A Song at Shannon's +Souvenir +Discovery +Firelight +The New Tenants +Inferential +The Rat +Rahel to Varnhagen +Nimmo +Peace on Earth +Late Summer +An Evangelist's Wife +The Old King's New Jester +Lazarus + + +Several poems included in this book appeared originally +in American periodicals, as follows: The Three Taverns, London Bridge, +A Song at Shannon's, The New Tenants, Discovery, John Brown; +Archibald's Example, The Valley of the Shadow; Nimmo; The Wandering Jew, +Souvenir; Neighbors, Tact; Demos; The Mill, An Evangelist's Wife; +Firelight; Late Summer; Inferential; The Flying Dutchman; +On the Way, The False Gods; Peace on Earth; The Old King's New Jester. + + + + + + ------------------- + The Three Taverns + ------------------- + + + + + +The Valley of the Shadow + + + +There were faces to remember in the Valley of the Shadow, +There were faces unregarded, there were faces to forget; +There were fires of grief and fear that are a few forgotten ashes, +There were sparks of recognition that are not forgotten yet. +For at first, with an amazed and overwhelming indignation +At a measureless malfeasance that obscurely willed it thus, +They were lost and unacquainted -- till they found themselves in others, +Who had groped as they were groping where dim ways were perilous. + +There were lives that were as dark as are the fears and intuitions +Of a child who knows himself and is alone with what he knows; +There were pensioners of dreams and there were debtors of illusions, +All to fail before the triumph of a weed that only grows. +There were thirsting heirs of golden sieves that held not wine or water, +And had no names in traffic or more value there than toys: +There were blighted sons of wonder in the Valley of the Shadow, +Where they suffered and still wondered why their wonder made no noise. + +There were slaves who dragged the shackles of a precedent unbroken, +Demonstrating the fulfilment of unalterable schemes, +Which had been, before the cradle, Time's inexorable tenants +Of what were now the dusty ruins of their father's dreams. +There were these, and there were many who had stumbled up to manhood, +Where they saw too late the road they should have taken long ago: +There were thwarted clerks and fiddlers in the Valley of the Shadow, +The commemorative wreckage of what others did not know. + +And there were daughters older than the mothers who had borne them, +Being older in their wisdom, which is older than the earth; +And they were going forward only farther into darkness, +Unrelieved as were the blasting obligations of their birth; +And among them, giving always what was not for their possession, +There were maidens, very quiet, with no quiet in their eyes: +There were daughters of the silence in the Valley of the Shadow, +Each an isolated item in the family sacrifice. + +There were creepers among catacombs where dull regrets were torches, +Giving light enough to show them what was there upon the shelves -- +Where there was more for them to see than pleasure would remember +Of something that had been alive and once had been themselves. +There were some who stirred the ruins with a solid imprecation, +While as many fled repentance for the promise of despair: +There were drinkers of wrong waters in the Valley of the Shadow, +And all the sparkling ways were dust that once had led them there. + +There were some who knew the steps of Age incredibly beside them, +And his fingers upon shoulders that had never felt the wheel; +And their last of empty trophies was a gilded cup of nothing, +Which a contemplating vagabond would not have come to steal. +Long and often had they figured for a larger valuation, +But the size of their addition was the balance of a doubt: +There were gentlemen of leisure in the Valley of the Shadow, +Not allured by retrospection, disenchanted, and played out. + +And among the dark endurances of unavowed reprisals +There were silent eyes of envy that saw little but saw well; +And over beauty's aftermath of hazardous ambitions +There were tears for what had vanished as they vanished where they fell. +Not assured of what was theirs, and always hungry for the nameless, +There were some whose only passion was for Time who made them cold: +There were numerous fair women in the Valley of the Shadow, +Dreaming rather less of heaven than of hell when they were old. + +Now and then, as if to scorn the common touch of common sorrow, +There were some who gave a few the distant pity of a smile; +And another cloaked a soul as with an ash of human embers, +Having covered thus a treasure that would last him for a while. +There were many by the presence of the many disaffected, +Whose exemption was included in the weight that others bore: +There were seekers after darkness in the Valley of the Shadow, +And they alone were there to find what they were looking for. + +So they were, and so they are; and as they came are coming others, +And among them are the fearless and the meek and the unborn; +And a question that has held us heretofore without an answer +May abide without an answer until all have ceased to mourn. +For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched, +Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed: +There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow, +And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed. + + + + +The Wandering Jew + + + +I saw by looking in his eyes +That they remembered everything; +And this was how I came to know +That he was here, still wandering. +For though the figure and the scene +Were never to be reconciled, +I knew the man as I had known +His image when I was a child. + +With evidence at every turn, +I should have held it safe to guess +That all the newness of New York +Had nothing new in loneliness; +Yet here was one who might be Noah, +Or Nathan, or Abimelech, +Or Lamech, out of ages lost, -- +Or, more than all, Melchizedek. + +Assured that he was none of these, +I gave them back their names again, +To scan once more those endless eyes +Where all my questions ended then. +I found in them what they revealed +That I shall not live to forget, +And wondered if they found in mine +Compassion that I might regret. + +Pity, I learned, was not the least +Of time's offending benefits +That had now for so long impugned +The conservation of his wits: +Rather it was that I should yield, +Alone, the fealty that presents +The tribute of a tempered ear +To an untempered eloquence. + +Before I pondered long enough +On whence he came and who he was, +I trembled at his ringing wealth +Of manifold anathemas; +I wondered, while he seared the world, +What new defection ailed the race, +And if it mattered how remote +Our fathers were from such a place. + +Before there was an hour for me +To contemplate with less concern +The crumbling realm awaiting us +Than his that was beyond return, +A dawning on the dust of years +Had shaped with an elusive light +Mirages of remembered scenes +That were no longer for the sight. + +For now the gloom that hid the man +Became a daylight on his wrath, +And one wherein my fancy viewed +New lions ramping in his path. +The old were dead and had no fangs, +Wherefore he loved them -- seeing not +They were the same that in their time +Had eaten everything they caught. + +The world around him was a gift +Of anguish to his eyes and ears, +And one that he had long reviled +As fit for devils, not for seers. +Where, then, was there a place for him +That on this other side of death +Saw nothing good, as he had seen +No good come out of Nazareth? + +Yet here there was a reticence, +And I believe his only one, +That hushed him as if he beheld +A Presence that would not be gone. +In such a silence he confessed +How much there was to be denied; +And he would look at me and live, +As others might have looked and died. + +As if at last he knew again +That he had always known, his eyes +Were like to those of one who gazed +On those of One who never dies. +For such a moment he revealed +What life has in it to be lost; +And I could ask if what I saw, +Before me there, was man or ghost. + +He may have died so many times +That all there was of him to see +Was pride, that kept itself alive +As too rebellious to be free; +He may have told, when more than once +Humility seemed imminent, +How many a lonely time in vain +The Second Coming came and went. + +Whether he still defies or not +The failure of an angry task +That relegates him out of time +To chaos, I can only ask. +But as I knew him, so he was; +And somewhere among men to-day +Those old, unyielding eyes may flash, +And flinch -- and look the other way. + + + + +Neighbors + + + +As often as we thought of her, + We thought of a gray life +That made a quaint economist + Of a wolf-haunted wife; +We made the best of all she bore + That was not ours to bear, +And honored her for wearing things + That were not things to wear. + +There was a distance in her look + That made us look again; +And if she smiled, we might believe + That we had looked in vain. +Rarely she came inside our doors, + And had not long to stay; +And when she left, it seemed somehow + That she was far away. + +At last, when we had all forgot + That all is here to change, +A shadow on the commonplace + Was for a moment strange. +Yet there was nothing for surprise, + Nor much that need be told: +Love, with his gift of pain, had given + More than one heart could hold. + + + + +The Mill + + + +The miller's wife had waited long, + The tea was cold, the fire was dead; +And there might yet be nothing wrong + In how he went and what he said: +"There are no millers any more," + Was all that she had heard him say; +And he had lingered at the door + So long that it seemed yesterday. + +Sick with a fear that had no form + She knew that she was there at last; +And in the mill there was a warm + And mealy fragrance of the past. +What else there was would only seem + To say again what he had meant; +And what was hanging from a beam + Would not have heeded where she went. + +And if she thought it followed her, + She may have reasoned in the dark +That one way of the few there were + Would hide her and would leave no mark: +Black water, smooth above the weir + Like starry velvet in the night, +Though ruffled once, would soon appear + The same as ever to the sight. + + + + +The Dark Hills + + + +Dark hills at evening in the west, +Where sunset hovers like a sound +Of golden horns that sang to rest +Old bones of warriors under ground, +Far now from all the bannered ways +Where flash the legions of the sun, +You fade -- as if the last of days +Were fading, and all wars were done. + + + + +The Three Taverns + + When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us + as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns. + (Acts 28:15) + + + +Herodion, Apelles, Amplias, +And Andronicus? Is it you I see -- +At last? And is it you now that are gazing +As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying +That I should come to Rome? I did say that; +And I said furthermore that I should go +On westward, where the gateway of the world +Lets in the central sea. I did say that, +But I say only, now, that I am Paul -- +A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord +A voice made free. If there be time enough +To live, I may have more to tell you then +Of western matters. I go now to Rome, +Where Caesar waits for me, and I shall wait, +And Caesar knows how long. In Caesarea +There was a legend of Agrippa saying +In a light way to Festus, having heard +My deposition, that I might be free, +Had I stayed free of Caesar; but the word +Of God would have it as you see it is -- +And here I am. The cup that I shall drink +Is mine to drink -- the moment or the place +Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome, +Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed +The shadow cast of hope, say not of me +Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck, +And all the many deserts I have crossed +That are not named or regioned, have undone +Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing +The part of me that is the least of me. +You see an older man than he who fell +Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus, +Where the great light came down; yet I am he +That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard. +And I am here, at last; and if at last +I give myself to make another crumb +For this pernicious feast of time and men -- +Well, I have seen too much of time and men +To fear the ravening or the wrath of either. + +Yes, it is Paul you see -- the Saul of Tarsus +That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain +For saying Something was beyond the Law, +And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul +Upon the Law till I went famishing, +Not knowing that I starved. How should I know, +More then than any, that the food I had -- +What else it may have been -- was not for me? +My fathers and their fathers and their fathers +Had found it good, and said there was no other, +And I was of the line. When Stephen fell, +Among the stones that crushed his life away, +There was no place alive that I could see +For such a man. Why should a man be given +To live beyond the Law? So I said then, +As men say now to me. How then do I +Persist in living? Is that what you ask? +If so, let my appearance be for you +No living answer; for Time writes of death +On men before they die, and what you see +Is not the man. The man that you see not -- +The man within the man -- is most alive; +Though hatred would have ended, long ago, +The bane of his activities. I have lived, +Because the faith within me that is life +Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late, +Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me +My toil is over and my work begun. + +How often, and how many a time again, +Have I said I should be with you in Rome! +He who is always coming never comes, +Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves; +And I may tell you now that after me, +Whether I stay for little or for long, +The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them, +And a more careful ear for their confusion +Than you need have much longer for the sound +Of what I tell you -- should I live to say +More than I say to Caesar. What I know +Is down for you to read in what is written; +And if I cloud a little with my own +Mortality the gleam that is immortal, +I do it only because I am I -- +Being on earth and of it, in so far +As time flays yet the remnant. This you know; +And if I sting men, as I do sometimes, +With a sharp word that hurts, it is because +Man's habit is to feel before he sees; +And I am of a race that feels. Moreover, +The world is here for what is not yet here +For more than are a few; and even in Rome, +Where men are so enamored of the Cross +That fame has echoed, and increasingly, +The music of your love and of your faith +To foreign ears that are as far away +As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder +How much of love you know, and if your faith +Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember +Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least +A Law to make them sorry they were born +If they go long without it; and these Gentiles, +For the first time in shrieking history, +Have love and law together, if so they will, +For their defense and their immunity +In these last days. Rome, if I know the name, +Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire +Made ready for the wreathing of new masters, +Of whom we are appointed, you and I, -- +And you are still to be when I am gone, +Should I go presently. Let the word fall, +Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field +Of circumstance, either to live or die; +Concerning which there is a parable, +Made easy for the comfort and attention +Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain. +You are to plant, and then to plant again +Where you have gathered, gathering as you go; +For you are in the fields that are eternal, +And you have not the burden of the Lord +Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have +Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing, +Till it shall have the wonder and the weight +Of a clear jewel, shining with a light +Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars +May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said +That if they be of men these things are nothing, +But if they be of God they are for none +To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew, +And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all. +And you know, by the temper of your faith, +How far the fire is in you that I felt +Before I knew Damascus. A word here, +Or there, or not there, or not anywhere, +Is not the Word that lives and is the life; +And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves +With jealous aches of others. If the world +Were not a world of aches and innovations, +Attainment would have no more joy of it. +There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds, +And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done +To death because a farthing has two sides, +And is at last a farthing. Telling you this, +I, who bid men to live, appeal to Caesar. +Once I had said the ways of God were dark, +Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law. +Such is the glory of our tribulations; +For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law, +And we are then alive. We have eyes then; +And we have then the Cross between two worlds -- +To guide us, or to blind us for a time, +Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites +A few on highways, changing all at once, +Is not for all. The power that holds the world +Away from God that holds himself away -- +Farther away than all your works and words +Are like to fly without the wings of faith -- +Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard +Enlivening the ways of easy leisure +Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes +Have wisdom, we see more than we remember; +And the old world of our captivities +May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin, +Like one where vanished hewers have had their day +Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see, +Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you, +At last, through many storms and through much night. + +Yet whatsoever I have undergone, +My keepers in this instance are not hard. +But for the chance of an ingratitude, +I might indeed be curious of their mercy, +And fearful of their leisure while I wait, +A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome, +Not always to return -- but not that now. +Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me +With eyes that are at last more credulous +Of my identity. You remark in me +No sort of leaping giant, though some words +Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt +A little through your eyes into your soul. +I trust they were alive, and are alive +Today; for there be none that shall indite +So much of nothing as the man of words +Who writes in the Lord's name for his name's sake +And has not in his blood the fire of time +To warm eternity. Let such a man -- +If once the light is in him and endures -- +Content himself to be the general man, +Set free to sift the decencies and thereby +To learn, except he be one set aside +For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain; +Though if his light be not the light indeed, +But a brief shine that never really was, +And fails, leaving him worse than where he was, +Then shall he be of all men destitute. +And here were not an issue for much ink, +Or much offending faction among scribes. + +The Kingdom is within us, we are told; +And when I say to you that we possess it +In such a measure as faith makes it ours, +I say it with a sinner's privilege +Of having seen and heard, and seen again, +After a darkness; and if I affirm +To the last hour that faith affords alone +The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment, +I do not see myself as one who says +To man that he shall sit with folded hands +Against the Coming. If I be anything, +I move a driven agent among my kind, +Establishing by the faith of Abraham, +And by the grace of their necessities, +The clamoring word that is the word of life +Nearer than heretofore to the solution +Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed +A shaft of language that has flown sometimes +A little higher than the hearts and heads +Of nature's minions, it will yet be heard, +Like a new song that waits for distant ears. +I cannot be the man that I am not; +And while I own that earth is my affliction, +I am a man of earth, who says not all +To all alike. That were impossible, +Even as it were so that He should plant +A larger garden first. But you today +Are for the larger sowing; and your seed, +A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw, +The foreign harvest of a wider growth, +And one without an end. Many there are, +And are to be, that shall partake of it, +Though none may share it with an understanding +That is not his alone. We are all alone; +And yet we are all parcelled of one order -- +Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark +Of wildernesses that are not so much +As names yet in a book. And there are many, +Finding at last that words are not the Word, +And finding only that, will flourish aloft, +Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes, +Our contradictions and discrepancies; +And there are many more will hang themselves +Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word +The friend of all who fail, and in their faith +A sword of excellence to cut them down. + +As long as there are glasses that are dark -- +And there are many -- we see darkly through them; +All which have I conceded and set down +In words that have no shadow. What is dark +Is dark, and we may not say otherwise; +Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire +For one of us, may still be for another +A coming gleam across the gulf of ages, +And a way home from shipwreck to the shore; +And so, through pangs and ills and desperations, +There may be light for all. There shall be light. +As much as that, you know. You cannot say +This woman or that man will be the next +On whom it falls; you are not here for that. +Your ministration is to be for others +The firing of a rush that may for them +Be soon the fire itself. The few at first +Are fighting for the multitude at last; +Therefore remember what Gamaliel said +Before you, when the sick were lying down +In streets all night for Peter's passing shadow. +Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words. +Give men to know that even their days of earth +To come are more than ages that are gone. +Say what you feel, while you have time to say it. +Eternity will answer for itself, +Without your intercession; yet the way +For many is a long one, and as dark, +Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil +Too much, and if I be away from you, +Think of me as a brother to yourselves, +Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics, +And give your left hand to grammarians; +And when you seem, as many a time you may, +To have no other friend than hope, remember +That you are not the first, or yet the last. + +The best of life, until we see beyond +The shadows of ourselves (and they are less +Than even the blindest of indignant eyes +Would have them) is in what we do not know. +Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep +With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves +Egregious and alone for your defects +Of youth and yesterday. I was young once; +And there's a question if you played the fool +With a more fervid and inherent zeal +Than I have in my story to remember, +Or gave your necks to folly's conquering foot, +Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim, +Less frequently than I. Never mind that. +Man's little house of days will hold enough, +Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his, +But it will not hold all. Things that are dead +Are best without it, and they own their death +By virtue of their dying. Let them go, -- +But think you not the world is ashes yet, +And you have all the fire. The world is here +Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow; +For there are millions, and there may be more, +To make in turn a various estimation +Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps +Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears +That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them, +And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes +That are incredulous of the Mystery +Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read +Where language has an end and is a veil, +Not woven of our words. Many that hate +Their kind are soon to know that without love +Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing. +I that have done some hating in my time +See now no time for hate; I that have left, +Fading behind me like familiar lights +That are to shine no more for my returning, +Home, friends, and honors, -- I that have lost all else +For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now +To you that out of wisdom has come love, +That measures and is of itself the measure +Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours +Are not so long that you may torture them +And harass not yourselves; and the last days +Are on the way that you prepare for them, +And was prepared for you, here in a world +Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen. +If you be not so hot for counting them +Before they come that you consume yourselves, +Peace may attend you all in these last days -- +And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome. +Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear +My rest has not been yours; in which event, +Forgive one who is only seven leagues +From Caesar. When I told you I should come, +I did not see myself the criminal +You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law +That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed, +Was good of you, and I shall not forget; +No, I shall not forget you came so far +To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell. +They come to tell me I am going now -- +With them. I hope that we shall meet again, +But none may say what he shall find in Rome. + + + + +Demos I + + + +All you that are enamored of my name + And least intent on what most I require, + Beware; for my design and your desire, +Deplorably, are not as yet the same. +Beware, I say, the failure and the shame + Of losing that for which you now aspire + So blindly, and of hazarding entire +The gift that I was bringing when I came. + +Give as I will, I cannot give you sight + Whereby to see that with you there are some + To lead you, and be led. But they are dumb +Before the wrangling and the shrill delight + Of your deliverance that has not come, +And shall not, if I fail you -- as I might. + + + + +Demos II + + + +So little have you seen of what awaits + Your fevered glimpse of a democracy + Confused and foiled with an equality +Not equal to the envy it creates, +That you see not how near you are the gates + Of an old king who listens fearfully + To you that are outside and are to be +The noisy lords of imminent estates. + +Rather be then your prayer that you shall have + Your kingdom undishonored. Having all, + See not the great among you for the small, +But hear their silence; for the few shall save + The many, or the many are to fall -- +Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave. + + + + +The Flying Dutchman + + + +Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, + Afloat with none to serve or to command, +Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, + He seeks the Vanished Land. + +Alone, by the one light of his one thought, + He steers to find the shore from which we came, -- +Fearless of in what coil he may be caught + On seas that have no name. + +Into the night he sails; and after night + There is a dawning, though there be no sun; +Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, + Unsighted, he sails on. + +At last there is a lifting of the cloud + Between the flood before him and the sky; +And then -- though he may curse the Power aloud + That has no power to die -- + +He steers himself away from what is haunted + By the old ghost of what has been before, -- +Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, + One fog-walled island more. + + + + +Tact + + + +Observant of the way she told + So much of what was true, +No vanity could long withhold + Regard that was her due: +She spared him the familiar guile, + So easily achieved, +That only made a man to smile + And left him undeceived. + +Aware that all imagining + Of more than what she meant +Would urge an end of everything, + He stayed; and when he went, +They parted with a merry word + That was to him as light +As any that was ever heard + Upon a starry night. + +She smiled a little, knowing well + That he would not remark +The ruins of a day that fell + Around her in the dark: +He saw no ruins anywhere, + Nor fancied there were scars +On anyone who lingered there, + Alone below the stars. + + + + +On the Way + + (Philadelphia, 1794) + + Note. -- The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton + and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific incident + in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous + to Hamilton's retirement from Washington's Cabinet in 1795 + and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr -- + who has been characterized, without much exaggeration, + as the inventor of American politics -- began to be conspicuously formidable + to the Federalists. These activities on the part of Burr resulted, + as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency + in 1800, and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804. + + + + BURR + +Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember +That I was here to speak, and so to save +Your fabric from catastrophe. That's good; +For I perceive that you observe him also. +A President, a-riding of his horse, +May dust a General and be forgiven; +But why be dusted -- when we're all alike, +All equal, and all happy. Here he comes -- +And there he goes. And we, by your new patent, +Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside, +With our two hats off to his Excellency. +Why not his Majesty, and done with it? +Forgive me if I shook your meditation, +But you that weld our credit should have eyes +To see what's coming. Bury me first if -I- do. + + + HAMILTON + +There's always in some pocket of your brain +A care for me; wherefore my gratitude +For your attention is commensurate +With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings; +We are as royal as two ditch-diggers; +But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days +When first a few seem all; but if we live, +We may again be seen to be the few +That we have always been. These are the days +When men forget the stars, and are forgotten. + + + BURR + +But why forget them? They're the same that winked +Upon the world when Alcibiades +Cut off his dog's tail to induce distinction. +There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades +Is not forgotten. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, there are dogs enough, +God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams. + + + BURR + +Never a doubt. But what you hear the most +Is your new music, something out of tune +With your intention. How in the name of Cain, +I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance, +When all men are musicians. Tell me that, +I hear you saying, and I'll tell you the name +Of Samson's mother. But why shroud yourself +Before the coffin comes? For all you know, +The tree that is to fall for your last house +Is now a sapling. You may have to wait +So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it, +For you are not at home in your new Eden +Where chilly whispers of a likely frost +Accumulate already in the air. +I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton, +Would be for you in your autumnal mood +A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders. + + + HAMILTON + +If so it is you think, you may as well +Give over thinking. We are done with ermine. +What I fear most is not the multitude, +But those who are to loop it with a string +That has one end in France and one end here. +I'm not so fortified with observation +That I could swear that more than half a score +Among us who see lightning see that ruin +Is not the work of thunder. Since the world +Was ordered, there was never a long pause +For caution between doing and undoing. + + + BURR + +Go on, sir; my attention is a trap +Set for the catching of all compliments +To Monticello, and all else abroad +That has a name or an identity. + + + HAMILTON + +I leave to you the names -- there are too many; +Yet one there is to sift and hold apart, +As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer +That is not always clouded, or too late. +But I was near and young, and had the reins +To play with while he manned a team so raw +That only God knows where the end had been +Of all that riding without Washington. +There was a nation in the man who passed us, +If there was not a world. I may have driven +Since then some restive horses, and alone, +And through a splashing of abundant mud; +But he who made the dust that sets you on +To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry, +And in a measure safe. + + + BURR + + Here's a new tune +From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once, +And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle? +I have forgotten what my father said +When I was born, but there's a rustling of it +Among my memories, and it makes a noise +About as loud as all that I have held +And fondled heretofore of your same caution. +But that's affairs, not feelings. If our friends +Guessed half we say of them, our enemies +Would itch in our friends' jackets. Howsoever, +The world is of a sudden on its head, +And all are spilled -- unless you cling alone +With Washington. Ask Adams about that. + + + HAMILTON + +We'll not ask Adams about anything. +We fish for lizards when we choose to ask +For what we know already is not coming, +And we must eat the answer. Where's the use +Of asking when this man says everything, +With all his tongues of silence? + + + BURR + + I dare say. +I dare say, but I won't. One of those tongues +I'll borrow for the nonce. He'll never miss it. +We mean his Western Majesty, King George. + + + HAMILTON + +I mean the man who rode by on his horse. +I'll beg of you the meed of your indulgence +If I should say this planet may have done +A deal of weary whirling when at last, +If ever, Time shall aggregate again +A majesty like his that has no name. + + + BURR + +Then you concede his Majesty? That's good, +And what of yours? Here are two majesties. +Favor the Left a little, Hamilton, +Or you'll be floundering in the ditch that waits +For riders who forget where they are riding. +If we and France, as you anticipate, +Must eat each other, what Caesar, if not yourself, +Do you see for the master of the feast? +There may be a place waiting on your head +For laurel thick as Nero's. You don't know. +I have not crossed your glory, though I might +If I saw thrones at auction. + + + HAMILTON + + Yes, you might. +If war is on the way, I shall be -- here; +And I've no vision of your distant heels. + + + BURR + +I see that I shall take an inference +To bed with me to-night to keep me warm. +I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve +Your fealty to the aggregated greatness +Of him you lean on while he leans on you. + + + HAMILTON + +This easy phrasing is a game of yours +That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon, +But you that have the sight will not employ +The will to see with it. If you did so, +There might be fewer ditches dug for others +In your perspective; and there might be fewer +Contemporary motes of prejudice +Between you and the man who made the dust. +Call him a genius or a gentleman, +A prophet or a builder, or what not, +But hold your disposition off the balance, +And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe +I tell you nothing new to your surmise, +Or to the tongues of towns and villages) +I nourished with an adolescent fancy -- +Surely forgivable to you, my friend -- +An innocent and amiable conviction +That I was, by the grace of honest fortune, +A savior at his elbow through the war, +Where I might have observed, more than I did, +Patience and wholesome passion. I was there, +And for such honor I gave nothing worse +Than some advice at which he may have smiled. +I must have given a modicum besides, +Or the rough interval between those days +And these would never have made for me my friends, +Or enemies. I should be something somewhere -- +I say not what -- but I should not be here +If he had not been there. Possibly, too, +You might not -- or that Quaker with his cane. + + + BURR + +Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty +Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it. + + + HAMILTON + +It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind; +No god, or ghost, or demon -- only a man: +A man whose occupation is the need +Of those who would not feel it if it bit them; +And one who shapes an age while he endures +The pin pricks of inferiorities; +A cautious man, because he is but one; +A lonely man, because he is a thousand. +No marvel you are slow to find in him +The genius that is one spark or is nothing: +His genius is a flame that he must hold +So far above the common heads of men +That they may view him only through the mist +Of their defect, and wonder what he is. +It seems to me the mystery that is in him +That makes him only more to me a man +Than any other I have ever known. + + + BURR + +I grant you that his worship is a man. +I'm not so much at home with mysteries, +May be, as you -- so leave him with his fire: +God knows that I shall never put it out. +He has not made a cripple of himself +In his pursuit of me, though I have heard +His condescension honors me with parts. +Parts make a whole, if we've enough of them; +And once I figured a sufficiency +To be at least an atom in the annals +Of your republic. But I must have erred. + + + HAMILTON + +You smile as if your spirit lived at ease +With error. I should not have named it so, +Failing assent from you; nor, if I did, +Should I be so complacent in my skill +To comb the tangled language of the people +As to be sure of anything in these days. +Put that much in account with modesty. + + + BURR + +What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton, +Have you, in the last region of your dreaming, +To do with "people"? You may be the devil +In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals +Are waiting on the progress of our ship +Unless you steer it, but you'll find it irksome +Alone there in the stern; and some warm day +There'll be an inland music in the rigging, +And afterwards on deck. I'm not affined +Or favored overmuch at Monticello, +But there's a mighty swarming of new bees +About the premises, and all have wings. +If you hear something buzzing before long, +Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also +There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard, +And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly. + + + HAMILTON + +I don't remember that he cut his hair off. + + + BURR + +Somehow I rather fancy that he did. +If so, it's in the Book; and if not so, +He did the rest, and did it handsomely. + + + HAMILTON + +Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways +If they inveigle you to emulation; +But where, if I may ask it, are you tending +With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures? +You call to mind an eminent archangel +Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall +So far as he, to be so far remembered? + + + BURR + +Before I fall or rise, or am an angel, +I shall acquaint myself a little further +With our new land's new language, which is not -- +Peace to your dreams -- an idiom to your liking. +I'm wondering if a man may always know +How old a man may be at thirty-seven; +I wonder likewise if a prettier time +Could be decreed for a good man to vanish +Than about now for you, before you fade, +And even your friends are seeing that you have had +Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph. +Well, you have had enough, and had it young; +And the old wine is nearer to the lees +Than you are to the work that you are doing. + + + HAMILTON + +When does this philological excursion +Into new lands and languages begin? + + + BURR + +Anon -- that is, already. Only Fortune +Gave me this afternoon the benefaction +Of your blue back, which I for love pursued, +And in pursuing may have saved your life -- +Also the world a pounding piece of news: +Hamilton bites the dust of Washington, +Or rather of his horse. For you alone, +Or for your fame, I'd wish it might have been so. + + + HAMILTON + +Not every man among us has a friend +So jealous for the other's fame. How long +Are you to diagnose the doubtful case +Of Demos -- and what for? Have you a sword +For some new Damocles? If it's for me, +I have lost all official appetite, +And shall have faded, after January, +Into the law. I'm going to New York. + + + BURR + +No matter where you are, one of these days +I shall come back to you and tell you something. +This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist +A pulse that no two doctors have as yet +Counted and found the same, and in his mouth +A tongue that has the like alacrity +For saying or not for saying what most it is +That pullulates in his ignoble mind. +One of these days I shall appear again, +To tell you more of him and his opinions; +I shall not be so long out of your sight, +Or take myself so far, that I may not, +Like Alcibiades, come back again. +He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill. + + + HAMILTON + +There's an example in Themistocles: +He went away to Persia, and fared well. + + + BURR + +So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so? +I had not planned it so. Is this the road +I take? If so, farewell. + + + HAMILTON + + Quite so. Farewell. + + + + +John Brown + + + +Though for your sake I would not have you now +So near to me tonight as now you are, +God knows how much a stranger to my heart +Was any cold word that I may have written; +And you, poor woman that I made my wife, +You have had more of loneliness, I fear, +Than I -- though I have been the most alone, +Even when the most attended. So it was +God set the mark of his inscrutable +Necessity on one that was to grope, +And serve, and suffer, and withal be glad +For what was his, and is, and is to be, +When his old bones, that are a burden now, +Are saying what the man who carried them +Had not the power to say. Bones in a grave, +Cover them as they will with choking earth, +May shout the truth to men who put them there, +More than all orators. And so, my dear, +Since you have cheated wisdom for the sake +Of sorrow, let your sorrow be for you, +This last of nights before the last of days, +The lying ghost of what there is of me +That is the most alive. There is no death +For me in what they do. Their death it is +They should heed most when the sun comes again +To make them solemn. There are some I know +Whose eyes will hardly see their occupation, +For tears in them -- and all for one old man; +For some of them will pity this old man, +Who took upon himself the work of God +Because he pitied millions. That will be +For them, I fancy, their compassionate +Best way of saying what is best in them +To say; for they can say no more than that, +And they can do no more than what the dawn +Of one more day shall give them light enough +To do. But there are many days to be, +And there are many men to give their blood, +As I gave mine for them. May they come soon! + +May they come soon, I say. And when they come, +May all that I have said unheard be heard, +Proving at last, or maybe not -- no matter -- +What sort of madness was the part of me +That made me strike, whether I found the mark +Or missed it. Meanwhile, I've a strange content, +A patience, and a vast indifference +To what men say of me and what men fear +To say. There was a work to be begun, +And when the Voice, that I have heard so long, +Announced as in a thousand silences +An end of preparation, I began +The coming work of death which is to be, +That life may be. There is no other way +Than the old way of war for a new land +That will not know itself and is tonight +A stranger to itself, and to the world +A more prodigious upstart among states +Than I was among men, and so shall be +Till they are told and told, and told again; +For men are children, waiting to be told, +And most of them are children all their lives. +The good God in his wisdom had them so, +That now and then a madman or a seer +May shake them out of their complacency +And shame them into deeds. The major file +See only what their fathers may have seen, +Or may have said they saw when they saw nothing. +I do not say it matters what they saw. +Now and again to some lone soul or other +God speaks, and there is hanging to be done, -- +As once there was a burning of our bodies +Alive, albeit our souls were sorry fuel. +But now the fires are few, and we are poised +Accordingly, for the state's benefit, +A few still minutes between heaven and earth. +The purpose is, when they have seen enough +Of what it is that they are not to see, +To pluck me as an unripe fruit of treason, +And then to fling me back to the same earth +Of which they are, as I suppose, the flower -- +Not given to know the riper fruit that waits +For a more comprehensive harvesting. + +Yes, may they come, and soon. Again I say, +May they come soon! -- before too many of them +Shall be the bloody cost of our defection. +When hell waits on the dawn of a new state, +Better it were that hell should not wait long, -- +Or so it is I see it who should see +As far or farther into time tonight +Than they who talk and tremble for me now, +Or wish me to those everlasting fires +That are for me no fear. Too many fires +Have sought me out and seared me to the bone -- +Thereby, for all I know, to temper me +For what was mine to do. If I did ill +What I did well, let men say I was mad; +Or let my name for ever be a question +That will not sleep in history. What men say +I was will cool no cannon, dull no sword, +Invalidate no truth. Meanwhile, I was; +And the long train is lighted that shall burn, +Though floods of wrath may drench it, and hot feet +May stamp it for a slight time into smoke +That shall blaze up again with growing speed, +Until at last a fiery crash will come +To cleanse and shake a wounded hemisphere, +And heal it of a long malignity +That angry time discredits and disowns. +Tonight there are men saying many things; +And some who see life in the last of me +Will answer first the coming call to death; +For death is what is coming, and then life. +I do not say again for the dull sake +Of speech what you have heard me say before, +But rather for the sake of all I am, +And all God made of me. A man to die +As I do must have done some other work +Than man's alone. I was not after glory, +But there was glory with me, like a friend, +Throughout those crippling years when friends were few, +And fearful to be known by their own names +When mine was vilified for their approval. +Yet friends they are, and they did what was given +Their will to do; they could have done no more. +I was the one man mad enough, it seems, +To do my work; and now my work is over. +And you, my dear, are not to mourn for me, +Or for your sons, more than a soul should mourn +In Paradise, done with evil and with earth. +There is not much of earth in what remains +For you; and what there may be left of it +For your endurance you shall have at last +In peace, without the twinge of any fear +For my condition; for I shall be done +With plans and actions that have heretofore +Made your days long and your nights ominous +With darkness and the many distances +That were between us. When the silence comes, +I shall in faith be nearer to you then +Than I am now in fact. What you see now +Is only the outside of an old man, +Older than years have made him. Let him die, +And let him be a thing for little grief. +There was a time for service, and he served; +And there is no more time for anything +But a short gratefulness to those who gave +Their scared allegiance to an enterprise +That has the name of treason -- which will serve +As well as any other for the present. +There are some deeds of men that have no names, +And mine may like as not be one of them. +I am not looking far for names tonight. +The King of Glory was without a name +Until men gave him one; yet there He was, +Before we found Him and affronted Him +With numerous ingenuities of evil, +Of which one, with His aid, is to be swept +And washed out of the world with fire and blood. + +Once I believed it might have come to pass +With a small cost of blood; but I was dreaming -- +Dreaming that I believed. The Voice I heard +When I left you behind me in the north, -- +To wait there and to wonder and grow old +Of loneliness, -- told only what was best, +And with a saving vagueness, I should know +Till I knew more. And had I known even then -- +After grim years of search and suffering, +So many of them to end as they began -- +After my sickening doubts and estimations +Of plans abandoned and of new plans vain -- +After a weary delving everywhere +For men with every virtue but the Vision -- +Could I have known, I say, before I left you +That summer morning, all there was to know -- +Even unto the last consuming word +That would have blasted every mortal answer +As lightning would annihilate a leaf, +I might have trembled on that summer morning; +I might have wavered; and I might have failed. + +And there are many among men today +To say of me that I had best have wavered. +So has it been, so shall it always be, +For those of us who give ourselves to die +Before we are so parcelled and approved +As to be slaughtered by authority. +We do not make so much of what they say +As they of what our folly says of us; +They give us hardly time enough for that, +And thereby we gain much by losing little. +Few are alive to-day with less to lose +Than I who tell you this, or more to gain; +And whether I speak as one to be destroyed +For no good end outside his own destruction, +Time shall have more to say than men shall hear +Between now and the coming of that harvest +Which is to come. Before it comes, I go -- +By the short road that mystery makes long +For man's endurance of accomplishment. +I shall have more to say when I am dead. + + + + +The False Gods + + + +"We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit, +From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet. +You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes, -- +Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet. + +"You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong, +But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong; +You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence, +But your large admiration of us now is not for long. + +"If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that's never still, +And you pray to see our faces -- pray in earnest, and you will. +You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion: +For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill. + +"And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease +With an Art that's inorganic and is anything you please, +That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded, +Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees. + +"Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ, +There's an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy; +Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing +Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy. + +"When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive, +And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive, +Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations -- +For there's grief always auditing where two and two are five. + +"There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know, +Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so. +If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition, +May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go." + + + + +Archibald's Example + + + +Old Archibald, in his eternal chair, +Where trespassers, whatever their degree, +Were soon frowned out again, was looking off +Across the clover when he said to me: + +"My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down +Without a scratch, was once inhabited +By trees that injured him -- an evil trash +That made a cage, and held him while he bled. + +"Gone fifty years, I see them as they were +Before they fell. They were a crooked lot +To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time +In fifty years for crooked things to rot. + +"Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy +To God or man, for they were thieves of light. +So down they came. Nature and I looked on, +And we were glad when they were out of sight. + +"Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, +So much for that." He twinkled in his chair, +And looked across the clover to the place +That he remembered when the trees were there. + + + + +London Bridge + + + +"Do I hear them? Yes, I hear the children singing -- and what of it? +Have you come with eyes afire to find me now and ask me that? +If I were not their father and if you were not their mother, +We might believe they made a noise. . . . What are you -- driving at!" + +"Well, be glad that you can hear them, and be glad they are so near us, -- +For I have heard the stars of heaven, and they were nearer still. +All within an hour it is that I have heard them calling, +And though I pray for them to cease, I know they never will; +For their music on my heart, though you may freeze it, will fall always, +Like summer snow that never melts upon a mountain-top. +Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? +Do you hear the children singing? . . . God, will you make them stop!" + +"And what now in his holy name have you to do with mountains? +We're back to town again, my dear, and we've a dance tonight. +Frozen hearts and falling music? Snow and stars, and -- what the devil! +Say it over to me slowly, and be sure you have it right." + +"God knows if I be right or wrong in saying what I tell you, +Or if I know the meaning any more of what I say. +All I know is, it will kill me if I try to keep it hidden -- +Well, I met him. . . . Yes, I met him, and I talked with him -- today." + +"You met him? Did you meet the ghost of someone you had poisoned, +Long ago, before I knew you for the woman that you are? +Take a chair; and don't begin your stories always in the middle. +Was he man, or was he demon? Anyhow, you've gone too far +To go back, and I'm your servant. I'm the lord, but you're the master. +Now go on with what you know, for I'm excited." + + "Do you mean -- +Do you mean to make me try to think that you know less than I do?" + +"I know that you foreshadow the beginning of a scene. +Pray be careful, and as accurate as if the doors of heaven +Were to swing or to stay bolted from now on for evermore." + +"Do you conceive, with all your smooth contempt of every feeling, +Of hiding what you know and what you must have known before? +Is it worth a woman's torture to stand here and have you smiling, +With only your poor fetish of possession on your side? +No thing but one is wholly sure, and that's not one to scare me; +When I meet it I may say to God at last that I have tried. +And yet, for all I know, or all I dare believe, my trials +Henceforward will be more for you to bear than are your own; +And you must give me keys of yours to rooms I have not entered. +Do you see me on your threshold all my life, and there alone? +Will you tell me where you see me in your fancy -- when it leads you +Far enough beyond the moment for a glance at the abyss?" + +"Will you tell me what intrinsic and amazing sort of nonsense +You are crowding on the patience of the man who gives you -- this? +Look around you and be sorry you're not living in an attic, +With a civet and a fish-net, and with you to pay the rent. +I say words that you can spell without the use of all your letters; +And I grant, if you insist, that I've a guess at what you meant." + +"Have I told you, then, for nothing, that I met him? Are you trying +To be merry while you try to make me hate you?" + + "Think again, +My dear, before you tell me, in a language unbecoming +To a lady, what you plan to tell me next. If I complain, +If I seem an atom peevish at the preference you mention -- +Or imply, to be precise -- you may believe, or you may not, +That I'm a trifle more aware of what he wants than you are. +But I shouldn't throw that at you. Make believe that I forgot. +Make believe that he's a genius, if you like, -- but in the meantime +Don't go back to rocking-horses. There, there, there, now." + + "Make believe! +When you see me standing helpless on a plank above a whirlpool, +Do I drown, or do I hear you when you say it? Make believe? +How much more am I to say or do for you before I tell you +That I met him! What's to follow now may be for you to choose. +Do you hear me? Won't you listen? It's an easy thing to listen. . . ." + +"And it's easy to be crazy when there's everything to lose." + +"If at last you have a notion that I mean what I am saying, +Do I seem to tell you nothing when I tell you I shall try? +If you save me, and I lose him -- I don't know -- it won't much matter. +I dare say that I've lied enough, but now I do not lie." + +"Do you fancy me the one man who has waited and said nothing +While a wife has dragged an old infatuation from a tomb? +Give the thing a little air and it will vanish into ashes. +There you are -- piff! presto!" + + "When I came into this room, +It seemed as if I saw the place, and you there at your table, +As you are now at this moment, for the last time in my life; +And I told myself before I came to find you, `I shall tell him, +If I can, what I have learned of him since I became his wife.' +And if you say, as I've no doubt you will before I finish, +That you have tried unceasingly, with all your might and main, +To teach me, knowing more than I of what it was I needed, +Don't think, with all you may have thought, that you have tried in vain; +For you have taught me more than hides in all the shelves of knowledge +Of how little you found that's in me and was in me all along. +I believed, if I intruded nothing on you that I cared for, +I'd be half as much as horses, -- and it seems that I was wrong; +I believed there was enough of earth in me, with all my nonsense +Over things that made you sleepy, to keep something still awake; +But you taught me soon to read my book, and God knows I have read it -- +Ages longer than an angel would have read it for your sake. +I have said that you must open other doors than I have entered, +But I wondered while I said it if I might not be obscure. +Is there anything in all your pedigrees and inventories +With a value more elusive than a dollar's? Are you sure +That if I starve another year for you I shall be stronger +To endure another like it -- and another -- till I'm dead?" + +"Has your tame cat sold a picture? -- or more likely had a windfall? +Or for God's sake, what's broke loose? Have you a bee-hive in your head? +A little more of this from you will not be easy hearing. +Do you know that? Understand it, if you do; for if you won't. . . . +What the devil are you saying! Make believe you never said it, +And I'll say I never heard it. . . . Oh, you. . . . If you. . . ." + + "If I don't?" + +"There are men who say there's reason hidden somewhere in a woman, +But I doubt if God himself remembers where the key was hung." + +"He may not; for they say that even God himself is growing. +I wonder if he makes believe that he is growing young; +I wonder if he makes believe that women who are giving +All they have in holy loathing to a stranger all their lives +Are the wise ones who build houses in the Bible. . . ." + + "Stop -- you devil!" + +". . . Or that souls are any whiter when their bodies are called wives. +If a dollar's worth of gold will hoop the walls of hell together, +Why need heaven be such a ruin of a place that never was? +And if at last I lied my starving soul away to nothing, +Are you sure you might not miss it? Have you come to such a pass +That you would have me longer in your arms if you discovered +That I made you into someone else. . . . Oh! . . . Well, there are + worse ways. +But why aim it at my feet -- unless you fear you may be sorry. . . . +There are many days ahead of you." + + "I do not see those days." + +"I can see them. Granted even I am wrong, there are the children. +And are they to praise their father for his insight if we die? +Do you hear them? Do you hear them overhead -- the children -- singing? +Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?" + + "Damn the children!" + + "Why? +What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, -- do it. . . . Do it now, + and have it over." + +"Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . ." + + "No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet -- +One who sees the end already of so much that one end more +Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion, +Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before. +But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther +For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight. +Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations +For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to shine tonight. +We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres, +On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell; +We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance, +And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well. +There! -- I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it. + Shut the drawer now. +No -- no -- don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop. +I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere, + and leave me. . . . +Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . God, will they never stop!" + + + + +Tasker Norcross + + + +"Whether all towns and all who live in them -- +So long as they be somewhere in this world +That we in our complacency call ours -- +Are more or less the same, I leave to you. +I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile, +We've all two legs -- and as for that, we haven't -- +There were three kinds of men where I was born: +The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross. +Now there are two kinds." + + "Meaning, as I divine, +Your friend is dead," I ventured. + + Ferguson, +Who talked himself at last out of the world +He censured, and is therefore silent now, +Agreed indifferently: "My friends are dead -- +Or most of them." + + "Remember one that isn't," +I said, protesting. "Honor him for his ears; +Treasure him also for his understanding." +Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again: +"You have an overgrown alacrity +For saying nothing much and hearing less; +And I've a thankless wonder, at the start, +How much it is to you that I shall tell +What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross, +And how much to the air that is around you. +But given a patience that is not averse +To the slow tragedies of haunted men -- +Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye +To know them at their firesides, or out walking, --" + +"Horrors," I said, "are my necessity; +And I would have them, for their best effect, +Always out walking." + + Ferguson frowned at me: +"The wisest of us are not those who laugh +Before they know. Most of us never know -- +Or the long toil of our mortality +Would not be done. Most of us never know -- +And there you have a reason to believe +In God, if you may have no other. Norcross, +Or so I gather of his infirmity, +Was given to know more than he should have known, +And only God knows why. See for yourself +An old house full of ghosts of ancestors, +Who did their best, or worst, and having done it, +Died honorably; and each with a distinction +That hardly would have been for him that had it, +Had honor failed him wholly as a friend. +Honor that is a friend begets a friend. +Whether or not we love him, still we have him; +And we must live somehow by what we have, +Or then we die. If you say chemistry, +Then you must have your molecules in motion, +And in their right abundance. Failing either, +You have not long to dance. Failing a friend, +A genius, or a madness, or a faith +Larger than desperation, you are here +For as much longer than you like as may be. +Imagining now, by way of an example, +Myself a more or less remembered phantom -- +Again, I should say less -- how many times +A day should I come back to you? No answer. +Forgive me when I seem a little careless, +But we must have examples, or be lucid +Without them; and I question your adherence +To such an undramatic narrative +As this of mine, without the personal hook." + +"A time is given in Ecclesiastes +For divers works," I told him. "Is there one +For saying nothing in return for nothing? +If not, there should be." I could feel his eyes, +And they were like two cold inquiring points +Of a sharp metal. When I looked again, +To see them shine, the cold that I had felt +Was gone to make way for a smouldering +Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then, +Could never quench with kindness or with lies. +I should have done whatever there was to do +For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned +In honesty for once around the clock +The loss of him, for my sake or for his, +Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve, +Had I the power and the unthinking will +To make him tread again without an aim +The road that was behind him -- and without +The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness +That he contended was imperative. + +After a silence that had been too long, +"It may be quite as well we don't," he said; +"As well, I mean, that we don't always say it. +You know best what I mean, and I suppose +You might have said it better. What was that? +Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible? +Well, it's a word; and a word has its use, +Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave. +It's a good word enough. Incorrigible, +May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross. +See for yourself that house of his again +That he called home: An old house, painted white, +Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb +To look at or to live in. There were trees -- +Too many of them, if such a thing may be -- +Before it and around it. Down in front +There was a road, a railroad, and a river; +Then there were hills behind it, and more trees. +The thing would fairly stare at you through trees, +Like a pale inmate out of a barred window +With a green shade half down; and I dare say +People who passed have said: `There's where he lives. +We know him, but we do not seem to know +That we remember any good of him, +Or any evil that is interesting. +There you have all we know and all we care.' +They might have said it in all sorts of ways; +And then, if they perceived a cat, they might +Or might not have remembered what they said. +The cat might have a personality -- +And maybe the same one the Lord left out +Of Tasker Norcross, who, for lack of it, +Saw the same sun go down year after year; +All which at last was my discovery. +And only mine, so far as evidence +Enlightens one more darkness. You have known +All round you, all your days, men who are nothing -- +Nothing, I mean, so far as time tells yet +Of any other need it has of them +Than to make sextons hardy -- but no less +Are to themselves incalculably something, +And therefore to be cherished. God, you see, +Being sorry for them in their fashioning, +Indemnified them with a quaint esteem +Of self, and with illusions long as life. +You know them well, and you have smiled at them; +And they, in their serenity, may have had +Their time to smile at you. Blessed are they +That see themselves for what they never were +Or were to be, and are, for their defect, +At ease with mirrors and the dim remarks +That pass their tranquil ears." + + "Come, come," said I; +"There may be names in your compendium +That we are not yet all on fire for shouting. +Skin most of us of our mediocrity, +We should have nothing then that we could scratch. +The picture smarts. Cover it, if you please, +And do so rather gently. Now for Norcross." + +Ferguson closed his eyes in resignation, +While a dead sigh came out of him. "Good God!" +He said, and said it only half aloud, +As if he knew no longer now, nor cared, +If one were there to listen: "Have I said nothing -- +Nothing at all -- of Norcross? Do you mean +To patronize him till his name becomes +A toy made out of letters? If a name +Is all you need, arrange an honest column +Of all the people you have ever known +That you have never liked. You'll have enough; +And you'll have mine, moreover. No, not yet. +If I assume too many privileges, +I pay, and I alone, for their assumption; +By which, if I assume a darker knowledge +Of Norcross than another, let the weight +Of my injustice aggravate the load +That is not on your shoulders. When I came +To know this fellow Norcross in his house, +I found him as I found him in the street -- +No more, no less; indifferent, but no better. +`Worse' were not quite the word: he was not bad; +He was not . . . well, he was not anything. +Has your invention ever entertained +The picture of a dusty worm so dry +That even the early bird would shake his head +And fly on farther for another breakfast?" + +"But why forget the fortune of the worm," +I said, "if in the dryness you deplore +Salvation centred and endured? Your Norcross +May have been one for many to have envied." + +"Salvation? Fortune? Would the worm say that? +He might; and therefore I dismiss the worm +With all dry things but one. Figures away, +Do you begin to see this man a little? +Do you begin to see him in the air, +With all the vacant horrors of his outline +For you to fill with more than it will hold? +If so, you needn't crown yourself at once +With epic laurel if you seem to fill it. +Horrors, I say, for in the fires and forks +Of a new hell -- if one were not enough -- +I doubt if a new horror would have held him +With a malignant ingenuity +More to be feared than his before he died. +You smile, as if in doubt. Well, smile again. +Now come into his house, along with me: +The four square sombre things that you see first +Around you are four walls that go as high +As to the ceiling. Norcross knew them well, +And he knew others like them. Fasten to that +With all the claws of your intelligence; +And hold the man before you in his house +As if he were a white rat in a box, +And one that knew himself to be no other. +I tell you twice that he knew all about it, +That you may not forget the worst of all +Our tragedies begin with what we know. +Could Norcross only not have known, I wonder +How many would have blessed and envied him! +Could he have had the usual eye for spots +On others, and for none upon himself, +I smile to ponder on the carriages +That might as well as not have clogged the town +In honor of his end. For there was gold, +You see, though all he needed was a little, +And what he gave said nothing of who gave it. +He would have given it all if in return +There might have been a more sufficient face +To greet him when he shaved. Though you insist +It is the dower, and always, of our degree +Not to be cursed with such invidious insight, +Remember that you stand, you and your fancy, +Now in his house; and since we are together, +See for yourself and tell me what you see. +Tell me the best you see. Make a slight noise +Of recognition when you find a book +That you would not as lief read upside down +As otherwise, for example. If there you fail, +Observe the walls and lead me to the place, +Where you are led. If there you meet a picture +That holds you near it for a longer time +Than you are sorry, you may call it yours, +And hang it in the dark of your remembrance, +Where Norcross never sees. How can he see +That has no eyes to see? And as for music, +He paid with empty wonder for the pangs +Of his infrequent forced endurance of it; +And having had no pleasure, paid no more +For needless immolation, or for the sight +Of those who heard what he was never to hear. +To see them listening was itself enough +To make him suffer; and to watch worn eyes, +On other days, of strangers who forgot +Their sorrows and their failures and themselves +Before a few mysterious odds and ends +Of marble carted from the Parthenon -- +And all for seeing what he was never to see, +Because it was alive and he was dead -- +Here was a wonder that was more profound +Than any that was in fiddles and brass horns. + +"He knew, and in his knowledge there was death. +He knew there was a region all around him +That lay outside man's havoc and affairs, +And yet was not all hostile to their tumult, +Where poets would have served and honored him, +And saved him, had there been anything to save. +But there was nothing, and his tethered range +Was only a small desert. Kings of song +Are not for thrones in deserts. Towers of sound +And flowers of sense are but a waste of heaven +Where there is none to know them from the rocks +And sand-grass of his own monotony +That makes earth less than earth. He could see that, +And he could see no more. The captured light +That may have been or not, for all he cared, +The song that is in sculpture was not his, +But only, to his God-forgotten eyes, +One more immortal nonsense in a world +Where all was mortal, or had best be so, +And so be done with. `Art,' he would have said, +`Is not life, and must therefore be a lie;' +And with a few profundities like that +He would have controverted and dismissed +The benefit of the Greeks. He had heard of them, +As he had heard of his aspiring soul -- +Never to the perceptible advantage, +In his esteem, of either. `Faith,' he said, +Or would have said if he had thought of it, +`Lives in the same house with Philosophy, +Where the two feed on scraps and are forlorn +As orphans after war. He could see stars, +On a clear night, but he had not an eye +To see beyond them. He could hear spoken words, +But had no ear for silence when alone. +He could eat food of which he knew the savor, +But had no palate for the Bread of Life, +That human desperation, to his thinking, +Made famous long ago, having no other. +Now do you see? Do you begin to see?" + +I told him that I did begin to see; +And I was nearer than I should have been +To laughing at his malign inclusiveness, +When I considered that, with all our speed, +We are not laughing yet at funerals. +I see him now as I could see him then, +And I see now that it was good for me, +As it was good for him, that I was quiet; +For Time's eye was on Ferguson, and the shaft +Of its inquiring hesitancy had touched him, +Or so I chose to fancy more than once +Before he told of Norcross. When the word +Of his release (he would have called it so) +Made half an inch of news, there were no tears +That are recorded. Women there may have been +To wish him back, though I should say, not knowing, +The few there were to mourn were not for love, +And were not lovely. Nothing of them, at least, +Was in the meagre legend that I gathered +Years after, when a chance of travel took me +So near the region of his nativity +That a few miles of leisure brought me there; +For there I found a friendly citizen +Who led me to his house among the trees +That were above a railroad and a river. +Square as a box and chillier than a tomb +It was indeed, to look at or to live in -- +All which had I been told. "Ferguson died," +The stranger said, "and then there was an auction. +I live here, but I've never yet been warm. +Remember him? Yes, I remember him. +I knew him -- as a man may know a tree -- +For twenty years. He may have held himself +A little high when he was here, but now . . . +Yes, I remember Ferguson. Oh, yes." +Others, I found, remembered Ferguson, +But none of them had heard of Tasker Norcross. + + + + +A Song at Shannon's + + + +Two men came out of Shannon's having known +The faces of each other for as long +As they had listened there to an old song, +Sung thinly in a wastrel monotone +By some unhappy night-bird, who had flown +Too many times and with a wing too strong +To save himself, and so done heavy wrong +To more frail elements than his alone. + +Slowly away they went, leaving behind +More light than was before them. Neither met +The other's eyes again or said a word. +Each to his loneliness or to his kind, +Went his own way, and with his own regret, +Not knowing what the other may have heard. + + + + +Souvenir + + + +A vanished house that for an hour I knew +By some forgotten chance when I was young +Had once a glimmering window overhung +With honeysuckle wet with evening dew. +Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew, +And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung +Ferociously; and over me, among +The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew. + +Somewhere within there were dim presences +Of days that hovered and of years gone by. +I waited, and between their silences +There was an evanescent faded noise; +And though a child, I knew it was the voice +Of one whose occupation was to die. + + + + +Discovery + + + +We told of him as one who should have soared +And seen for us the devastating light +Whereof there is not either day or night, +And shared with us the glamour of the Word +That fell once upon Amos to record +For men at ease in Zion, when the sight +Of ills obscured aggrieved him and the might +Of Hamath was a warning of the Lord. + +Assured somehow that he would make us wise, +Our pleasure was to wait; and our surprise +Was hard when we confessed the dry return +Of his regret. For we were still to learn +That earth has not a school where we may go +For wisdom, or for more than we may know. + + + + +Firelight + + + +Ten years together without yet a cloud, +They seek each other's eyes at intervals +Of gratefulness to firelight and four walls +For love's obliteration of the crowd. +Serenely and perennially endowed +And bowered as few may be, their joy recalls +No snake, no sword; and over them there falls +The blessing of what neither says aloud. + +Wiser for silence, they were not so glad +Were she to read the graven tale of lines +On the wan face of one somewhere alone; +Nor were they more content could he have had +Her thoughts a moment since of one who shines +Apart, and would be hers if he had known. + + + + +The New Tenants + + + +The day was here when it was his to know +How fared the barriers he had built between +His triumph and his enemies unseen, +For them to undermine and overthrow; +And it was his no longer to forego +The sight of them, insidious and serene, +Where they were delving always and had been +Left always to be vicious and to grow. + +And there were the new tenants who had come, +By doors that were left open unawares, +Into his house, and were so much at home +There now that he would hardly have to guess, +By the slow guile of their vindictiveness, +What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs. + + + + +Inferential + + + +Although I saw before me there the face +Of one whom I had honored among men +The least, and on regarding him again +Would not have had him in another place, +He fitted with an unfamiliar grace +The coffin where I could not see him then +As I had seen him and appraised him when +I deemed him unessential to the race. + +For there was more of him than what I saw. +And there was on me more than the old awe +That is the common genius of the dead. +I might as well have heard him: "Never mind; +If some of us were not so far behind, +The rest of us were not so far ahead." + + + + +The Rat + + + +As often as he let himself be seen +We pitied him, or scorned him, or deplored +The inscrutable profusion of the Lord +Who shaped as one of us a thing so mean -- +Who made him human when he might have been +A rat, and so been wholly in accord +With any other creature we abhorred +As always useless and not always clean. + +Now he is hiding all alone somewhere, +And in a final hole not ready then; +For now he is among those over there +Who are not coming back to us again. +And we who do the fiction of our share +Say less of rats and rather more of men. + + + + +Rahel to Varnhagen + + Note. -- Rahel Robert and Varnhagen von Ense were married, + after many protestations on her part, in 1814. The marriage -- so far + as he was concerned, at any rate -- appears to have been satisfactory. + + + +Now you have read them all; or if not all, +As many as in all conscience I should fancy +To be enough. There are no more of them -- +Or none to burn your sleep, or to bring dreams +Of devils. If these are not sufficient, surely +You are a strange young man. I might live on +Alone, and for another forty years, +Or not quite forty, -- are you happier now? -- +Always to ask if there prevailed elsewhere +Another like yourself that would have held +These aged hands as long as you have held them, +Not once observing, for all I can see, +How they are like your mother's. Well, you have read +His letters now, and you have heard me say +That in them are the cinders of a passion +That was my life; and you have not yet broken +Your way out of my house, out of my sight, -- +Into the street. You are a strange young man. +I know as much as that of you, for certain; +And I'm already praying, for your sake, +That you be not too strange. Too much of that +May lead you bye and bye through gloomy lanes +To a sad wilderness, where one may grope +Alone, and always, or until he feels +Ferocious and invisible animals +That wait for men and eat them in the dark. +Why do you sit there on the floor so long, +Smiling at me while I try to be solemn? +Do you not hear it said for your salvation, +When I say truth? Are you, at four and twenty, +So little deceived in us that you interpret +The humor of a woman to be noticed +As her choice between you and Acheron? +Are you so unscathed yet as to infer +That if a woman worries when a man, +Or a man-child, has wet shoes on his feet +She may as well commemorate with ashes +The last eclipse of her tranquillity? +If you look up at me and blink again, +I shall not have to make you tell me lies +To know the letters you have not been reading. +I see now that I may have had for nothing +A most unpleasant shivering in my conscience +When I laid open for your contemplation +The wealth of my worn casket. If I did, +The fault was not yours wholly. Search again +This wreckage we may call for sport a face, +And you may chance upon the price of havoc +That I have paid for a few sorry stones +That shine and have no light -- yet once were stars, +And sparkled on a crown. Little and weak +They seem; and they are cold, I fear, for you. +But they that once were fire for me may not +Be cold again for me until I die; +And only God knows if they may be then. +There is a love that ceases to be love +In being ourselves. How, then, are we to lose it? +You that are sure that you know everything +There is to know of love, answer me that. +Well? . . . You are not even interested. + +Once on a far off time when I was young, +I felt with your assurance, and all through me, +That I had undergone the last and worst +Of love's inventions. There was a boy who brought +The sun with him and woke me up with it, +And that was every morning; every night +I tried to dream of him, but never could, +More than I might have seen in Adam's eyes +Their fond uncertainty when Eve began +The play that all her tireless progeny +Are not yet weary of. One scene of it +Was brief, but was eternal while it lasted; +And that was while I was the happiest +Of an imaginary six or seven, +Somewhere in history but not on earth, +For whom the sky had shaken and let stars +Rain down like diamonds. Then there were clouds, +And a sad end of diamonds; whereupon +Despair came, like a blast that would have brought +Tears to the eyes of all the bears in Finland, +And love was done. That was how much I knew. +Poor little wretch! I wonder where he is +This afternoon. Out of this rain, I hope. + +At last, when I had seen so many days +Dressed all alike, and in their marching order, +Go by me that I would not always count them, +One stopped -- shattering the whole file of Time, +Or so it seemed; and when I looked again, +There was a man. He struck once with his eyes, +And then there was a woman. I, who had come +To wisdom, or to vision, or what you like, +By the old hidden road that has no name, -- +I, who was used to seeing without flying +So much that others fly from without seeing, +Still looked, and was afraid, and looked again. +And after that, when I had read the story +Told in his eyes, and felt within my heart +The bleeding wound of their necessity, +I knew the fear was his. If I had failed him +And flown away from him, I should have lost +Ingloriously my wings in scrambling back, +And found them arms again. If he had struck me +Not only with his eyes but with his hands, +I might have pitied him and hated love, +And then gone mad. I, who have been so strong -- +Why don't you laugh? -- might even have done all that. +I, who have learned so much, and said so much, +And had the commendations of the great +For one who rules herself -- why don't you cry? -- +And own a certain small authority +Among the blind, who see no more than ever, +But like my voice, -- I would have tossed it all +To Tophet for one man; and he was jealous. +I would have wound a snake around my neck +And then have let it bite me till I died, +If my so doing would have made me sure +That one man might have lived; and he was jealous. +I would have driven these hands into a cage +That held a thousand scorpions, and crushed them, +If only by so poisonous a trial +I could have crushed his doubt. I would have wrung +My living blood with mediaeval engines +Out of my screaming flesh, if only that +Would have made one man sure. I would have paid +For him the tiresome price of body and soul, +And let the lash of a tongue-weary town +Fall as it might upon my blistered name; +And while it fell I could have laughed at it, +Knowing that he had found out finally +Where the wrong was. But there was evil in him +That would have made no more of his possession +Than confirmation of another fault; +And there was honor -- if you call it honor +That hoods itself with doubt and wears a crown +Of lead that might as well be gold and fire. +Give it as heavy or as light a name +As any there is that fits. I see myself +Without the power to swear to this or that +That I might be if he had been without it. +Whatever I might have been that I was not, +It only happened that it wasn't so. +Meanwhile, you might seem to be listening: +If you forget yourself and go to sleep, +My treasure, I shall not say this again. +Look up once more into my poor old face, +Where you see beauty, or the Lord knows what, +And say to me aloud what else there is +Than ruins in it that you most admire. + +No, there was never anything like that; +Nature has never fastened such a mask +Of radiant and impenetrable merit +On any woman as you say there is +On this one. Not a mask? I thank you, sir, +But you see more with your determination, +I fear, than with your prudence or your conscience; +And you have never met me with my eyes +In all the mirrors I've made faces at. +No, I shall never call you strange again: +You are the young and inconvincible +Epitome of all blind men since Adam. +May the blind lead the blind, if that be so? +And we shall need no mirrors? You are saying +What most I feared you might. But if the blind, +Or one of them, be not so fortunate +As to put out the eyes of recollection, +She might at last, without her meaning it, +Lead on the other, without his knowing it, +Until the two of them should lose themselves +Among dead craters in a lava-field +As empty as a desert on the moon. +I am not speaking in a theatre, +But in a room so real and so familiar +That sometimes I would wreck it. Then I pause, +Remembering there is a King in Weimar -- +A monarch, and a poet, and a shepherd +Of all who are astray and are outside +The realm where they should rule. I think of him, +And save the furniture; I think of you, +And am forlorn, finding in you the one +To lavish aspirations and illusions +Upon a faded and forsaken house +Where love, being locked alone, was nigh to burning +House and himself together. Yes, you are strange, +To see in such an injured architecture +Room for new love to live in. Are you laughing? +No? Well, you are not crying, as you should be. +Tears, even if they told only gratitude +For your escape, and had no other story, +Were surely more becoming than a smile +For my unwomanly straightforwardness +In seeing for you, through my close gate of years +Your forty ways to freedom. Why do you smile? +And while I'm trembling at my faith in you +In giving you to read this book of danger +That only one man living might have written -- +These letters, which have been a part of me +So long that you may read them all again +As often as you look into my face, +And hear them when I speak to you, and feel them +Whenever you have to touch me with your hand, -- +Why are you so unwilling to be spared? +Why do you still believe in me? But no, +I'll find another way to ask you that. +I wonder if there is another way +That says it better, and means anything. +There is no other way that could be worse? +I was not asking you; it was myself +Alone that I was asking. Why do I dip +For lies, when there is nothing in my well +But shining truth, you say? How do you know? +Truth has a lonely life down where she lives; +And many a time, when she comes up to breathe, +She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples. +Possibly you may know no more of me +Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone, +Leaving you then with all my shining truth +Drowned in a shining water; and when you look +You may not see me there, but something else +That never was a woman -- being yourself. +You say to me my truth is past all drowning, +And safe with you for ever? You know all that? +How do you know all that, and who has told you? +You know so much that I'm an atom frightened +Because you know so little. And what is this? +You know the luxury there is in haunting +The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion -- +If that's your name for them -- with only ghosts +For company? You know that when a woman +Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience +(Another name of yours for a bad temper) +She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it +(That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it), +Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby +Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom, +Given in vain to make a food for those +Who are without it, will be seen at last, +And even at last only by those who gave it, +As one or more of the forgotten crumbs +That others leave? You know that men's applause +And women's envy savor so much of dust +That I go hungry, having at home no fare +But the same changeless bread that I may swallow +Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that? +You know that if I read, and read alone, +Too many books that no men yet have written, +I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself, +Of all insistent and insidious creatures, +To be the one to save me, and to guard +For me their flaming language? And you know +That if I give much headway to the whim +That's in me never to be quite sure that even +Through all those years of storm and fire I waited +For this one rainy day, I may go on, +And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes, +To a cold end? You know so dismal much +As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do. + + + + +Nimmo + + + +Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive +At such a false and florid and far drawn +Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive +No longer, though I may have led you on. + +So much is told and heard and told again, +So many with his legend are engrossed, +That I, more sorry now than I was then, +May live on to be sorry for his ghost. + +You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, -- +How deep they were, and what a velvet light +Came out of them when anger or surprise, +Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright. + +No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, -- +And you say nothing of them. Very well. +I wonder if all history's worth a wink, +Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell. + +For they began to lose their velvet light; +Their fire grew dead without and small within; +And many of you deplored the needless fight +That somewhere in the dark there must have been. + +All fights are needless, when they're not our own, +But Nimmo and Francesca never fought. +Remember that; and when you are alone, +Remember me -- and think what I have thought. + +Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was, +Or never was, or could or could not be: +Bring not suspicion's candle to the glass +That mirrors a friend's face to memory. + +Of what you see, see all, -- but see no more; +For what I show you here will not be there. +The devil has had his way with paint before, +And he's an artist, -- and you needn't stare. + +There was a painter and he painted well: +He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den, +Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell. +I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again. + +The painter put the devil in those eyes, +Unless the devil did, and there he stayed; +And then the lady fled from paradise, +And there's your fact. The lady was afraid. + +She must have been afraid, or may have been, +Of evil in their velvet all the while; +But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin, +I'll trust the man as long as he can smile. + +I trust him who can smile and then may live +In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today. +God knows if I have more than men forgive +To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay. + +I knew him then, and if I know him yet, +I know in him, defeated and estranged, +The calm of men forbidden to forget +The calm of women who have loved and changed. + +But there are ways that are beyond our ways, +Or he would not be calm and she be mute, +As one by one their lost and empty days +Pass without even the warmth of a dispute. + +God help us all when women think they see; +God save us when they do. I'm fair; but though +I know him only as he looks to me, +I know him, -- and I tell Francesca so. + +And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask +Of him, could you but see him as I can, +At his bewildered and unfruitful task +Of being what he was born to be -- a man. + +Better forget that I said anything +Of what your tortured memory may disclose; +I know him, and your worst remembering +Would count as much as nothing, I suppose. + +Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way +Of trusting me, as always in his youth. +I'm painting here a better man, you say, +Than I, the painter; and you say the truth. + + + + +Peace on Earth + + + +He took a frayed hat from his head, +And "Peace on Earth" was what he said. +"A morsel out of what you're worth, +And there we have it: Peace on Earth. +Not much, although a little more +Than what there was on earth before. +I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, -- +But never mind the ways I've trod; +I'm sober now, so help me God." + +I could not pass the fellow by. +"Do you believe in God?" said I; +"And is there to be Peace on Earth?" + +"Tonight we celebrate the birth," +He said, "of One who died for men; +The Son of God, we say. What then? +Your God, or mine? I'd make you laugh +Were I to tell you even half +That I have learned of mine today +Where yours would hardly seem to stay. +Could He but follow in and out +Some anthropoids I know about, +The God to whom you may have prayed +Might see a world He never made." + +"Your words are flowing full," said I; +"But yet they give me no reply; +Your fountain might as well be dry." + +"A wiser One than you, my friend, +Would wait and hear me to the end; +And for His eyes a light would shine +Through this unpleasant shell of mine +That in your fancy makes of me +A Christmas curiosity. +All right, I might be worse than that; +And you might now be lying flat; +I might have done it from behind, +And taken what there was to find. +Don't worry, for I'm not that kind. +`Do I believe in God?' Is that +The price tonight of a new hat? +Has He commanded that His name +Be written everywhere the same? +Have all who live in every place +Identified His hidden face? +Who knows but He may like as well +My story as one you may tell? +And if He show me there be Peace +On Earth, as there be fields and trees +Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong +If now I sing Him a new song? +Your world is in yourself, my friend, +For your endurance to the end; +And all the Peace there is on Earth +Is faith in what your world is worth, +And saying, without any lies, +Your world could not be otherwise." + +"One might say that and then be shot," +I told him; and he said: "Why not?" +I ceased, and gave him rather more +Than he was counting of my store. +"And since I have it, thanks to you, +Don't ask me what I mean to do," +Said he. "Believe that even I +Would rather tell the truth than lie -- +On Christmas Eve. No matter why." + +His unshaved, educated face, +His inextinguishable grace, +And his hard smile, are with me still, +Deplore the vision as I will; +For whatsoever he be at, +So droll a derelict as that +Should have at least another hat. + + + + +Late Summer + + (Alcaics) + + + +Confused, he found her lavishing feminine +Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; + And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors +Be as they were, without end, her playthings? + +And why were dead years hungrily telling her +Lies of the dead, who told them again to her? + If now she knew, there might be kindness +Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled. + +A little faith in him, and the ruinous +Past would be for time to annihilate, + And wash out, like a tide that washes +Out of the sand what a child has drawn there. + +God, what a shining handful of happiness, +Made out of days and out of eternities, + Were now the pulsing end of patience -- +Could he but have what a ghost had stolen! + +What was a man before him, or ten of them, +While he was here alive who could answer them, + And in their teeth fling confirmations +Harder than agates against an egg-shell? + +But now the man was dead, and would come again +Never, though she might honor ineffably + The flimsy wraith of him she conjured +Out of a dream with his wand of absence. + +And if the truth were now but a mummery, +Meriting pride's implacable irony, + So much the worse for pride. Moreover, +Save her or fail, there was conscience always. + +Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, +Imploring to be sheltered and credited, + Were not amiss when she revealed them. +Whether she struggled or not, he saw them. + +Also, he saw that while she was hearing him +Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; + And while he told what cautious honor +Told him was all he had best be sure of, + +He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, +Where shifting winds were driving his argosies, + Long anchored and as long unladen, +Over the foam for the golden chances. + +"If men were not for killing so carelessly, +And women were for wiser endurances," + He said, "we might have yet a world here +Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in; + +"If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness, +And we were less forbidden to look at it, + We might not have to look." He stared then +Down at the sand where the tide threw forward + +Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly +Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough, + Although he knew he might be silenced +Out of all calm; and the night was coming. + +"I climb for you the peak of his infamy +That you may choose your fall if you cling to it. + No more for me unless you say more. +All you have left of a dream defends you: + +"The truth may be as evil an augury +As it was needful now for the two of us. + We cannot have the dead between us. +Tell me to go, and I go." -- She pondered: + +"What you believe is right for the two of us +Makes it as right that you are not one of us. + If this be needful truth you tell me, +Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter." + +She gazed away where shadows were covering +The whole cold ocean's healing indifference. + No ship was coming. When the darkness +Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing. + + + + +An Evangelist's Wife + + + +"Why am I not myself these many days, +You ask? And have you nothing more to ask? +I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise +To God for giving you me to share your task? + +"Jealous -- of Her? Because her cheeks are pink, +And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven. +If you should only steal an hour to think, +Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven. + +"No, you are never cruel. If once or twice +I found you so, I could applaud and sing. +Jealous of -- What? You are not very wise. +Does not the good Book tell you anything? + +"In David's time poor Michal had to go. +Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so." + + + + +The Old King's New Jester + + + +You that in vain would front the coming order +With eyes that meet forlornly what they must, +And only with a furtive recognition +See dust where there is dust, -- +Be sure you like it always in your faces, +Obscuring your best graces, +Blinding your speech and sight, +Before you seek again your dusty places +Where the old wrong seems right. + +Longer ago than cave-men had their changes +Our fathers may have slain a son or two, +Discouraging a further dialectic +Regarding what was new; +And after their unstudied admonition +Occasional contrition +For their old-fashioned ways +May have reduced their doubts, and in addition +Softened their final days. + +Farther away than feet shall ever travel +Are the vague towers of our unbuilded State; +But there are mightier things than we to lead us, +That will not let us wait. +And we go on with none to tell us whether +Or not we've each a tether +Determining how fast or far we go; +And it is well, since we must go together, +That we are not to know. + +If the old wrong and all its injured glamour +Haunts you by day and gives your night no peace, +You may as well, agreeably and serenely, +Give the new wrong its lease; +For should you nourish a too fervid yearning +For what is not returning, +The vicious and unfused ingredient +May give you qualms -- and one or two concerning +The last of your content. + + + + +Lazarus + + + +"No, Mary, there was nothing -- not a word. +Nothing, and always nothing. Go again +Yourself, and he may listen -- or at least +Look up at you, and let you see his eyes. +I might as well have been the sound of rain, +A wind among the cedars, or a bird; +Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you; +And even if he should say that we are nothing, +To know that you have heard him will be something. +And yet he loved us, and it was for love +The Master gave him back. Why did He wait +So long before He came? Why did He weep? +I thought He would be glad -- and Lazarus -- +To see us all again as He had left us -- +All as it was, all as it was before." + +Mary, who felt her sister's frightened arms +Like those of someone drowning who had seized her, +Fearing at last they were to fail and sink +Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness, +Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes, +To find again the fading shores of home +That she had seen but now could see no longer. +Now she could only gaze into the twilight, +And in the dimness know that he was there, +Like someone that was not. He who had been +Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive +Only in death again -- or worse than death; +For tombs at least, always until today, +Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain +For man or God in such a day as this; +For there they were alone, and there was he -- +Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany, +The Master -- who had come to them so late, +Only for love of them and then so slowly, +And was for their sake hunted now by men +Who feared Him as they feared no other prey -- +For the world's sake was hidden. "Better the tomb +For Lazarus than life, if this be life," +She thought; and then to Martha, "No, my dear," +She said aloud; "not as it was before. +Nothing is ever as it was before, +Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time; +And we that are so lonely and so far +From home, since he is with us here again, +Are farther now from him and from ourselves +Than we are from the stars. He will not speak +Until the spirit that is in him speaks; +And we must wait for all we are to know, +Or even to learn that we are not to know. +Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge, +And that is why it is that we must wait. +Our friends are coming if we call for them, +And there are covers we'll put over him +To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps, +To say that we know better what is best +Than he. We do not know how old he is. +If you remember what the Master said, +Try to believe that we need have no fear. +Let me, the selfish and the careless one, +Be housewife and a mother for tonight; +For I am not so fearful as you are, +And I was not so eager." + + Martha sank +Down at her sister's feet and there sat watching +A flower that had a small familiar name +That was as old as memory, but was not +The name of what she saw now in its brief +And infinite mystery that so frightened her +That life became a terror. Tears again +Flooded her eyes and overflowed. "No, Mary," +She murmured slowly, hating her own words +Before she heard them, "you are not so eager +To see our brother as we see him now; +Neither is He who gave him back to us. +I was to be the simple one, as always, +And this was all for me." She stared again +Over among the trees where Lazarus, +Who seemed to be a man who was not there, +Might have been one more shadow among shadows, +If she had not remembered. Then she felt +The cool calm hands of Mary on her face, +And shivered, wondering if such hands were real. + +"The Master loved you as He loved us all, +Martha; and you are saying only things +That children say when they have had no sleep. +Try somehow now to rest a little while; +You know that I am here, and that our friends +Are coming if I call." + + Martha at last +Arose, and went with Mary to the door, +Where they stood looking off at the same place, +And at the same shape that was always there +As if it would not ever move or speak, +And always would be there. "Mary, go now, +Before the dark that will be coming hides him. +I am afraid of him out there alone, +Unless I see him; and I have forgotten +What sleep is. Go now -- make him look at you -- +And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers. +Go! -- or I'll scream and bring all Bethany +To come and make him speak. Make him say once +That he is glad, and God may say the rest. +Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever, +I shall not care for that . . . Go!" + + Mary, moving +Almost as if an angry child had pushed her, +Went forward a few steps; and having waited +As long as Martha's eyes would look at hers, +Went forward a few more, and a few more; +And so, until she came to Lazarus, +Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands, +Like one that had no face. Before she spoke, +Feeling her sister's eyes that were behind her +As if the door where Martha stood were now +As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned +Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly, +Fearing him not so much as wondering +What his first word might be, said, "Lazarus, +Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;" +And having spoken, pitied her poor speech +That had so little seeming gladness in it, +So little comfort, and so little love. + +There was no sign from him that he had heard, +Or that he knew that she was there, or cared +Whether she spoke to him again or died +There at his feet. "We love you, Lazarus, +And we are not afraid. The Master said +We need not be afraid. Will you not say +To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus! +Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary." + +She found his hands and held them. They were cool, +Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers. +Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him +When he had groped out of that awful sleep, +She felt him trembling and she was afraid. +At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily +To God that she might have again the voice +Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now +The recognition of a living pressure +That was almost a language. When he spoke, +Only one word that she had waited for +Came from his lips, and that word was her name. + +"I heard them saying, Mary, that He wept +Before I woke." The words were low and shaken, +Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them +Was Lazarus; and that would be enough +Until there should be more . . . "Who made Him come, +That He should weep for me? . . . Was it you, Mary?" +The questions held in his incredulous eyes +Were more than she would see. She looked away; +But she had felt them and should feel for ever, +She thought, their cold and lonely desperation +That had the bitterness of all cold things +That were not cruel. "I should have wept," he said, +"If I had been the Master. . . ." + + Now she could feel +His hands above her hair -- the same black hair +That once he made a jest of, praising it, +While Martha's busy eyes had left their work +To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that +Was to be theirs again; and such a thought +Was like the flying by of a quick bird +Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight. +For now she felt his hands upon her head, +Like weights of kindness: "I forgive you, Mary. . . . +You did not know -- Martha could not have known -- +Only the Master knew. . . . Where is He now? +Yes, I remember. They came after Him. +May the good God forgive Him. . . . I forgive Him. +I must; and I may know only from Him +The burden of all this. . . . Martha was here -- +But I was not yet here. She was afraid. . . . +Why did He do it, Mary? Was it -- you? +Was it for you? . . . Where are the friends I saw? +Yes, I remember. They all went away. +I made them go away. . . . Where is He now? . . . +What do I see down there? Do I see Martha -- +Down by the door? . . . I must have time for this." + +Lazarus looked about him fearfully, +And then again at Mary, who discovered +Awakening apprehension in his eyes, +And shivered at his feet. All she had feared +Was here; and only in the slow reproach +Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude. +Why had he asked if it was all for her +That he was here? And what had Martha meant? +Why had the Master waited? What was coming +To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come? +What had the Master seen before He came, +That He had come so late? + + "Where is He, Mary?" +Lazarus asked again. "Where did He go?" +Once more he gazed about him, and once more +At Mary for an answer. "Have they found Him? +Or did He go away because He wished +Never to look into my eyes again? . . . +That, I could understand. . . . Where is He, Mary?" + +"I do not know," she said. "Yet in my heart +I know that He is living, as you are living -- +Living, and here. He is not far from us. +He will come back to us and find us all -- +Lazarus, Martha, Mary -- everything -- +All as it was before. Martha said that. +And He said we were not to be afraid." +Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face +A tortured adumbration of a smile +Flickered an instant. "All as it was before," +He murmured wearily. "Martha said that; +And He said you were not to be afraid . . . +Not you . . . Not you . . . Why should you be afraid? +Give all your little fears, and Martha's with them, +To me; and I will add them unto mine, +Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret." + +"If you had frightened me in other ways, +Not willing it," Mary said, "I should have known +You still for Lazarus. But who is this? +Tell me again that you are Lazarus; +And tell me if the Master gave to you +No sign of a new joy that shall be coming +To this house that He loved. Are you afraid? +Are you afraid, who have felt everything -- +And seen . . . ?" + + But Lazarus only shook his head, +Staring with his bewildered shining eyes +Hard into Mary's face. "I do not know, +Mary," he said, after a long time. +"When I came back, I knew the Master's eyes +Were looking into mine. I looked at His, +And there was more in them than I could see. +At first I could see nothing but His eyes; +Nothing else anywhere was to be seen -- +Only His eyes. And they looked into mine -- +Long into mine, Mary, as if He knew." + +Mary began to be afraid of words +As she had never been afraid before +Of loneliness or darkness, or of death, +But now she must have more of them or die: +"He cannot know that there is worse than death," +She said. "And you . . ." + + "Yes, there is worse than death." +Said Lazarus; "and that was what He knew; +And that is what it was that I could see +This morning in his eyes. I was afraid, +But not as you are. There is worse than death, +Mary; and there is nothing that is good +For you in dying while you are still here. +Mary, never go back to that again. +You would not hear me if I told you more, +For I should say it only in a language +That you are not to learn by going back. +To be a child again is to go forward -- +And that is much to know. Many grow old, +And fade, and go away, not knowing how much +That is to know. Mary, the night is coming, +And there will soon be darkness all around you. +Let us go down where Martha waits for us, +And let there be light shining in this house." + +He rose, but Mary would not let him go: +"Martha, when she came back from here, said only +That she heard nothing. And have you no more +For Mary now than you had then for Martha? +Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me? +Was Nothing all you found where you have been? +If that be so, what is there worse than that -- +Or better -- if that be so? And why should you, +With even our love, go the same dark road over?" + +"I could not answer that, if that were so," +Said Lazarus, -- "not even if I were God. +Why should He care whether I came or stayed, +If that were so? Why should the Master weep -- +For me, or for the world, -- or save Himself +Longer for nothing? And if that were so, +Why should a few years' more mortality +Make Him a fugitive where flight were needless, +Had He but held his peace and given his nod +To an old Law that would be new as any? +I cannot say the answer to all that; +Though I may say that He is not afraid, +And that it is not for the joy there is +In serving an eternal Ignorance +Of our futility that He is here. +Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing? +Is that what you are fearing? If that be so, +There are more weeds than lentils in your garden. +And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest +May as well have no garden; for not there +Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts +Of life that are to save him. For my part, +I am again with you, here among shadows +That will not always be so dark as this; +Though now I see there's yet an evil in me +That made me let you be afraid of me. +No, I was not afraid -- not even of life. +I thought I was . . . I must have time for this; +And all the time there is will not be long. +I cannot tell you what the Master saw +This morning in my eyes. I do not know. +I cannot yet say how far I have gone, +Or why it is that I am here again, +Or where the old road leads. I do not know. +I know that when I did come back, I saw +His eyes again among the trees and faces -- +Only His eyes; and they looked into mine -- +Long into mine -- long, long, as if He knew." + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Three Taverns + diff --git a/old/old/3tavs10.zip b/old/old/3tavs10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..48cb873 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/3tavs10.zip |