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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/313-h.zip b/313-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..29b78c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/313-h.zip diff --git a/313-h/313-h.htm b/313-h/313-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1ef56d --- /dev/null +++ b/313-h/313-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3168 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Children of the Night, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Children of the Night, by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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 + + +Title: The Children of the Night + +Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson + +Release Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook #313] +Last Updated: February 7, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Edwin Arlington Robinson + </h2> + <h4> + [Maine Poet — 1869-1935.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1905 printing of the 1897 edition + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Children of the Night </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Three Quatrains </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The World </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> An Old Story </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Ballade of a Ship </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Ballade by the Fire </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Ballade of Broken Flutes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Ballade of Dead Friends </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Her Eyes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Two Men </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Villanelle of Change </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> John Evereldown </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Luke Havergal </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The House on the Hill </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Richard Cory </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Two Octaves </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Calvary </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Dear Friends </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Story of the Ashes and the Flame </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Amaryllis </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Kosmos </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Zola </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> The Pity of the Leaves </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Aaron Stark </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Cliff Klingenhagen </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Charles Carville's Eyes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> The Dead Village </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Boston </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> Two Sonnets </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> The Clerks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Fleming Helphenstine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> For a Book by Thomas Hardy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> Thomas Hood </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Miracle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Horace to Leuconoe </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> Reuben Bright </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Altar </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Tavern </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Sonnet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> George Crabbe </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Credo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> On the Night of a Friend's Wedding </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> Sonnet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> Verlaine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> Sonnet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> Supremacy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> The Night Before </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> Walt Whitman </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> The Wilderness </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> Octaves </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> Two Quatrains </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + To the Memory of my Father and Mother + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + The Children of the Night + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + For those that never know the light, + The darkness is a sullen thing; + And they, the Children of the Night, + Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing. + + But some are strong and some are weak, — + And there's the story. House and home + Are shut from countless hearts that seek + World-refuge that will never come. + + And if there be no other life, + And if there be no other chance + To weigh their sorrow and their strife + Than in the scales of circumstance, + + 'T were better, ere the sun go down + Upon the first day we embark, + In life's imbittered sea to drown, + Than sail forever in the dark. + + But if there be a soul on earth + So blinded with its own misuse + Of man's revealed, incessant worth, + Or worn with anguish, that it views + + No light but for a mortal eye, + No rest but of a mortal sleep, + No God but in a prophet's lie, + No faith for "honest doubt" to keep; + + If there be nothing, good or bad, + But chaos for a soul to trust, — + God counts it for a soul gone mad, + And if God be God, He is just. + + And if God be God, He is Love; + And though the Dawn be still so dim, + It shows us we have played enough + With creeds that make a fiend of Him. + + There is one creed, and only one, + That glorifies God's excellence; + So cherish, that His will be done, + The common creed of common sense. + + It is the crimson, not the gray, + That charms the twilight of all time; + It is the promise of the day + That makes the starry sky sublime; + + It is the faith within the fear + That holds us to the life we curse; — + So let us in ourselves revere + The Self which is the Universe! + + Let us, the Children of the Night, + Put off the cloak that hides the scar! + Let us be Children of the Light, + And tell the ages what we are! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Three Quatrains + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As long as Fame's imperious music rings + Will poets mock it with crowned words august; + And haggard men will clamber to be kings + As long as Glory weighs itself in dust. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled, + Nor shudder for the revels that are done: + The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled, + The strings that Nero fingered are all gone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We cannot crown ourselves with everything, + Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel: + No matter what we are, or what we sing, + Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The World + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some are the brothers of all humankind, + And own them, whatsoever their estate; + And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind + With enmity for man's unguarded fate. + + For some there is a music all day long + Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad; + And there is hell's eternal under-song + Of curses and the cries of men gone mad. + + Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous, + Some say 't were better back to chaos hurled; + And so 't is what we are that makes for us + The measure and the meaning of the world. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Old Story + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Strange that I did not know him then, + That friend of mine! + I did not even show him then + One friendly sign; + + But cursed him for the ways he had + To make me see + My envy of the praise he had + For praising me. + + I would have rid the earth of him + Once, in my pride! . . . + I never knew the worth of him + Until he died. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ballade of a Ship + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down by the flash of the restless water + The dim White Ship like a white bird lay; + Laughing at life and the world they sought her, + And out she swung to the silvering bay. + Then off they flew on their roystering way, + And the keen moon fired the light foam flying + Up from the flood where the faint stars play, + And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + 'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter, + And full three hundred beside, they say, — + Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter + So soon to seize them and hide them for aye; + But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay, + Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying + Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her + (This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey: + The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her, + And hurled her down where the dead men stay. + A torturing silence of wan dismay — + Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying — + Then down they sank to slumber and sway + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + ENVOY + + Prince, do you sleep to the sound alway + Of the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying? — + Or does love still shudder and steel still slay, + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ballade by the Fire + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Slowly I smoke and hug my knee, + The while a witless masquerade + Of things that only children see + Floats in a mist of light and shade: + They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, + And with a weak, remindful glow, + The falling embers break and fade, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + Then, with a melancholy glee + To think where once my fancy strayed, + I muse on what the years may be + Whose coming tales are all unsaid, + Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid + Within their shadowed niches, grow + By grim degrees to pick and spade, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + But then, what though the mystic Three + Around me ply their merry trade? — + And Charon soon may carry me + Across the gloomy Stygian glade? — + Be up, my soul! nor be afraid + Of what some unborn year may show; + But mind your human debts are paid, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + ENVOY + + Life is the game that must be played: + This truth at least, good friend, we know; + So live and laugh, nor be dismayed + As one by one the phantoms go. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ballade of Broken Flutes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (To A. T. Schumann.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In dreams I crossed a barren land, + A land of ruin, far away; + Around me hung on every hand + A deathful stillness of decay; + And silent, as in bleak dismay + That song should thus forsaken be, + On that forgotten ground there lay + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + The forest that was all so grand + When pipes and tabors had their sway + Stood leafless now, a ghostly band + Of skeletons in cold array. + A lonely surge of ancient spray + Told of an unforgetful sea, + But iron blows had hushed for aye + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + No more by summer breezes fanned, + The place was desolate and gray; + But still my dream was to command + New life into that shrunken clay. + I tried it. Yes, you scan to-day, + With uncommiserating glee, + The songs of one who strove to play + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + ENVOY + + So, Rock, I join the common fray, + To fight where Mammon may decree; + And leave, to crumble as they may, + The broken flutes of Arcady. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ballade of Dead Friends + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As we the withered ferns + By the roadway lying, + Time, the jester, spurns + All our prayers and prying — + All our tears and sighing, + Sorrow, change, and woe — + All our where-and-whying + For friends that come and go. + + Life awakes and burns, + Age and death defying, + Till at last it learns + All but Love is dying; + Love's the trade we're plying, + God has willed it so; + Shrouds are what we're buying + For friends that come and go. + + Man forever yearns + For the thing that's flying. + Everywhere he turns, + Men to dust are drying, — + Dust that wanders, eying + (With eyes that hardly glow) + New faces, dimly spying + For friends that come and go. + + ENVOY + + And thus we all are nighing + The truth we fear to know: + Death will end our crying + For friends that come and go. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Her Eyes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up from the street and the crowds that went, + Morning and midnight, to and fro, + Still was the room where his days he spent, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + + Year after year, with his dream shut fast, + He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, + For the love that his brushes had earned at last, — + And the whole world rang with the praise of him. + + But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, + Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray. + "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . . + "There are stars enough — when the sun's away." + + Then he went back to the same still room + That had held his dream in the long ago, + When he buried his days in a nameless tomb, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + + And a passionate humor seized him there — + Seized him and held him until there grew + Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair, + A perilous face — and an angel's, too. + + Angel and maiden, and all in one, — + All but the eyes. — They were there, but yet + They seemed somehow like a soul half done. + What was the matter? Did God forget? . . . + + But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure + That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, — + With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, + And a glimmer of hell to make them human. + + God never forgets. — And he worships her + There in that same still room of his, + For his wife, and his constant arbiter + Of the world that was and the world that is. + + And he wonders yet what her love could be + To punish him after that strife so grim; + But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, + The plainer it all comes back to him. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Men + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There be two men of all mankind + That I should like to know about; + But search and question where I will, + I cannot ever find them out. + + Melchizedek he praised the Lord, + And gave some wine to Abraham; + But who can tell what else he did + Must be more learned than I am. + + Ucalegon he lost his house + When Agamemnon came to Troy; + But who can tell me who he was — + I'll pray the gods to give him joy. + + There be two men of all mankind + That I'm forever thinking on: + They chase me everywhere I go, — + Melchizedek, Ucalegon. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Villanelle of Change + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since Persia fell at Marathon, + The yellow years have gathered fast: + Long centuries have come and gone. + + And yet (they say) the place will don + A phantom fury of the past, + Since Persia fell at Marathon; + + And as of old, when Helicon + Trembled and swayed with rapture vast + (Long centuries have come and gone), + + This ancient plain, when night comes on, + Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, + Since Persia fell at Marathon. + + But into soundless Acheron + The glory of Greek shame was cast: + Long centuries have come and gone, + + The suns of Hellas have all shone, + The first has fallen to the last: — + Since Persia fell at Marathon, + Long centuries have come and gone. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + John Evereldown + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Where are you going to-night, to-night, — + Where are you going, John Evereldown? + There's never the sign of a star in sight, + Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town. + Why do you stare as a dead man might? + Where are you pointing away from the light? + And where are you going to-night, to-night, — + Where are you going, John Evereldown?" + + "Right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town. + The men are asleep, — or awake, may be, — + But the women are calling John Evereldown. + Ever and ever they call for me, + And while they call can a man be free? + So right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town." + + "But why are you going so late, so late, — + Why are you going, John Evereldown? + Though the road be smooth and the path be straight, + There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town. + Come in by the fire, old man, and wait! + Why do you chatter out there by the gate? + And why are you going so late, so late, — + Why are you going, John Evereldown?" + + "I follow the women wherever they call, — + That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town. + God knows if I pray to be done with it all, + But God is no friend to John Evereldown. + So the clouds may come and the rain may fall, + The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, — + But I follow the women wherever they call, + And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Luke Havergal + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, — + There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, — + And in the twilight wait for what will come. + The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some — + Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; + But go, and if you trust her she will call. + Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal — + Luke Havergal. + + No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies + To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; + But there, where western glooms are gathering, + The dark will end the dark, if anything: + God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, + And hell is more than half of paradise. + No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies — + In eastern skies. + + Out of a grave I come to tell you this, — + Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss + That flames upon your forehead with a glow + That blinds you to the way that you must go. + Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, — + Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. + Out of a grave I come to tell you this — + To tell you this. + + There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, + There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. + Go, — for the winds are tearing them away, — + Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, + Nor any more to feel them as they fall; + But go! and if you trust her she will call. + There is the western gate, Luke Havergal — + Luke Havergal. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The House on the Hill + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They are all gone away, + The House is shut and still, + There is nothing more to say. + + Through broken walls and gray + The winds blow bleak and shrill: + They are all gone away. + + Nor is there one to-day + To speak them good or ill: + There is nothing more to say. + + Why is it then we stray + Around that sunken sill? + They are all gone away, + + And our poor fancy-play + For them is wasted skill: + There is nothing more to say. + + There is ruin and decay + In the House on the Hill: + They are all gone away, + There is nothing more to say. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Richard Cory + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whenever Richard Cory went down town, + We people on the pavement looked at him: + He was a gentleman from sole to crown, + Clean favored, and imperially slim. + + And he was always quietly arrayed, + And he was always human when he talked; + But still he fluttered pulses when he said, + "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. + + And he was rich, — yes, richer than a king, — + And admirably schooled in every grace: + In fine, we thought that he was everything + To make us wish that we were in his place. + + So on we worked, and waited for the light, + And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; + And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, + Went home and put a bullet through his head. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Octaves + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms + All outward recognition of revealed + And righteous omnipresence are the days + Of most of us affrighted and diseased, + But rather by the common snarls of life + That come to test us and to strengthen us + In this the prentice-age of discontent, + Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down + Upon a stagnant earth where listless men + Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat, + Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, — + It seems to me somehow that God himself + Scans with a close reproach what I have done, + Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears, + And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Calvary + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, + Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, + Stung by the mob that came to see the show, + The Master toiled along to Calvary; + We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee, + Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow; + We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, — + And this was nineteen hundred years ago. + + But after nineteen hundred years the shame + Still clings, and we have not made good the loss + That outraged faith has entered in his name. + Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong! + Tell me, O Lord — tell me, O Lord, how long + Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Dear Friends + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, + Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say + That I am wearing half my life away + For bubble-work that only fools pursue. + And if my bubbles be too small for you, + Blow bigger then your own: the games we play + To fill the frittered minutes of a day, + Good glasses are to read the spirit through. + + And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; + And some unprofitable scorn resign, + To praise the very thing that he deplores; + So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, + The shame I win for singing is all mine, + The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Story of the Ashes and the Flame + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, + There was her place. No matter what men said, + No matter what she was; living or dead, + Faithful or not, he loved her all the same. + The story was as old as human shame, + But ever since that lonely night she fled, + With books to blind him, he had only read + The story of the ashes and the flame. + + There she was always coming pretty soon + To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes + That had in them the laughter of the moon + For baffled lovers, and to make him think — + Before she gave him time enough to wink — + Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, + He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, + And brings their crystal cadence back once more + To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land + Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band + Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore + Of heroes and the men that long before + Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned. + + Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go + For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray — + For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; + And still does art's imperial vista show, + On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, + Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Amaryllis + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once, when I wandered in the woods alone, + An old man tottered up to me and said, + "Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made + For Amaryllis." There was in the tone + Of his complaint such quaver and such moan + That I took pity on him and obeyed, + And long stood looking where his hands had laid + An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone. + + Far out beyond the forest I could hear + The calling of loud progress, and the bold + Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear; + But though the trumpets of the world were glad, + It made me lonely and it made me sad + To think that Amaryllis had grown old. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Kosmos + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, — shuddering men that falter and shrink so + To look on death, — what were the days we live, + Where life is half a struggle to forgive, + But for the love that finds us when we go? + Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw + Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive + For some vague end that never shall arrive? + And is He not yet weary of the show? + + Think of it, all ye millions that have planned, + And only planned, the largess of hard youth! + Think of it, all ye builders on the sand, + Whose works are down! — Is love so small, forsooth? + Be brave! To-morrow you will understand + The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Zola + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because he puts the compromising chart + Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; + Because he counts the price that you have paid + For innocence, and counts it from the start, + You loathe him. But he sees the human heart + Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed + Your squeamish and emasculate crusade + Against the grim dominion of his art. + + Never until we conquer the uncouth + Connivings of our shamed indifference + (We call it Christian faith!) are we to scan + The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth + To find, in hate's polluted self-defence + Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pity of the Leaves + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vengeful across the cold November moors, + Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak + Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek, + Reverberant through lonely corridors. + The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce, + Words out of lips that were no more to speak — + Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek + Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors. + + And then there were the leaves that plagued him so! + The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside + Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then + They stopped, and stayed there — just to let him know + How dead they were; but if the old man cried, + They fluttered off like withered souls of men. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Aaron Stark + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, — + Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. + A miser was he, with a miser's nose, + And eyes like little dollars in the dark. + His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; + And when he spoke there came like sullen blows + Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, + As if a cur were chary of its bark. + + Glad for the murmur of his hard renown, + Year after year he shambled through the town, — + A loveless exile moving with a staff; + And oftentimes there crept into his ears + A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, — + And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Garden + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is a fenceless garden overgrown + With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves; + And once, among the roses and the sheaves, + The Gardener and I were there alone. + He led me to the plot where I had thrown + The fennel of my days on wasted ground, + And in that riot of sad weeds I found + The fruitage of a life that was my own. + + My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed! + And there were all the lives of humankind; + And they were like a book that I could read, + Whose every leaf, miraculously signed, + Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed, + Love-rooted in God's garden of the mind. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cliff Klingenhagen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine + With him one day; and after soup and meat, + And all the other things there were to eat, + Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine + And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign + For me to choose at all, he took the draught + Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed + It off, and said the other one was mine. + + And when I asked him what the deuce he meant + By doing that, he only looked at me + And grinned, and said it was a way of his. + And though I know the fellow, I have spent + Long time a-wondering when I shall be + As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Charles Carville's Eyes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A melancholy face Charles Carville had, + But not so melancholy as it seemed, — + When once you knew him, — for his mouth redeemed + His insufficient eyes, forever sad: + In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, — + Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; + His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, + His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad. + + He never was a fellow that said much, + And half of what he did say was not heard + By many of us: we were out of touch + With all his whims and all his theories + Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his + Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Dead Village + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here there is death. But even here, they say, — + Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon + As desolate as ever the dead moon + Did glimmer on dead Sardis, — men were gay; + And there were little children here to play, + With small soft hands that once did keep in tune + The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon + The change came, and the music passed away. + + Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things, — + No life, no love, no children, and no men; + And over the forgotten place there clings + The strange and unrememberable light + That is in dreams. The music failed, and then + God frowned, and shut the village from His sight. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Boston + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My northern pines are good enough for me, + But there's a town my memory uprears — + A town that always like a friend appears, + And always in the sunrise by the sea. + And over it, somehow, there seems to be + A downward flash of something new and fierce, + That ever strives to clear, but never clears + The dimness of a charmed antiquity. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Sonnets + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Just as I wonder at the twofold screen + Of twisted innocence that you would plait + For eyes that uncourageously await + The coming of a kingdom that has been, + So do I wonder what God's love can mean + To you that all so strangely estimate + The purpose and the consequent estate + Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen. + + No, I have not your backward faith to shrink + Lone-faring from the doorway of God's home + To find Him in the names of buried men; + Nor your ingenious recreance to think + We cherish, in the life that is to come, + The scattered features of dead friends again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Never until our souls are strong enough + To plunge into the crater of the Scheme — + Triumphant in the flash there to redeem + Love's handsel and forevermore to slough, + Like cerements at a played-out masque, the rough + And reptile skins of us whereon we set + The stigma of scared years — are we to get + Where atoms and the ages are one stuff. + + Nor ever shall we know the cursed waste + Of life in the beneficence divine + Of starlight and of sunlight and soul-shine + That we have squandered in sin's frail distress, + Till we have drunk, and trembled at the taste, + The mead of Thought's prophetic endlessness. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Clerks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I did not think that I should find them there + When I came back again; but there they stood, + As in the days they dreamed of when young blood + Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. + Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, — + And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood + About them; but the men were just as good, + And just as human as they ever were. + + And you that ache so much to be sublime, + And you that feed yourselves with your descent, + What comes of all your visions and your fears? + Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, + Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, + Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fleming Helphenstine + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At first I thought there was a superfine + Persuasion in his face; but the free glow + That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!" + Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. + He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, + But be that as it may; — I only know + He talked of this and that and So-and-So, + And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. + + But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, + And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed + With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince: + Then, with a wordless clogged apology + That sounded half confused and half amazed, + He dodged, — and I have never seen him since. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + For a Book by Thomas Hardy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways, + I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near, + Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, + Twisting and turning in a bootless chase, — + When, like an exile given by God's grace + To feel once more a human atmosphere, + I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, + Flung from a singing river's endless race. + + Then, through a magic twilight from below, + I heard its grand sad song as in a dream: + Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe + It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam, + Across the music of its onward flow + I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Thomas Hood + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The man who cloaked his bitterness within + This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries, + God never gave to look with common eyes + Upon a world of anguish and of sin: + His brother was the branded man of Lynn; + And there are woven with his jollities + The nameless and eternal tragedies + That render hope and hopelessness akin. + + We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel + A still chord sorrow-swept, — a weird unrest; + And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal, + As if the very ghost of mirth were dead — + As if the joys of time to dreams had fled, + Or sailed away with Ines to the West. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Miracle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead, + And you shall see no more this face of mine, + Let nothing but red roses be the sign + Of the white life I lost for him," she said; + "No, do not curse him, — pity him instead; + Forgive him! — forgive me! . . God's anodyne + For human hate is pity; and the wine + That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read + Love's message in love's murder, and I die." + And so they laid her just where she would lie, — + Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell; + But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, + And spring came, — lo, from every bud's green shell + Burst a white blossom. — Can love reason why? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Horace to Leuconoe + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore + With unpermitted eyes on what may be + Appointed by the gods for you and me, + Nor on Chaldean figures any more. + 'T were infinitely better to implore + The present only: — whether Jove decree + More winters yet to come, or whether he + Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore + Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last — + Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill + Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, + The envious close of time is narrowing; — + So seize the day, — or ever it be past, — + And let the morrow come for what it will. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Reuben Bright + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because he was a butcher and thereby + Did earn an honest living (and did right), + I would not have you think that Reuben Bright + Was any more a brute than you or I; + For when they told him that his wife must die, + He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, + And cried like a great baby half that night, + And made the women cry to see him cry. + + And after she was dead, and he had paid + The singers and the sexton and the rest, + He packed a lot of things that she had made + Most mournfully away in an old chest + Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs + In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Altar + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alone, remote, nor witting where I went, + I found an altar builded in a dream — + A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam + So swift, so searching, and so eloquent + Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent + With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme + Unending impulse to that human stream + Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent. + + Alas! I said, — the world is in the wrong. + But the same quenchless fever of unrest + That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng + Thrilled me, and I awoke . . . and was the same + Bewildered insect plunging for the flame + That burns, and must burn somehow for the best. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Tavern + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whenever I go by there nowadays + And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass, + The torn blue curtains and the broken glass, + I seem to be afraid of the old place; + And something stiffens up and down my face, + For all the world as if I saw the ghost + Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host, + With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze. + + The Tavern has a story, but no man + Can tell us what it is. We only know + That once long after midnight, years ago, + A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town, + Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran + That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sonnet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh for a poet — for a beacon bright + To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray; + To spirit back the Muses, long astray, + And flush Parnassus with a newer light; + To put these little sonnet-men to flight + Who fashion, in a shrewd, mechanic way, + Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, + To vanish in irrevocable night. + + What does it mean, this barren age of ours? + Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, + The seasons, and the sunset, as before. + What does it mean? Shall not one bard arise + To wrench one banner from the western skies, + And mark it with his name forevermore? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + George Crabbe + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, + Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will, — + But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still + With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. + In spite of all fine science disavows, + Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill + There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, + Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. + + Whether or not we read him, we can feel + From time to time the vigor of his name + Against us like a finger for the shame + And emptiness of what our souls reveal + In books that are as altars where we kneel + To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Credo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I cannot find my way: there is no star + In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; + And there is not a whisper in the air + Of any living voice but one so far + That I can hear it only as a bar + Of lost, imperial music, played when fair + And angel fingers wove, and unaware, + Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are. + + No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, + For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, + The black and awful chaos of the night; + For through it all, — above, beyond it all, — + I know the far-sent message of the years, + I feel the coming glory of the Light! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On the Night of a Friend's Wedding + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If ever I am old, and all alone, + I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; + For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait + Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown. + The devil only knows what I have done, + But here I am, and here are six or eight + Good friends, who most ingenuously prate + About my songs to such and such a one. + + But everything is all askew to-night, — + As if the time were come, or almost come, + For their untenanted mirage of me + To lose itself and crumble out of sight, + Like a tall ship that floats above the foam + A little while, and then breaks utterly. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sonnet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The master and the slave go hand in hand, + Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave, + And there be kings do sorrowfully crave + The joyance that a scullion may command. + But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand + The mission of his bondage, or the grave + May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save + The perfect word that is the poet's wand! + + The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes + Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones; + But shapes and echoes that are never done + Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes + Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones + The crash of battles that are never won. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Verlaine + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers + To touch the covered corpse of him that fled + The uplands for the fens, and rioted + Like a sick satyr with doom's worshippers? + Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse + To tell the story of the life he led. + Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, + And let the worms be its biographers. + + Song sloughs away the sin to find redress + In art's complete remembrance: nothing clings + For long but laurel to the stricken brow + That felt the Muse's finger; nothing less + Than hell's fulfilment of the end of things + Can blot the star that shines on Paris now. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sonnet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When we can all so excellently give + The measure of love's wisdom with a blow, — + Why can we not in turn receive it so, + And end this murmur for the life we live? + And when we do so frantically strive + To win strange faith, why do we shun to know + That in love's elemental over-glow + God's wholeness gleams with light superlative? + + Oh, brother men, if you have eyes at all, + Look at a branch, a bird, a child, a rose, — + Or anything God ever made that grows, — + Nor let the smallest vision of it slip, + Till you can read, as on Belshazzar's wall, + The glory of eternal partnership! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Supremacy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is a drear and lonely tract of hell + From all the common gloom removed afar: + A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, + Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell. + I walked among them and I knew them well: + Men I had slandered on life's little star + For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar + Upon their brows of woe ineffable. + + But as I went majestic on my way, + Into the dark they vanished, one by one, + Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, + The dream of all my glory was undone, — + And, with a fool's importunate dismay, + I heard the dead men singing in the sun. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Night Before + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look you, Dominie; look you, and listen! + Look in my face, first; search every line there; + Mark every feature, — chin, lip, and forehead! + Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson + You read there; measure my nose, and tell me + Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie, + Is often the cast of his inward spirit; + So mark mine well. But why do you smile so? + Pity, or what? Is it written all over, + This face of mine, with a brute's confession? + Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars? + Or is it because there is something better — + A glimmer of good, maybe — or a shadow + Of something that's followed me down from childhood — + Followed me all these years and kept me, + Spite of my slips and sins and follies, + Spite of my last red sin, my murder, — + Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind? + And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie, + The one good man in the world who knows me, — + My one good friend in a world that mocks me, + Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it + To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying? + Are these things tears? Tears! What! am I frightened? + I, who swore I should go to the scaffold + With big strong steps, and — No more. I thank you, + But no — I am all right now! No! — listen! + I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow + At six o'clock, when the sun is rising. + And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you + But this poor shivering thing before you, + This fluttering wreck of the man God made him, + For God knows what wild reason. Hear me, + And learn from my lips the truth of my story. + There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you, + Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly, — + But damnably human, — and you shall hear it. + Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it; + The judge, with his big bald head, never knew it; + And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it. + Once there were three in the world who could tell it; + Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow, — + You, my friend, and — But there's the story: — + + When I was a boy the world was heaven. + I never knew then that the men and the women + Who petted and called me a brave big fellow + Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom — + Which comes with the years, you know — soon showed me + The secret of all my glittering childhood, + The broken key to the fairies' castle + That held my life in the fresh, glad season + When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly — + And yet so swiftly! — there came the knowledge + That the marvellous life I had lived was my life; + That the glorious world I had loved was my world; + And that every man, and every woman, + And every child was a different being, + Wrought with a different heat, and fired + With passions born of a single spirit; + That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, + Nor my sorrow — a kind of nameless pity + For something, I knew not what — their sorrow. + And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, — + The lesson we suffer the most in learning: + That a happy man is a man forgetful + Of all the torturing ills around him. + When or where I first met the woman + I cherished and made my wife, no matter. + Enough to say that I found her and kept her + Here in my heart with as pure a devotion + As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me + For naming His name in your patient presence; + But I feel my words, and the truth I utter + Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, — + Not for her face, but for something fairer, + Something diviner, I thought, than beauty: + I loved the spirit — the human something + That seemed to chime with my own condition, + And make soul-music when we were together; + And we were never apart, from the moment + My eyes flashed into her eyes the message + That swept itself in a quivering answer + Back through my strange lost being. My pulses + Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure + Of this great world grew small and smaller, + Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean + Closed at last in a mist all golden + Around us two. And we stood for a season + Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming + That we were the king and the queen of the fire + That reddened the clouds of love that held us + Blind to the new world soon to be ours — + Ours to seize and sway. The passion + Of that great love was a nameless passion, + Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, + Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, + Never a whit less pure for its fervor. + The baseness in me (for I was human) + Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing + Was left me then but a soul that mingled + Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered + In fearful triumph. When I consider + That helpless love and the cursed folly + That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman + Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage + (Whatever the word may mean), I wonder + If all the woe was her sin, or whether + The chains themselves were enough to lead her + In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners + And saints — I say — are rocked in the cradle, + But never are known till the will within them + Speaks in its own good time. So I foster + Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, + Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling + Of still regret; for the man — But hear me, + And judge for yourself: — + + For a time the seasons + Changed and passed in a sweet succession + That seemed to me like an endless music: + Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs + Of God were glad for our love. I fancied + All this, and more than I dare to tell you + To-night, — yes, more than I dare to remember; + And then — well, the music stopped. There are moments + In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, — + Or seems to stop, — till it comes to cheer them + Again with a larger sound. The curtain + Of life just then is lifted a little + To give to their sight new joys — new sorrows — + Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching + The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, + Flushed and alive with a long delusion + That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered + And felt like a knife that awful silence + That comes when the music goes — forever. + The truth came over my life like a darkness + Over a forest where one man wanders, + Worse than alone. For a time I staggered + And stumbled on with a weak persistence + After the phantom of hope that darted + And dodged like a frightened thing before me, + To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing + Was left me then but the curse of living + And bearing through all my days the fever + And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger, + Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me, + Given me strength to crush my sorrow + With hate for her and the world that praised her — + To have left her, then and there — to have conquered + That old false life with a new and a wiser, — + Such things are easy in words. You listen, + And frown, I suppose, that I never mention + That beautiful word, FORGIVE! — I forgave her + First of all; and I praised kind Heaven + That I was a brave, clean man to do it; + And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness! + What does it mean when the one forgiven + Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses + The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him + A thousand things of a good man's mercy, + And then slips off with a laugh and plunges + Back to the sin she has quit for a season, + To tell him that hell and the world are better + For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me, + The love that dies ere its flames are wasted + In search of an alien soul is better, + Better by far than the lonely passion + That burns back into the heart that feeds it. + For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me, — + Fooled with her endless pleading promise + Of future faith, — the more I believed her + The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger + Her choking arms and her small hot kisses + Bound me and burned my brain to pity, + The more she grew to the heavenly creature + That brightened the life I had lost forever. + The truth was gone somehow for the moment; + The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied + We were again like gods together, + Loving again with the old glad rapture. + But scenes like these, too often repeated, + Failed at last, and her guile was wasted. + I made an end of her shrewd caresses + And told her a few straight words. She took them + Full at their worth — and the farce was over. + . . . . . + At first my dreams of the past upheld me, + But they were a short support: the present + Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission + Of life (whatever it was) was blasted; + My game was lost. And I met the winner + Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers + His painful strength at the sight of his master; + And when he was past I cursed him, fearful + Of that strange chance which makes us mighty + Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated + The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed + His easy march with a backward envy, + And cursed myself for the beast within me. + But pride is the master of love, and the vision + Of those old days grew faint and fainter: + The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered + Was nothing now but a woman, — a woman + Out of my way and out of my nature. + My battle with blinded love was over, + My battle with aching pride beginning. + If I was the loser at first, I wonder + If I am the winner now! . . . I doubt it. + My life is a losing game; and to-morrow — + To-morrow! — Christ! did I say to-morrow? . . . + Is your brandy good for death? . . . There, — listen: — + + When love goes out, and a man is driven + To shun mankind for the scars that make him + A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries + A double burden. The woes I suffered + After that hard betrayal made me + Pity, at first, all breathing creatures + On this bewildered earth. I studied + Their faces and made for myself the story + Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers + And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished + A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy + Between those people and me. But somehow, + As time went on, there came queer glances + Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me + Harassed my pride with a crazed impression + That every face in the surging city + Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers, + Now and then, as I walked and wearied + My wasted life twice over in bearing + With all my sorrow the sorrows of others, — + Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled, — + A poor scared thing, — and their prying faces + Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing + At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it — + That laughter! And then the children caught it; + And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened. + And then when I met the man who had weakened + A woman's love to his own desire, + It seemed to me that all hell were laughing + In fiendish concert! I was their victim — + And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle! + As long as the earth we tread holds something + A tortured heart can love, the meaning + Of life is not wholly blurred; but after + The last loved thing in the world has left us, + We know the triumph of hate. The glory + Of good goes out forever; the beacon + Of sin is the light that leads us downward — + Down to the fiery end. The road runs + Right through hell; and the souls that follow + The cursed ways where its windings lead them + Suffer enough, I say, to merit + All grace that a God can give. — The fashion + Of our belief is to lift all beings + Born for a life that knows no struggle + In sin's tight snares to eternal glory — + All apart from the branded millions + Who carry through life their faces graven + With sure brute scars that tell the story + Of their foul, fated passions. Science + Has yet no salve to smooth or soften + The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage; + No drug to purge from the vital essence + Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue + May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted + And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger + Never is known till there comes that battle + With sin to prove the victor. Perilous + Things are these demons we call our passions: + Slaves are we of their roving fancies, + Fools of their devilish glee. — You think me, + I know, in this maundering way designing + To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it + Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me! + I'm partly a man, — for all my weakness, — + If weakness it were to stand and murder + Before men's eyes the man who had murdered + Me, and driven my burning forehead + With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me! + And try to believe my words but a portion + Of what God's purpose made me! The coward + Within me cries for this; and I beg you + Now, as I come to the end, to remember + That women and men are on earth to travel + All on a different road. Hereafter + The roads may meet. . . . I trust in something — + I know not what. . . . + + Well, this was the way of it: — + Stung with the shame and the secret fury + That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance + Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered + Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy, + Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him, + And laughed at the love that strove to touch me, — + The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon + Close to my breast, and held him, praising + The fates and the furies that gave me the courage + To follow his wild command. Forgetful + Of all to come when the work was over, — + There came to me then no stony vision + Of these three hundred days, — I cherished + An awful joy in my brain. I pondered + And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried + In life to think that I was to conquer + Death at his own dark door, — and chuckled + To think of it done so cleanly. One evening + I knew that my time had come. I shuddered + A little, but rather for doubt than terror, + And followed him, — led by the nameless devil + I worshipped and called my brother. The city + Shone like a dream that night; the windows + Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements + Pulsed and swayed with a warmth — or something + That seemed so then to my feet — and thrilled me + With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women + And men, like marvellous things of magic, + Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder, + Sent with a wizard motion. Through it + And over and under it all there sounded + A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened + And laughed again to think of the flower + That grew, blood-red, for me! . . . This fellow + Was one of the popular sort who flourish + Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience + He carried a snug deceit that made him + The man of the time and the place, whatever + The time or the place might be. Were he sounding, + With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose, + Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman + Fooled with his brainless art, or sending + The midnight home with songs and bottles, — + The cad was there, and his ease forever + Shone with the smooth and slippery polish + That tells the snake. That night he drifted + Into an up-town haunt and ordered — + Whatever it was — with a soft assurance + That made me mad as I stood behind him, + Gripping his death, and waited. Coward, + I think, is the name the world has given + To men like me; but I'll swear I never + Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him — + Yes, in the back, — I know it, I know it + Now; but what if I do? . . . As I watched him + Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust, + Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted + That things were still; that the walnut tables, + Where men but a moment before were sitting, + Were gone; that a screen of something around me + Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded + Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys + Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors + And glasses behind the bar were lighted + In some strange way, and into my spirit + A thousand shafts of terrible fire + Burned like death, and I fell. The story + Of what came then, you know. + + But tell me, + What does the whole thing mean? What are we, — + Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets + Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it? + Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation, — + Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie, + There are times in the lives of us poor devils + When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience + May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us + Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at, — + And then we fall. And for all who have fallen — + Even for him — I hold no malice, + Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy + Than mine must shrive him. — And I — I am going + Into the light? — or into the darkness? + Why do I sit through these sickening hours, + And hope? Good God! are they hours? — hours? + Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow — + We two may meet! To-morrow! — To-morrow! . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Walt Whitman + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The master-songs are ended, and the man + That sang them is a name. And so is God + A name; and so is love, and life, and death, + And everything. But we, who are too blind + To read what we have written, or what faith + Has written for us, do not understand: + We only blink, and wonder. + + Last night it was the song that was the man, + But now it is the man that is the song. + We do not hear him very much to-day: + His piercing and eternal cadence rings + Too pure for us — too powerfully pure, + Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; + But there are some that hear him, and they know + That he shall sing to-morrow for all men, + And that all time shall listen. + + The master-songs are ended? Rather say + No songs are ended that are ever sung, + And that no names are dead names. When we write + Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, + We write them there forever. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye gods that have a home beyond the world, + Ye that have eyes for all man's agony, + Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen, — + Look with a just regard, + And with an even grace, + Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king, + Here on a suffering world where men grow old + And wander like sad shadows till, at last, + Out of the flare of life, + Out of the whirl of years, + Into the mist they go, + Into the mist of death. + + O shades of you that loved him long before + The cruel threads of that black sail were spun, + May loyal arms and ancient welcomings + Receive him once again + Who now no longer moves + Here in this flickering dance of changing days, + Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, + And the black master Death is over all, + To chill with his approach, + To level with his touch, + The reigning strength of youth, + The fluttered heart of age. + + Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost — + Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line! + Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release — + Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! — + And thou, the saddest wind + That ever blew from Crete, + Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship! — + Sing to the western flame, + Sing to the dying foam, + A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be! + + Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, + Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, + Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, + To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore: — + Whether or not there fell + To the touch of an alien hand + The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, + Better his end had been + To die as an old man dies, — + But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown is ever a crown. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wilderness + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, + And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; + There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland + Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. + There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn + Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad + For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, + To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores. + + <i>Come away! come away! you can hear them calling, calling, + Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. + Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, + There's an old song calling us to come!</i> + + Come away! come away! — for the scenes we leave behind us + Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; + And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, + That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. + The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us, + And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; + But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us + In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. + + <i>Come away! come away! there is nothing now to cheer us — + Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home: — + Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, + And a warm hearth waits for us within.</i> + + Come away! come away! — or the roving-fiend will hold us, + And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring: + There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, + There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. + So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better + For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know: — + The frost that skips the willow-leaf will again be back to blight it, + And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see. + + <i>Come away! come away! there are dead men all around us — + Frozen men that mock us with a wild, hard laugh + That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes, + And the long fall wind on the lake.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Octaves + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To get at the eternal strength of things, + And fearlessly to make strong songs of it, + Is, to my mind, the mission of that man + The world would call a poet. He may sing + But roughly, and withal ungraciously; + But if he touch to life the one right chord + Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake + To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We thrill too strangely at the master's touch; + We shrink too sadly from the larger self + Which for its own completeness agitates + And undetermines us; we do not feel — + We dare not feel it yet — the splendid shame + Of uncreated failure; we forget, + The while we groan, that God's accomplishment + Is always and unfailingly at hand. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To mortal ears the plainest word may ring + Fantastic and unheard-of, and as false + And out of tune as ever to our own + Did ring the prayers of man-made maniacs; + But if that word be the plain word of Truth, + It leaves an echo that begets itself, + Persistent in itself and of itself, + Regenerate, reiterate, replete. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tumultuously void of a clean scheme + Whereon to build, whereof to formulate, + The legion life that riots in mankind + Goes ever plunging upward, up and down, + Most like some crazy regiment at arms, + Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance, + And ever led resourcelessly along + To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To me the groaning of world-worshippers + Rings like a lonely music played in hell + By one with art enough to cleave the walls + Of heaven with his cadence, but without + The wisdom or the will to comprehend + The strangeness of his own perversity, + And all without the courage to deny + The profit and the pride of his defeat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While we are drilled in error, we are lost + Alike to truth and usefulness. We think + We are great warriors now, and we can brag + Like Titans; but the world is growing young, + And we, the fools of time, are growing with it: — + We do not fight to-day, we only die; + We are too proud of death, and too ashamed + Of God, to know enough to be alive. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is one battle-field whereon we fall + Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! + We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves + To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred + By sorrow, and the ministering wheels + Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds + Of human gloom are lost against the gleam + That shines on Thought's impenetrable mail. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When we shall hear no more the cradle-songs + Of ages — when the timeless hymns of Love + Defeat them and outsound them — we shall know + The rapture of that large release which all + Right science comprehends; and we shall read, + With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, + That record of All-Soul whereon God writes + In everlasting runes the truth of Him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The guerdon of new childhood is repose: — + Once he has read the primer of right thought, + A man may claim between two smithy strokes + Beatitude enough to realize + God's parallel completeness in the vague + And incommensurable excellence + That equitably uncreates itself + And makes a whirlwind of the Universe. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is no loneliness: — no matter where + We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends + Forsake us in the seeming, we are all + At one with a complete companionship; + And though forlornly joyless be the ways + We travel, the compensate spirit-gleams + Of Wisdom shaft the darkness here and there, + Like scattered lamps in unfrequented streets. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When one that you and I had all but sworn + To be the purest thing God ever made + Bewilders us until at last it seems + An angel has come back restigmatized, — + Faith wavers, and we wonder what there is + On earth to make us faithful any more, + But never are quite wise enough to know + The wisdom that is in that wonderment. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where does a dead man go? — The dead man dies; + But the free life that would no longer feed + On fagots of outburned and shattered flesh + Wakes to a thrilled invisible advance, + Unchained (or fettered else) of memory; + And when the dead man goes it seems to me + 'T were better for us all to do away + With weeping, and be glad that he is gone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended, + And unremunerative years we search + To get where life begins, and still we groan + Because we do not find the living spark + Where no spark ever was; and thus we die, + Still searching, like poor old astronomers + Who totter off to bed and go to sleep, + To dream of untriangulated stars. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With conscious eyes not yet sincere enough + To pierce the glimmered cloud that fluctuates + Between me and the glorifying light + That screens itself with knowledge, I discern + The searching rays of wisdom that reach through + The mist of shame's infirm credulity, + And infinitely wonder if hard words + Like mine have any message for the dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I grant you friendship is a royal thing, + But none shall ever know that royalty + For what it is till he has realized + His best friend in himself. 'T is then, perforce, + That man's unfettered faith indemnifies + Of its own conscious freedom the old shame, + And love's revealed infinitude supplants + Of its own wealth and wisdom the old scorn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVI +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though the sick beast infect us, we are fraught + Forever with indissoluble Truth, + Wherein redress reveals itself divine, + Transitional, transcendent. Grief and loss, + Disease and desolation, are the dreams + Of wasted excellence; and every dream + Has in it something of an ageless fact + That flouts deformity and laughs at years. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We lack the courage to be where we are: — + We love too much to travel on old roads, + To triumph on old fields; we love too much + To consecrate the magic of dead things, + And yieldingly to linger by long walls + Of ruin, where the ruinous moonlight + That sheds a lying glory on old stones + Befriends us with a wizard's enmity. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVIII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Something as one with eyes that look below + The battle-smoke to glimpse the foeman's charge, + We through the dust of downward years may scan + The onslaught that awaits this idiot world + Where blood pays blood for nothing, and where life + Pays life to madness, till at last the ports + Of gilded helplessness be battered through + By the still crash of salvatory steel. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIX +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To you that sit with Sorrow like chained slaves, + And wonder if the night will ever come, + I would say this: The night will never come, + And sorrow is not always. But my words + Are not enough; your eyes are not enough; + The soul itself must insulate the Real, + Or ever you do cherish in this life — + In this life or in any life — repose. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XX +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Like a white wall whereon forever breaks + Unsatisfied the tumult of green seas, + Man's unconjectured godliness rebukes + With its imperial silence the lost waves + Of insufficient grief. This mortal surge + That beats against us now is nothing else + Than plangent ignorance. Truth neither shakes + Nor wavers; but the world shakes, and we shriek. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXI +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nor jewelled phrase nor mere mellifluous rhyme + Reverberates aright, or ever shall, + One cadence of that infinite plain-song + Which is itself all music. Stronger notes + Than any that have ever touched the world + Must ring to tell it — ring like hammer-blows, + Right-echoed of a chime primordial, + On anvils, in the gleaming of God's forge. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The prophet of dead words defeats himself: + Whoever would acknowledge and include + The foregleam and the glory of the real, + Must work with something else than pen and ink + And painful preparation: he must work + With unseen implements that have no names, + And he must win withal, to do that work, + Good fortitude, clean wisdom, and strong skill. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXIII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To curse the chilled insistence of the dawn + Because the free gleam lingers; to defraud + The constant opportunity that lives + Unchallenged in all sorrow; to forget + For this large prodigality of gold + That larger generosity of thought, — + These are the fleshly clogs of human greed, + The fundamental blunders of mankind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXIV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Forebodings are the fiends of Recreance; + The master of the moment, the clean seer + Of ages, too securely scans what is, + Ever to be appalled at what is not; + He sees beyond the groaning borough lines + Of Hell, God's highways gleaming, and he knows + That Love's complete communion is the end + Of anguish to the liberated man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XXV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here by the windy docks I stand alone, + But yet companioned. There the vessel goes, + And there my friend goes with it; but the wake + That melts and ebbs between that friend and me + Love's earnest is of Life's all-purposeful + And all-triumphant sailing, when the ships + Of Wisdom loose their fretful chains and swing + Forever from the crumbled wharves of Time. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Quatrains + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Unity +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As eons of incalculable strife + Are in the vision of one moment caught, + So are the common, concrete things of life + Divinely shadowed on the walls of Thought. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Paraphrase +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We shriek to live, but no man ever lives + Till he has rid the ghost of human breath; + We dream to die, but no man ever dies + Till he has quit the road that runs to death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Romance +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Boys + + We were all boys, and three of us were friends; + And we were more than friends, it seemed to me: — + Yes, we were more than brothers then, we three. . . . + Brothers? . . . But we were boys, and there it ends. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + James Wetherell + + We never half believed the stuff + They told about James Wetherell; + We always liked him well enough, + And always tried to use him well; + But now some things have come to light, + And James has vanished from our view, — + There is n't very much to write, + There is n't very much to do. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Torrent +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I found a torrent falling in a glen + Where the sun's light shone silvered and leaf-split; + The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it + All made a magic symphony; but when + I thought upon the coming of hard men + To cut those patriarchal trees away, + And turn to gold the silver of that spray, + I shuddered. Yet a gladness now and then + Did wake me to myself till I was glad + In earnest, and was welcoming the time + For screaming saws to sound above the chime + Of idle waters, and for me to know + The jealous visionings that I had had + Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + L'Envoi +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word, + Now in a voice that thrills eternity, + Ever there comes an onward phrase to me + Of some transcendent music I have heard; + No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered, + No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory, + But a glad strain of some still symphony + That no proud mortal touch has ever stirred. + + There is no music in the world like this, + No character wherewith to set it down, + No kind of instrument to make it sing. + No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is! + And after time and place are overthrown, + God's touch will keep its one chord quivering. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children of the Night, by +Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 313-h.htm or 313-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/313/ + +Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 + + +Title: The Children of the Night + +Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson + +Release Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook #313] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser + + + + + +THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT + +by Edwin Arlington Robinson + +[Maine Poet -- 1869-1935.] + +1905 printing of the 1897 edition + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas have been indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases have been capitalized. +Lines longer than 77 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors have been corrected.] + + + + To the Memory of my Father and Mother + + +Contents: + + The Children of the Night + Three Quatrains + The World + An Old Story + Ballade of a Ship + Ballade by the Fire + Ballade of Broken Flutes + Ballade of Dead Friends + Her Eyes + Two Men + Villanelle of Change + John Evereldown + Luke Havergal + The House on the Hill + Richard Cory + Two Octaves + Calvary + Dear Friends + The Story of the Ashes and the Flame + For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold + Amaryllis + Kosmos + Zola + The Pity of the Leaves + Aaron Stark + The Garden + Cliff Klingenhagen + Charles Carville's Eyes + The Dead Village + Boston + Two Sonnets + The Clerks + Fleming Helphenstine + For a Book by Thomas Hardy + Thomas Hood + The Miracle + Horace to Leuconoe + Reuben Bright + The Altar + The Tavern + Sonnet + George Crabbe + Credo + On the Night of a Friend's Wedding + Sonnet + Verlaine + Sonnet + Supremacy + The Night Before + Walt Whitman + The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" + The Wilderness + Octaves + Two Quatrains + Romance + The Torrent + L'Envoi + + + + +The Children of the Night + + + + For those that never know the light, + The darkness is a sullen thing; + And they, the Children of the Night, + Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing. + + But some are strong and some are weak, -- + And there's the story. House and home + Are shut from countless hearts that seek + World-refuge that will never come. + + And if there be no other life, + And if there be no other chance + To weigh their sorrow and their strife + Than in the scales of circumstance, + + 'T were better, ere the sun go down + Upon the first day we embark, + In life's imbittered sea to drown, + Than sail forever in the dark. + + But if there be a soul on earth + So blinded with its own misuse + Of man's revealed, incessant worth, + Or worn with anguish, that it views + + No light but for a mortal eye, + No rest but of a mortal sleep, + No God but in a prophet's lie, + No faith for "honest doubt" to keep; + + If there be nothing, good or bad, + But chaos for a soul to trust, -- + God counts it for a soul gone mad, + And if God be God, He is just. + + And if God be God, He is Love; + And though the Dawn be still so dim, + It shows us we have played enough + With creeds that make a fiend of Him. + + There is one creed, and only one, + That glorifies God's excellence; + So cherish, that His will be done, + The common creed of common sense. + + It is the crimson, not the gray, + That charms the twilight of all time; + It is the promise of the day + That makes the starry sky sublime; + + It is the faith within the fear + That holds us to the life we curse; -- + So let us in ourselves revere + The Self which is the Universe! + + Let us, the Children of the Night, + Put off the cloak that hides the scar! + Let us be Children of the Light, + And tell the ages what we are! + + + + +Three Quatrains + + + + I + + + As long as Fame's imperious music rings + Will poets mock it with crowned words august; + And haggard men will clamber to be kings + As long as Glory weighs itself in dust. + + + + II + + + Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled, + Nor shudder for the revels that are done: + The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled, + The strings that Nero fingered are all gone. + + + + III + + + We cannot crown ourselves with everything, + Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel: + No matter what we are, or what we sing, + Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel. + + + + +The World + + + + Some are the brothers of all humankind, + And own them, whatsoever their estate; + And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind + With enmity for man's unguarded fate. + + For some there is a music all day long + Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad; + And there is hell's eternal under-song + Of curses and the cries of men gone mad. + + Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous, + Some say 't were better back to chaos hurled; + And so 't is what we are that makes for us + The measure and the meaning of the world. + + + + +An Old Story + + + + Strange that I did not know him then, + That friend of mine! + I did not even show him then + One friendly sign; + + But cursed him for the ways he had + To make me see + My envy of the praise he had + For praising me. + + I would have rid the earth of him + Once, in my pride! . . . + I never knew the worth of him + Until he died. + + + + +Ballade of a Ship + + + + Down by the flash of the restless water + The dim White Ship like a white bird lay; + Laughing at life and the world they sought her, + And out she swung to the silvering bay. + Then off they flew on their roystering way, + And the keen moon fired the light foam flying + Up from the flood where the faint stars play, + And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + 'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter, + And full three hundred beside, they say, -- + Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter + So soon to seize them and hide them for aye; + But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay, + Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying + Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her + (This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey: + The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her, + And hurled her down where the dead men stay. + A torturing silence of wan dismay -- + Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying -- + Then down they sank to slumber and sway + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + ENVOY + + Prince, do you sleep to the sound alway + Of the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying? -- + Or does love still shudder and steel still slay, + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying? + + + + +Ballade by the Fire + + + + Slowly I smoke and hug my knee, + The while a witless masquerade + Of things that only children see + Floats in a mist of light and shade: + They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, + And with a weak, remindful glow, + The falling embers break and fade, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + Then, with a melancholy glee + To think where once my fancy strayed, + I muse on what the years may be + Whose coming tales are all unsaid, + Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid + Within their shadowed niches, grow + By grim degrees to pick and spade, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + But then, what though the mystic Three + Around me ply their merry trade? -- + And Charon soon may carry me + Across the gloomy Stygian glade? -- + Be up, my soul! nor be afraid + Of what some unborn year may show; + But mind your human debts are paid, + As one by one the phantoms go. + + ENVOY + + Life is the game that must be played: + This truth at least, good friend, we know; + So live and laugh, nor be dismayed + As one by one the phantoms go. + + + + +Ballade of Broken Flutes + + (To A. T. Schumann.) + + + + In dreams I crossed a barren land, + A land of ruin, far away; + Around me hung on every hand + A deathful stillness of decay; + And silent, as in bleak dismay + That song should thus forsaken be, + On that forgotten ground there lay + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + The forest that was all so grand + When pipes and tabors had their sway + Stood leafless now, a ghostly band + Of skeletons in cold array. + A lonely surge of ancient spray + Told of an unforgetful sea, + But iron blows had hushed for aye + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + No more by summer breezes fanned, + The place was desolate and gray; + But still my dream was to command + New life into that shrunken clay. + I tried it. Yes, you scan to-day, + With uncommiserating glee, + The songs of one who strove to play + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + ENVOY + + So, Rock, I join the common fray, + To fight where Mammon may decree; + And leave, to crumble as they may, + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + + + +Ballade of Dead Friends + + + + As we the withered ferns + By the roadway lying, + Time, the jester, spurns + All our prayers and prying -- + All our tears and sighing, + Sorrow, change, and woe -- + All our where-and-whying + For friends that come and go. + + Life awakes and burns, + Age and death defying, + Till at last it learns + All but Love is dying; + Love's the trade we're plying, + God has willed it so; + Shrouds are what we're buying + For friends that come and go. + + Man forever yearns + For the thing that's flying. + Everywhere he turns, + Men to dust are drying, -- + Dust that wanders, eying + (With eyes that hardly glow) + New faces, dimly spying + For friends that come and go. + + ENVOY + + And thus we all are nighing + The truth we fear to know: + Death will end our crying + For friends that come and go. + + + + +Her Eyes + + + + Up from the street and the crowds that went, + Morning and midnight, to and fro, + Still was the room where his days he spent, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + + Year after year, with his dream shut fast, + He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, + For the love that his brushes had earned at last, -- + And the whole world rang with the praise of him. + + But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, + Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray. + "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . . + "There are stars enough -- when the sun's away." + + Then he went back to the same still room + That had held his dream in the long ago, + When he buried his days in a nameless tomb, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + + And a passionate humor seized him there -- + Seized him and held him until there grew + Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair, + A perilous face -- and an angel's, too. + + Angel and maiden, and all in one, -- + All but the eyes. -- They were there, but yet + They seemed somehow like a soul half done. + What was the matter? Did God forget? . . . + + But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure + That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, -- + With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, + And a glimmer of hell to make them human. + + God never forgets. -- And he worships her + There in that same still room of his, + For his wife, and his constant arbiter + Of the world that was and the world that is. + + And he wonders yet what her love could be + To punish him after that strife so grim; + But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, + The plainer it all comes back to him. + + + + +Two Men + + + + There be two men of all mankind + That I should like to know about; + But search and question where I will, + I cannot ever find them out. + + Melchizedek he praised the Lord, + And gave some wine to Abraham; + But who can tell what else he did + Must be more learned than I am. + + Ucalegon he lost his house + When Agamemnon came to Troy; + But who can tell me who he was -- + I'll pray the gods to give him joy. + + There be two men of all mankind + That I'm forever thinking on: + They chase me everywhere I go, -- + Melchizedek, Ucalegon. + + + + +Villanelle of Change + + + + Since Persia fell at Marathon, + The yellow years have gathered fast: + Long centuries have come and gone. + + And yet (they say) the place will don + A phantom fury of the past, + Since Persia fell at Marathon; + + And as of old, when Helicon + Trembled and swayed with rapture vast + (Long centuries have come and gone), + + This ancient plain, when night comes on, + Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, + Since Persia fell at Marathon. + + But into soundless Acheron + The glory of Greek shame was cast: + Long centuries have come and gone, + + The suns of Hellas have all shone, + The first has fallen to the last: -- + Since Persia fell at Marathon, + Long centuries have come and gone. + + + + +John Evereldown + + + + "Where are you going to-night, to-night, -- + Where are you going, John Evereldown? + There's never the sign of a star in sight, + Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town. + Why do you stare as a dead man might? + Where are you pointing away from the light? + And where are you going to-night, to-night, -- + Where are you going, John Evereldown?" + + "Right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town. + The men are asleep, -- or awake, may be, -- + But the women are calling John Evereldown. + Ever and ever they call for me, + And while they call can a man be free? + So right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town." + + "But why are you going so late, so late, -- + Why are you going, John Evereldown? + Though the road be smooth and the path be straight, + There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town. + Come in by the fire, old man, and wait! + Why do you chatter out there by the gate? + And why are you going so late, so late, -- + Why are you going, John Evereldown?" + + "I follow the women wherever they call, -- + That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town. + God knows if I pray to be done with it all, + But God is no friend to John Evereldown. + So the clouds may come and the rain may fall, + The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, -- + But I follow the women wherever they call, + And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town." + + + + +Luke Havergal + + + + Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, -- + There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, -- + And in the twilight wait for what will come. + The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some -- + Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; + But go, and if you trust her she will call. + Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal -- + Luke Havergal. + + No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies + To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; + But there, where western glooms are gathering, + The dark will end the dark, if anything: + God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, + And hell is more than half of paradise. + No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies -- + In eastern skies. + + Out of a grave I come to tell you this, -- + Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss + That flames upon your forehead with a glow + That blinds you to the way that you must go. + Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, -- + Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. + Out of a grave I come to tell you this -- + To tell you this. + + There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, + There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. + Go, -- for the winds are tearing them away, -- + Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, + Nor any more to feel them as they fall; + But go! and if you trust her she will call. + There is the western gate, Luke Havergal -- + Luke Havergal. + + + + +The House on the Hill + + + + They are all gone away, + The House is shut and still, + There is nothing more to say. + + Through broken walls and gray + The winds blow bleak and shrill: + They are all gone away. + + Nor is there one to-day + To speak them good or ill: + There is nothing more to say. + + Why is it then we stray + Around that sunken sill? + They are all gone away, + + And our poor fancy-play + For them is wasted skill: + There is nothing more to say. + + There is ruin and decay + In the House on the Hill: + They are all gone away, + There is nothing more to say. + + + + +Richard Cory + + + + Whenever Richard Cory went down town, + We people on the pavement looked at him: + He was a gentleman from sole to crown, + Clean favored, and imperially slim. + + And he was always quietly arrayed, + And he was always human when he talked; + But still he fluttered pulses when he said, + "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. + + And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, -- + And admirably schooled in every grace: + In fine, we thought that he was everything + To make us wish that we were in his place. + + So on we worked, and waited for the light, + And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; + And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, + Went home and put a bullet through his head. + + + + +Two Octaves + + + + I + + + Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms + All outward recognition of revealed + And righteous omnipresence are the days + Of most of us affrighted and diseased, + But rather by the common snarls of life + That come to test us and to strengthen us + In this the prentice-age of discontent, + Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame. + + + + II + + + When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down + Upon a stagnant earth where listless men + Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat, + Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, -- + It seems to me somehow that God himself + Scans with a close reproach what I have done, + Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears, + And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts. + + + + +Calvary + + + + Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, + Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, + Stung by the mob that came to see the show, + The Master toiled along to Calvary; + We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee, + Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow; + We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, -- + And this was nineteen hundred years ago. + + But after nineteen hundred years the shame + Still clings, and we have not made good the loss + That outraged faith has entered in his name. + Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong! + Tell me, O Lord -- tell me, O Lord, how long + Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross! + + + + +Dear Friends + + + + Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, + Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say + That I am wearing half my life away + For bubble-work that only fools pursue. + And if my bubbles be too small for you, + Blow bigger then your own: the games we play + To fill the frittered minutes of a day, + Good glasses are to read the spirit through. + + And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; + And some unprofitable scorn resign, + To praise the very thing that he deplores; + So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, + The shame I win for singing is all mine, + The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours. + + + + +The Story of the Ashes and the Flame + + + + No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, + There was her place. No matter what men said, + No matter what she was; living or dead, + Faithful or not, he loved her all the same. + The story was as old as human shame, + But ever since that lonely night she fled, + With books to blind him, he had only read + The story of the ashes and the flame. + + There she was always coming pretty soon + To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes + That had in them the laughter of the moon + For baffled lovers, and to make him think -- + Before she gave him time enough to wink -- + Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise. + + + + +For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold + + + + Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, + He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, + And brings their crystal cadence back once more + To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land + Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band + Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore + Of heroes and the men that long before + Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned. + + Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go + For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray -- + For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; + And still does art's imperial vista show, + On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, + Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms. + + + + +Amaryllis + + + + Once, when I wandered in the woods alone, + An old man tottered up to me and said, + "Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made + For Amaryllis." There was in the tone + Of his complaint such quaver and such moan + That I took pity on him and obeyed, + And long stood looking where his hands had laid + An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone. + + Far out beyond the forest I could hear + The calling of loud progress, and the bold + Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear; + But though the trumpets of the world were glad, + It made me lonely and it made me sad + To think that Amaryllis had grown old. + + + + +Kosmos + + + + Ah, -- shuddering men that falter and shrink so + To look on death, -- what were the days we live, + Where life is half a struggle to forgive, + But for the love that finds us when we go? + Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw + Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive + For some vague end that never shall arrive? + And is He not yet weary of the show? + + Think of it, all ye millions that have planned, + And only planned, the largess of hard youth! + Think of it, all ye builders on the sand, + Whose works are down! -- Is love so small, forsooth? + Be brave! To-morrow you will understand + The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth! + + + + +Zola + + + + Because he puts the compromising chart + Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; + Because he counts the price that you have paid + For innocence, and counts it from the start, + You loathe him. But he sees the human heart + Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed + Your squeamish and emasculate crusade + Against the grim dominion of his art. + + Never until we conquer the uncouth + Connivings of our shamed indifference + (We call it Christian faith!) are we to scan + The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth + To find, in hate's polluted self-defence + Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man. + + + + +The Pity of the Leaves + + + + Vengeful across the cold November moors, + Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak + Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek, + Reverberant through lonely corridors. + The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce, + Words out of lips that were no more to speak -- + Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek + Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors. + + And then there were the leaves that plagued him so! + The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside + Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then + They stopped, and stayed there -- just to let him know + How dead they were; but if the old man cried, + They fluttered off like withered souls of men. + + + + +Aaron Stark + + + + Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- + Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. + A miser was he, with a miser's nose, + And eyes like little dollars in the dark. + His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; + And when he spoke there came like sullen blows + Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, + As if a cur were chary of its bark. + + Glad for the murmur of his hard renown, + Year after year he shambled through the town, -- + A loveless exile moving with a staff; + And oftentimes there crept into his ears + A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, -- + And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh. + + + + +The Garden + + + + There is a fenceless garden overgrown + With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves; + And once, among the roses and the sheaves, + The Gardener and I were there alone. + He led me to the plot where I had thrown + The fennel of my days on wasted ground, + And in that riot of sad weeds I found + The fruitage of a life that was my own. + + My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed! + And there were all the lives of humankind; + And they were like a book that I could read, + Whose every leaf, miraculously signed, + Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed, + Love-rooted in God's garden of the mind. + + + + +Cliff Klingenhagen + + + + Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine + With him one day; and after soup and meat, + And all the other things there were to eat, + Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine + And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign + For me to choose at all, he took the draught + Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed + It off, and said the other one was mine. + + And when I asked him what the deuce he meant + By doing that, he only looked at me + And grinned, and said it was a way of his. + And though I know the fellow, I have spent + Long time a-wondering when I shall be + As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is. + + + + +Charles Carville's Eyes + + + + A melancholy face Charles Carville had, + But not so melancholy as it seemed, -- + When once you knew him, -- for his mouth redeemed + His insufficient eyes, forever sad: + In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, -- + Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; + His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, + His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad. + + He never was a fellow that said much, + And half of what he did say was not heard + By many of us: we were out of touch + With all his whims and all his theories + Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his + Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word. + + + + +The Dead Village + + + + Here there is death. But even here, they say, -- + Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon + As desolate as ever the dead moon + Did glimmer on dead Sardis, -- men were gay; + And there were little children here to play, + With small soft hands that once did keep in tune + The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon + The change came, and the music passed away. + + Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things, -- + No life, no love, no children, and no men; + And over the forgotten place there clings + The strange and unrememberable light + That is in dreams. The music failed, and then + God frowned, and shut the village from His sight. + + + + +Boston + + + + My northern pines are good enough for me, + But there's a town my memory uprears -- + A town that always like a friend appears, + And always in the sunrise by the sea. + And over it, somehow, there seems to be + A downward flash of something new and fierce, + That ever strives to clear, but never clears + The dimness of a charmed antiquity. + + + + +Two Sonnets + + + + I + + + Just as I wonder at the twofold screen + Of twisted innocence that you would plait + For eyes that uncourageously await + The coming of a kingdom that has been, + So do I wonder what God's love can mean + To you that all so strangely estimate + The purpose and the consequent estate + Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen. + + No, I have not your backward faith to shrink + Lone-faring from the doorway of God's home + To find Him in the names of buried men; + Nor your ingenious recreance to think + We cherish, in the life that is to come, + The scattered features of dead friends again. + + + + II + + + Never until our souls are strong enough + To plunge into the crater of the Scheme -- + Triumphant in the flash there to redeem + Love's handsel and forevermore to slough, + Like cerements at a played-out masque, the rough + And reptile skins of us whereon we set + The stigma of scared years -- are we to get + Where atoms and the ages are one stuff. + + Nor ever shall we know the cursed waste + Of life in the beneficence divine + Of starlight and of sunlight and soul-shine + That we have squandered in sin's frail distress, + Till we have drunk, and trembled at the taste, + The mead of Thought's prophetic endlessness. + + + + +The Clerks + + + + I did not think that I should find them there + When I came back again; but there they stood, + As in the days they dreamed of when young blood + Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. + Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, -- + And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood + About them; but the men were just as good, + And just as human as they ever were. + + And you that ache so much to be sublime, + And you that feed yourselves with your descent, + What comes of all your visions and your fears? + Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, + Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, + Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. + + + + +Fleming Helphenstine + + + + At first I thought there was a superfine + Persuasion in his face; but the free glow + That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!" + Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. + He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, + But be that as it may; -- I only know + He talked of this and that and So-and-So, + And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. + + But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, + And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed + With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince: + Then, with a wordless clogged apology + That sounded half confused and half amazed, + He dodged, -- and I have never seen him since. + + + + +For a Book by Thomas Hardy + + + + With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways, + I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near, + Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, + Twisting and turning in a bootless chase, -- + When, like an exile given by God's grace + To feel once more a human atmosphere, + I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, + Flung from a singing river's endless race. + + Then, through a magic twilight from below, + I heard its grand sad song as in a dream: + Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe + It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam, + Across the music of its onward flow + I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam. + + + + +Thomas Hood + + + + The man who cloaked his bitterness within + This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries, + God never gave to look with common eyes + Upon a world of anguish and of sin: + His brother was the branded man of Lynn; + And there are woven with his jollities + The nameless and eternal tragedies + That render hope and hopelessness akin. + + We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel + A still chord sorrow-swept, -- a weird unrest; + And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal, + As if the very ghost of mirth were dead -- + As if the joys of time to dreams had fled, + Or sailed away with Ines to the West. + + + + +The Miracle + + + + "Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead, + And you shall see no more this face of mine, + Let nothing but red roses be the sign + Of the white life I lost for him," she said; + "No, do not curse him, -- pity him instead; + Forgive him! -- forgive me! . . God's anodyne + For human hate is pity; and the wine + That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read + Love's message in love's murder, and I die." + And so they laid her just where she would lie, -- + Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell; + But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, + And spring came, -- lo, from every bud's green shell + Burst a white blossom. -- Can love reason why? + + + + +Horace to Leuconoe + + + + I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore + With unpermitted eyes on what may be + Appointed by the gods for you and me, + Nor on Chaldean figures any more. + 'T were infinitely better to implore + The present only: -- whether Jove decree + More winters yet to come, or whether he + Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore + Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last -- + Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill + Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, + The envious close of time is narrowing; -- + So seize the day, -- or ever it be past, -- + And let the morrow come for what it will. + + + + +Reuben Bright + + + + Because he was a butcher and thereby + Did earn an honest living (and did right), + I would not have you think that Reuben Bright + Was any more a brute than you or I; + For when they told him that his wife must die, + He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, + And cried like a great baby half that night, + And made the women cry to see him cry. + + And after she was dead, and he had paid + The singers and the sexton and the rest, + He packed a lot of things that she had made + Most mournfully away in an old chest + Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs + In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house. + + + + +The Altar + + + + Alone, remote, nor witting where I went, + I found an altar builded in a dream -- + A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam + So swift, so searching, and so eloquent + Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent + With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme + Unending impulse to that human stream + Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent. + + Alas! I said, -- the world is in the wrong. + But the same quenchless fever of unrest + That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng + Thrilled me, and I awoke . . . and was the same + Bewildered insect plunging for the flame + That burns, and must burn somehow for the best. + + + + +The Tavern + + + + Whenever I go by there nowadays + And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass, + The torn blue curtains and the broken glass, + I seem to be afraid of the old place; + And something stiffens up and down my face, + For all the world as if I saw the ghost + Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host, + With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze. + + The Tavern has a story, but no man + Can tell us what it is. We only know + That once long after midnight, years ago, + A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town, + Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran + That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown. + + + + +Sonnet + + + + Oh for a poet -- for a beacon bright + To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray; + To spirit back the Muses, long astray, + And flush Parnassus with a newer light; + To put these little sonnet-men to flight + Who fashion, in a shrewd, mechanic way, + Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, + To vanish in irrevocable night. + + What does it mean, this barren age of ours? + Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, + The seasons, and the sunset, as before. + What does it mean? Shall not one bard arise + To wrench one banner from the western skies, + And mark it with his name forevermore? + + + + +George Crabbe + + + + Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, + Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will, -- + But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still + With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. + In spite of all fine science disavows, + Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill + There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, + Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. + + Whether or not we read him, we can feel + From time to time the vigor of his name + Against us like a finger for the shame + And emptiness of what our souls reveal + In books that are as altars where we kneel + To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. + + + + +Credo + + + + I cannot find my way: there is no star + In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; + And there is not a whisper in the air + Of any living voice but one so far + That I can hear it only as a bar + Of lost, imperial music, played when fair + And angel fingers wove, and unaware, + Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are. + + No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, + For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, + The black and awful chaos of the night; + For through it all, -- above, beyond it all, -- + I know the far-sent message of the years, + I feel the coming glory of the Light! + + + + +On the Night of a Friend's Wedding + + + + If ever I am old, and all alone, + I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; + For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait + Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown. + The devil only knows what I have done, + But here I am, and here are six or eight + Good friends, who most ingenuously prate + About my songs to such and such a one. + + But everything is all askew to-night, -- + As if the time were come, or almost come, + For their untenanted mirage of me + To lose itself and crumble out of sight, + Like a tall ship that floats above the foam + A little while, and then breaks utterly. + + + + +Sonnet + + + + The master and the slave go hand in hand, + Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave, + And there be kings do sorrowfully crave + The joyance that a scullion may command. + But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand + The mission of his bondage, or the grave + May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save + The perfect word that is the poet's wand! + + The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes + Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones; + But shapes and echoes that are never done + Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes + Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones + The crash of battles that are never won. + + + + +Verlaine + + + + Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers + To touch the covered corpse of him that fled + The uplands for the fens, and rioted + Like a sick satyr with doom's worshippers? + Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse + To tell the story of the life he led. + Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, + And let the worms be its biographers. + + Song sloughs away the sin to find redress + In art's complete remembrance: nothing clings + For long but laurel to the stricken brow + That felt the Muse's finger; nothing less + Than hell's fulfilment of the end of things + Can blot the star that shines on Paris now. + + + + +Sonnet + + + + When we can all so excellently give + The measure of love's wisdom with a blow, -- + Why can we not in turn receive it so, + And end this murmur for the life we live? + And when we do so frantically strive + To win strange faith, why do we shun to know + That in love's elemental over-glow + God's wholeness gleams with light superlative? + + Oh, brother men, if you have eyes at all, + Look at a branch, a bird, a child, a rose, -- + Or anything God ever made that grows, -- + Nor let the smallest vision of it slip, + Till you can read, as on Belshazzar's wall, + The glory of eternal partnership! + + + + +Supremacy + + + + There is a drear and lonely tract of hell + From all the common gloom removed afar: + A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, + Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell. + I walked among them and I knew them well: + Men I had slandered on life's little star + For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar + Upon their brows of woe ineffable. + + But as I went majestic on my way, + Into the dark they vanished, one by one, + Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, + The dream of all my glory was undone, -- + And, with a fool's importunate dismay, + I heard the dead men singing in the sun. + + + + +The Night Before + + + + Look you, Dominie; look you, and listen! + Look in my face, first; search every line there; + Mark every feature, -- chin, lip, and forehead! + Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson + You read there; measure my nose, and tell me + Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie, + Is often the cast of his inward spirit; + So mark mine well. But why do you smile so? + Pity, or what? Is it written all over, + This face of mine, with a brute's confession? + Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars? + Or is it because there is something better -- + A glimmer of good, maybe -- or a shadow + Of something that's followed me down from childhood -- + Followed me all these years and kept me, + Spite of my slips and sins and follies, + Spite of my last red sin, my murder, -- + Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind? + And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie, + The one good man in the world who knows me, -- + My one good friend in a world that mocks me, + Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it + To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying? + Are these things tears? Tears! What! am I frightened? + I, who swore I should go to the scaffold + With big strong steps, and -- No more. I thank you, + But no -- I am all right now! No! -- listen! + I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow + At six o'clock, when the sun is rising. + And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you + But this poor shivering thing before you, + This fluttering wreck of the man God made him, + For God knows what wild reason. Hear me, + And learn from my lips the truth of my story. + There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you, + Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly, -- + But damnably human, -- and you shall hear it. + Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it; + The judge, with his big bald head, never knew it; + And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it. + Once there were three in the world who could tell it; + Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow, -- + You, my friend, and -- But there's the story: -- + + When I was a boy the world was heaven. + I never knew then that the men and the women + Who petted and called me a brave big fellow + Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom -- + Which comes with the years, you know -- soon showed me + The secret of all my glittering childhood, + The broken key to the fairies' castle + That held my life in the fresh, glad season + When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly -- + And yet so swiftly! -- there came the knowledge + That the marvellous life I had lived was my life; + That the glorious world I had loved was my world; + And that every man, and every woman, + And every child was a different being, + Wrought with a different heat, and fired + With passions born of a single spirit; + That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, + Nor my sorrow -- a kind of nameless pity + For something, I knew not what -- their sorrow. + And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, -- + The lesson we suffer the most in learning: + That a happy man is a man forgetful + Of all the torturing ills around him. + When or where I first met the woman + I cherished and made my wife, no matter. + Enough to say that I found her and kept her + Here in my heart with as pure a devotion + As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me + For naming His name in your patient presence; + But I feel my words, and the truth I utter + Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, -- + Not for her face, but for something fairer, + Something diviner, I thought, than beauty: + I loved the spirit -- the human something + That seemed to chime with my own condition, + And make soul-music when we were together; + And we were never apart, from the moment + My eyes flashed into her eyes the message + That swept itself in a quivering answer + Back through my strange lost being. My pulses + Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure + Of this great world grew small and smaller, + Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean + Closed at last in a mist all golden + Around us two. And we stood for a season + Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming + That we were the king and the queen of the fire + That reddened the clouds of love that held us + Blind to the new world soon to be ours -- + Ours to seize and sway. The passion + Of that great love was a nameless passion, + Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, + Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, + Never a whit less pure for its fervor. + The baseness in me (for I was human) + Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing + Was left me then but a soul that mingled + Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered + In fearful triumph. When I consider + That helpless love and the cursed folly + That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman + Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage + (Whatever the word may mean), I wonder + If all the woe was her sin, or whether + The chains themselves were enough to lead her + In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners + And saints -- I say -- are rocked in the cradle, + But never are known till the will within them + Speaks in its own good time. So I foster + Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, + Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling + Of still regret; for the man -- But hear me, + And judge for yourself: -- + + For a time the seasons + Changed and passed in a sweet succession + That seemed to me like an endless music: + Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs + Of God were glad for our love. I fancied + All this, and more than I dare to tell you + To-night, -- yes, more than I dare to remember; + And then -- well, the music stopped. There are moments + In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, -- + Or seems to stop, -- till it comes to cheer them + Again with a larger sound. The curtain + Of life just then is lifted a little + To give to their sight new joys -- new sorrows -- + Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching + The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, + Flushed and alive with a long delusion + That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered + And felt like a knife that awful silence + That comes when the music goes -- forever. + The truth came over my life like a darkness + Over a forest where one man wanders, + Worse than alone. For a time I staggered + And stumbled on with a weak persistence + After the phantom of hope that darted + And dodged like a frightened thing before me, + To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing + Was left me then but the curse of living + And bearing through all my days the fever + And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger, + Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me, + Given me strength to crush my sorrow + With hate for her and the world that praised her -- + To have left her, then and there -- to have conquered + That old false life with a new and a wiser, -- + Such things are easy in words. You listen, + And frown, I suppose, that I never mention + That beautiful word, FORGIVE! -- I forgave her + First of all; and I praised kind Heaven + That I was a brave, clean man to do it; + And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness! + What does it mean when the one forgiven + Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses + The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him + A thousand things of a good man's mercy, + And then slips off with a laugh and plunges + Back to the sin she has quit for a season, + To tell him that hell and the world are better + For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me, + The love that dies ere its flames are wasted + In search of an alien soul is better, + Better by far than the lonely passion + That burns back into the heart that feeds it. + For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me, -- + Fooled with her endless pleading promise + Of future faith, -- the more I believed her + The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger + Her choking arms and her small hot kisses + Bound me and burned my brain to pity, + The more she grew to the heavenly creature + That brightened the life I had lost forever. + The truth was gone somehow for the moment; + The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied + We were again like gods together, + Loving again with the old glad rapture. + But scenes like these, too often repeated, + Failed at last, and her guile was wasted. + I made an end of her shrewd caresses + And told her a few straight words. She took them + Full at their worth -- and the farce was over. + . . . . . + At first my dreams of the past upheld me, + But they were a short support: the present + Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission + Of life (whatever it was) was blasted; + My game was lost. And I met the winner + Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers + His painful strength at the sight of his master; + And when he was past I cursed him, fearful + Of that strange chance which makes us mighty + Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated + The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed + His easy march with a backward envy, + And cursed myself for the beast within me. + But pride is the master of love, and the vision + Of those old days grew faint and fainter: + The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered + Was nothing now but a woman, -- a woman + Out of my way and out of my nature. + My battle with blinded love was over, + My battle with aching pride beginning. + If I was the loser at first, I wonder + If I am the winner now! . . . I doubt it. + My life is a losing game; and to-morrow -- + To-morrow! -- Christ! did I say to-morrow? . . . + Is your brandy good for death? . . . There, -- listen: -- + + When love goes out, and a man is driven + To shun mankind for the scars that make him + A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries + A double burden. The woes I suffered + After that hard betrayal made me + Pity, at first, all breathing creatures + On this bewildered earth. I studied + Their faces and made for myself the story + Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers + And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished + A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy + Between those people and me. But somehow, + As time went on, there came queer glances + Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me + Harassed my pride with a crazed impression + That every face in the surging city + Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers, + Now and then, as I walked and wearied + My wasted life twice over in bearing + With all my sorrow the sorrows of others, -- + Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled, -- + A poor scared thing, -- and their prying faces + Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing + At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it -- + That laughter! And then the children caught it; + And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened. + And then when I met the man who had weakened + A woman's love to his own desire, + It seemed to me that all hell were laughing + In fiendish concert! I was their victim -- + And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle! + As long as the earth we tread holds something + A tortured heart can love, the meaning + Of life is not wholly blurred; but after + The last loved thing in the world has left us, + We know the triumph of hate. The glory + Of good goes out forever; the beacon + Of sin is the light that leads us downward -- + Down to the fiery end. The road runs + Right through hell; and the souls that follow + The cursed ways where its windings lead them + Suffer enough, I say, to merit + All grace that a God can give. -- The fashion + Of our belief is to lift all beings + Born for a life that knows no struggle + In sin's tight snares to eternal glory -- + All apart from the branded millions + Who carry through life their faces graven + With sure brute scars that tell the story + Of their foul, fated passions. Science + Has yet no salve to smooth or soften + The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage; + No drug to purge from the vital essence + Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue + May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted + And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger + Never is known till there comes that battle + With sin to prove the victor. Perilous + Things are these demons we call our passions: + Slaves are we of their roving fancies, + Fools of their devilish glee. -- You think me, + I know, in this maundering way designing + To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it + Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me! + I'm partly a man, -- for all my weakness, -- + If weakness it were to stand and murder + Before men's eyes the man who had murdered + Me, and driven my burning forehead + With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me! + And try to believe my words but a portion + Of what God's purpose made me! The coward + Within me cries for this; and I beg you + Now, as I come to the end, to remember + That women and men are on earth to travel + All on a different road. Hereafter + The roads may meet. . . . I trust in something -- + I know not what. . . . + + Well, this was the way of it: -- + Stung with the shame and the secret fury + That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance + Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered + Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy, + Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him, + And laughed at the love that strove to touch me, -- + The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon + Close to my breast, and held him, praising + The fates and the furies that gave me the courage + To follow his wild command. Forgetful + Of all to come when the work was over, -- + There came to me then no stony vision + Of these three hundred days, -- I cherished + An awful joy in my brain. I pondered + And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried + In life to think that I was to conquer + Death at his own dark door, -- and chuckled + To think of it done so cleanly. One evening + I knew that my time had come. I shuddered + A little, but rather for doubt than terror, + And followed him, -- led by the nameless devil + I worshipped and called my brother. The city + Shone like a dream that night; the windows + Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements + Pulsed and swayed with a warmth -- or something + That seemed so then to my feet -- and thrilled me + With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women + And men, like marvellous things of magic, + Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder, + Sent with a wizard motion. Through it + And over and under it all there sounded + A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened + And laughed again to think of the flower + That grew, blood-red, for me! . . . This fellow + Was one of the popular sort who flourish + Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience + He carried a snug deceit that made him + The man of the time and the place, whatever + The time or the place might be. Were he sounding, + With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose, + Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman + Fooled with his brainless art, or sending + The midnight home with songs and bottles, -- + The cad was there, and his ease forever + Shone with the smooth and slippery polish + That tells the snake. That night he drifted + Into an up-town haunt and ordered -- + Whatever it was -- with a soft assurance + That made me mad as I stood behind him, + Gripping his death, and waited. Coward, + I think, is the name the world has given + To men like me; but I'll swear I never + Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him -- + Yes, in the back, -- I know it, I know it + Now; but what if I do? . . . As I watched him + Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust, + Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted + That things were still; that the walnut tables, + Where men but a moment before were sitting, + Were gone; that a screen of something around me + Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded + Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys + Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors + And glasses behind the bar were lighted + In some strange way, and into my spirit + A thousand shafts of terrible fire + Burned like death, and I fell. The story + Of what came then, you know. + + But tell me, + What does the whole thing mean? What are we, -- + Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets + Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it? + Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation, -- + Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie, + There are times in the lives of us poor devils + When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience + May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us + Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at, -- + And then we fall. And for all who have fallen -- + Even for him -- I hold no malice, + Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy + Than mine must shrive him. -- And I -- I am going + Into the light? -- or into the darkness? + Why do I sit through these sickening hours, + And hope? Good God! are they hours? -- hours? + Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow -- + We two may meet! To-morrow! -- To-morrow! . . . + + + + +Walt Whitman + + + + The master-songs are ended, and the man + That sang them is a name. And so is God + A name; and so is love, and life, and death, + And everything. But we, who are too blind + To read what we have written, or what faith + Has written for us, do not understand: + We only blink, and wonder. + + Last night it was the song that was the man, + But now it is the man that is the song. + We do not hear him very much to-day: + His piercing and eternal cadence rings + Too pure for us -- too powerfully pure, + Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; + But there are some that hear him, and they know + That he shall sing to-morrow for all men, + And that all time shall listen. + + The master-songs are ended? Rather say + No songs are ended that are ever sung, + And that no names are dead names. When we write + Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, + We write them there forever. + + + + +The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" + + + + Ye gods that have a home beyond the world, + Ye that have eyes for all man's agony, + Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen, -- + Look with a just regard, + And with an even grace, + Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king, + Here on a suffering world where men grow old + And wander like sad shadows till, at last, + Out of the flare of life, + Out of the whirl of years, + Into the mist they go, + Into the mist of death. + + O shades of you that loved him long before + The cruel threads of that black sail were spun, + May loyal arms and ancient welcomings + Receive him once again + Who now no longer moves + Here in this flickering dance of changing days, + Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, + And the black master Death is over all, + To chill with his approach, + To level with his touch, + The reigning strength of youth, + The fluttered heart of age. + + Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost -- + Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line! + Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release -- + Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! -- + And thou, the saddest wind + That ever blew from Crete, + Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship! -- + Sing to the western flame, + Sing to the dying foam, + A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be! + + Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, + Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, + Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, + To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore: -- + Whether or not there fell + To the touch of an alien hand + The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, + Better his end had been + To die as an old man dies, -- + But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown is ever a crown. + + + + +The Wilderness + + + + Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, + And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; + There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland + Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. + There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn + Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad + For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, + To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores. + + _Come away! come away! you can hear them calling, calling, + Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. + Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, + There's an old song calling us to come!_ + + Come away! come away! -- for the scenes we leave behind us + Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; + And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, + That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. + The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us, + And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; + But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us + In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. + + _Come away! come away! there is nothing now to cheer us -- + Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home: -- + Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, + And a warm hearth waits for us within._ + + Come away! come away! -- or the roving-fiend will hold us, + And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring: + There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, + There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. + So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better + For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know: -- + The frost that skips the willow-leaf will again be back to blight it, + And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see. + + _Come away! come away! there are dead men all around us -- + Frozen men that mock us with a wild, hard laugh + That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes, + And the long fall wind on the lake._ + + + + +Octaves + + + + I + + + To get at the eternal strength of things, + And fearlessly to make strong songs of it, + Is, to my mind, the mission of that man + The world would call a poet. He may sing + But roughly, and withal ungraciously; + But if he touch to life the one right chord + Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake + To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well. + + + + II + + + We thrill too strangely at the master's touch; + We shrink too sadly from the larger self + Which for its own completeness agitates + And undetermines us; we do not feel -- + We dare not feel it yet -- the splendid shame + Of uncreated failure; we forget, + The while we groan, that God's accomplishment + Is always and unfailingly at hand. + + + + III + + + To mortal ears the plainest word may ring + Fantastic and unheard-of, and as false + And out of tune as ever to our own + Did ring the prayers of man-made maniacs; + But if that word be the plain word of Truth, + It leaves an echo that begets itself, + Persistent in itself and of itself, + Regenerate, reiterate, replete. + + + + IV + + + Tumultuously void of a clean scheme + Whereon to build, whereof to formulate, + The legion life that riots in mankind + Goes ever plunging upward, up and down, + Most like some crazy regiment at arms, + Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance, + And ever led resourcelessly along + To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters. + + + + V + + + To me the groaning of world-worshippers + Rings like a lonely music played in hell + By one with art enough to cleave the walls + Of heaven with his cadence, but without + The wisdom or the will to comprehend + The strangeness of his own perversity, + And all without the courage to deny + The profit and the pride of his defeat. + + + + VI + + + While we are drilled in error, we are lost + Alike to truth and usefulness. We think + We are great warriors now, and we can brag + Like Titans; but the world is growing young, + And we, the fools of time, are growing with it: -- + We do not fight to-day, we only die; + We are too proud of death, and too ashamed + Of God, to know enough to be alive. + + + + VII + + + There is one battle-field whereon we fall + Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! + We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves + To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred + By sorrow, and the ministering wheels + Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds + Of human gloom are lost against the gleam + That shines on Thought's impenetrable mail. + + + + VIII + + + When we shall hear no more the cradle-songs + Of ages -- when the timeless hymns of Love + Defeat them and outsound them -- we shall know + The rapture of that large release which all + Right science comprehends; and we shall read, + With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, + That record of All-Soul whereon God writes + In everlasting runes the truth of Him. + + + + IX + + + The guerdon of new childhood is repose: -- + Once he has read the primer of right thought, + A man may claim between two smithy strokes + Beatitude enough to realize + God's parallel completeness in the vague + And incommensurable excellence + That equitably uncreates itself + And makes a whirlwind of the Universe. + + + + X + + + There is no loneliness: -- no matter where + We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends + Forsake us in the seeming, we are all + At one with a complete companionship; + And though forlornly joyless be the ways + We travel, the compensate spirit-gleams + Of Wisdom shaft the darkness here and there, + Like scattered lamps in unfrequented streets. + + + + XI + + + When one that you and I had all but sworn + To be the purest thing God ever made + Bewilders us until at last it seems + An angel has come back restigmatized, -- + Faith wavers, and we wonder what there is + On earth to make us faithful any more, + But never are quite wise enough to know + The wisdom that is in that wonderment. + + + + XII + + + Where does a dead man go? -- The dead man dies; + But the free life that would no longer feed + On fagots of outburned and shattered flesh + Wakes to a thrilled invisible advance, + Unchained (or fettered else) of memory; + And when the dead man goes it seems to me + 'T were better for us all to do away + With weeping, and be glad that he is gone. + + + + XIII + + + Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended, + And unremunerative years we search + To get where life begins, and still we groan + Because we do not find the living spark + Where no spark ever was; and thus we die, + Still searching, like poor old astronomers + Who totter off to bed and go to sleep, + To dream of untriangulated stars. + + + + XIV + + + With conscious eyes not yet sincere enough + To pierce the glimmered cloud that fluctuates + Between me and the glorifying light + That screens itself with knowledge, I discern + The searching rays of wisdom that reach through + The mist of shame's infirm credulity, + And infinitely wonder if hard words + Like mine have any message for the dead. + + + + XV + + + I grant you friendship is a royal thing, + But none shall ever know that royalty + For what it is till he has realized + His best friend in himself. 'T is then, perforce, + That man's unfettered faith indemnifies + Of its own conscious freedom the old shame, + And love's revealed infinitude supplants + Of its own wealth and wisdom the old scorn. + + + + XVI + + + Though the sick beast infect us, we are fraught + Forever with indissoluble Truth, + Wherein redress reveals itself divine, + Transitional, transcendent. Grief and loss, + Disease and desolation, are the dreams + Of wasted excellence; and every dream + Has in it something of an ageless fact + That flouts deformity and laughs at years. + + + + XVII + + + We lack the courage to be where we are: -- + We love too much to travel on old roads, + To triumph on old fields; we love too much + To consecrate the magic of dead things, + And yieldingly to linger by long walls + Of ruin, where the ruinous moonlight + That sheds a lying glory on old stones + Befriends us with a wizard's enmity. + + + + XVIII + + + Something as one with eyes that look below + The battle-smoke to glimpse the foeman's charge, + We through the dust of downward years may scan + The onslaught that awaits this idiot world + Where blood pays blood for nothing, and where life + Pays life to madness, till at last the ports + Of gilded helplessness be battered through + By the still crash of salvatory steel. + + + + XIX + + + To you that sit with Sorrow like chained slaves, + And wonder if the night will ever come, + I would say this: The night will never come, + And sorrow is not always. But my words + Are not enough; your eyes are not enough; + The soul itself must insulate the Real, + Or ever you do cherish in this life -- + In this life or in any life -- repose. + + + + XX + + + Like a white wall whereon forever breaks + Unsatisfied the tumult of green seas, + Man's unconjectured godliness rebukes + With its imperial silence the lost waves + Of insufficient grief. This mortal surge + That beats against us now is nothing else + Than plangent ignorance. Truth neither shakes + Nor wavers; but the world shakes, and we shriek. + + + + XXI + + + Nor jewelled phrase nor mere mellifluous rhyme + Reverberates aright, or ever shall, + One cadence of that infinite plain-song + Which is itself all music. Stronger notes + Than any that have ever touched the world + Must ring to tell it -- ring like hammer-blows, + Right-echoed of a chime primordial, + On anvils, in the gleaming of God's forge. + + + + XXII + + + The prophet of dead words defeats himself: + Whoever would acknowledge and include + The foregleam and the glory of the real, + Must work with something else than pen and ink + And painful preparation: he must work + With unseen implements that have no names, + And he must win withal, to do that work, + Good fortitude, clean wisdom, and strong skill. + + + + XXIII + + + To curse the chilled insistence of the dawn + Because the free gleam lingers; to defraud + The constant opportunity that lives + Unchallenged in all sorrow; to forget + For this large prodigality of gold + That larger generosity of thought, -- + These are the fleshly clogs of human greed, + The fundamental blunders of mankind. + + + + XXIV + + + Forebodings are the fiends of Recreance; + The master of the moment, the clean seer + Of ages, too securely scans what is, + Ever to be appalled at what is not; + He sees beyond the groaning borough lines + Of Hell, God's highways gleaming, and he knows + That Love's complete communion is the end + Of anguish to the liberated man. + + + + XXV + + + Here by the windy docks I stand alone, + But yet companioned. There the vessel goes, + And there my friend goes with it; but the wake + That melts and ebbs between that friend and me + Love's earnest is of Life's all-purposeful + And all-triumphant sailing, when the ships + Of Wisdom loose their fretful chains and swing + Forever from the crumbled wharves of Time. + + + + +Two Quatrains + + + + I + + Unity + + + As eons of incalculable strife + Are in the vision of one moment caught, + So are the common, concrete things of life + Divinely shadowed on the walls of Thought. + + + + II + + Paraphrase + + + We shriek to live, but no man ever lives + Till he has rid the ghost of human breath; + We dream to die, but no man ever dies + Till he has quit the road that runs to death. + + + + + Romance + + + + I + + Boys + + We were all boys, and three of us were friends; + And we were more than friends, it seemed to me: -- + Yes, we were more than brothers then, we three. . . . + Brothers? . . . But we were boys, and there it ends. + + + II + + James Wetherell + + We never half believed the stuff + They told about James Wetherell; + We always liked him well enough, + And always tried to use him well; + But now some things have come to light, + And James has vanished from our view, -- + There is n't very much to write, + There is n't very much to do. + + + + + The Torrent + + + + I found a torrent falling in a glen + Where the sun's light shone silvered and leaf-split; + The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it + All made a magic symphony; but when + I thought upon the coming of hard men + To cut those patriarchal trees away, + And turn to gold the silver of that spray, + I shuddered. Yet a gladness now and then + Did wake me to myself till I was glad + In earnest, and was welcoming the time + For screaming saws to sound above the chime + Of idle waters, and for me to know + The jealous visionings that I had had + Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go. + + + + + L'Envoi + + + + Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word, + Now in a voice that thrills eternity, + Ever there comes an onward phrase to me + Of some transcendent music I have heard; + No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered, + No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory, + But a glad strain of some still symphony + That no proud mortal touch has ever stirred. + + There is no music in the world like this, + No character wherewith to set it down, + No kind of instrument to make it sing. + No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is! + And after time and place are overthrown, + God's touch will keep its one chord quivering. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children of the Night, by +Edwin Arlington Robinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 313.txt or 313.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/313/ + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + + + + + +The Children of the Night +by Edwin Arlington Robinson [Maine Poet -- 1869-1935.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas have been indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases have been capitalized. +Lines longer than 77 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors have been corrected.] + + +[This text was first published in 1897, this etext was transcribed +from a 1905 printing of the 1897 edition.] + + + + + + +The Children of the Night + +A Book of Poems by Edwin Arlington Robinson + + + + + + +To the Memory of my Father and Mother + + + + + + +Contents + + + + + + +The Children of the Night +Three Quatrains +The World +An Old Story +Ballade of a Ship +Ballade by the Fire +Ballade of Broken Flutes +Ballade of Dead Friends +Her Eyes +Two Men +Villanelle of Change +John Evereldown +Luke Havergal +The House on the Hill +Richard Cory +Two Octaves +Calvary +Dear Friends +The Story of the Ashes and the Flame +For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold +Amaryllis +Kosmos +Zola +The Pity of the Leaves +Aaron Stark +The Garden +Cliff Klingenhagen +Charles Carville's Eyes +The Dead Village +Boston +Two Sonnets +The Clerks +Fleming Helphenstine +For a Book by Thomas Hardy +Thomas Hood +The Miracle +Horace to Leuconoe +Reuben Bright +The Altar +The Tavern +Sonnet +George Crabbe +Credo +On the Night of a Friend's Wedding +Sonnet +Verlaine +Sonnet +Supremacy +The Night Before +Walt Whitman +The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" +The Wilderness +Octaves +Two Quatrains +Romance +The Torrent +L'Envoi + + + + + + + + + +The Children of the Night + + + +For those that never know the light, + The darkness is a sullen thing; +And they, the Children of the Night, + Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing. + +But some are strong and some are weak, -- + And there's the story. House and home +Are shut from countless hearts that seek + World-refuge that will never come. + +And if there be no other life, + And if there be no other chance +To weigh their sorrow and their strife + Than in the scales of circumstance, + +'T were better, ere the sun go down + Upon the first day we embark, +In life's imbittered sea to drown, + Than sail forever in the dark. + +But if there be a soul on earth + So blinded with its own misuse +Of man's revealed, incessant worth, + Or worn with anguish, that it views + +No light but for a mortal eye, + No rest but of a mortal sleep, +No God but in a prophet's lie, + No faith for "honest doubt" to keep; + +If there be nothing, good or bad, + But chaos for a soul to trust, -- +God counts it for a soul gone mad, + And if God be God, He is just. + +And if God be God, He is Love; + And though the Dawn be still so dim, +It shows us we have played enough + With creeds that make a fiend of Him. + +There is one creed, and only one, + That glorifies God's excellence; +So cherish, that His will be done, + The common creed of common sense. + +It is the crimson, not the gray, + That charms the twilight of all time; +It is the promise of the day + That makes the starry sky sublime; + +It is the faith within the fear + That holds us to the life we curse; -- +So let us in ourselves revere + The Self which is the Universe! + +Let us, the Children of the Night, + Put off the cloak that hides the scar! +Let us be Children of the Light, + And tell the ages what we are! + + + + +Three Quatrains + + + + I + + +As long as Fame's imperious music rings + Will poets mock it with crowned words august; +And haggard men will clamber to be kings + As long as Glory weighs itself in dust. + + + + II + + +Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled, + Nor shudder for the revels that are done: +The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled, + The strings that Nero fingered are all gone. + + + + III + + +We cannot crown ourselves with everything, + Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel: +No matter what we are, or what we sing, + Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel. + + + + +The World + + + +Some are the brothers of all humankind, + And own them, whatsoever their estate; +And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind + With enmity for man's unguarded fate. + +For some there is a music all day long + Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad; +And there is hell's eternal under-song + Of curses and the cries of men gone mad. + +Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous, + Some say 't were better back to chaos hurled; +And so 't is what we are that makes for us + The measure and the meaning of the world. + + + + +An Old Story + + + +Strange that I did not know him then, + That friend of mine! +I did not even show him then + One friendly sign; + +But cursed him for the ways he had + To make me see +My envy of the praise he had + For praising me. + +I would have rid the earth of him + Once, in my pride! . . . +I never knew the worth of him + Until he died. + + + + +Ballade of a Ship + + + +Down by the flash of the restless water + The dim White Ship like a white bird lay; +Laughing at life and the world they sought her, + And out she swung to the silvering bay. + Then off they flew on their roystering way, +And the keen moon fired the light foam flying + Up from the flood where the faint stars play, +And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + +'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter, + And full three hundred beside, they say, -- +Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter + So soon to seize them and hide them for aye; + But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay, +Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying + Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray +Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + +Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her + (This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey: +The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her, + And hurled her down where the dead men stay. + A torturing silence of wan dismay -- +Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying -- + Then down they sank to slumber and sway +Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying. + + ENVOY + +Prince, do you sleep to the sound alway + Of the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying? -- +Or does love still shudder and steel still slay, + Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying? + + + + +Ballade by the Fire + + + +Slowly I smoke and hug my knee, + The while a witless masquerade +Of things that only children see + Floats in a mist of light and shade: + They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, +And with a weak, remindful glow, + The falling embers break and fade, +As one by one the phantoms go. + +Then, with a melancholy glee + To think where once my fancy strayed, +I muse on what the years may be + Whose coming tales are all unsaid, + Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid +Within their shadowed niches, grow + By grim degrees to pick and spade, +As one by one the phantoms go. + +But then, what though the mystic Three + Around me ply their merry trade? -- +And Charon soon may carry me + Across the gloomy Stygian glade? -- + Be up, my soul! nor be afraid +Of what some unborn year may show; + But mind your human debts are paid, +As one by one the phantoms go. + + ENVOY + +Life is the game that must be played: + This truth at least, good friend, we know; +So live and laugh, nor be dismayed + As one by one the phantoms go. + + + + +Ballade of Broken Flutes + +(To A. T. Schumann.) + + + +In dreams I crossed a barren land, + A land of ruin, far away; +Around me hung on every hand + A deathful stillness of decay; + And silent, as in bleak dismay +That song should thus forsaken be, + On that forgotten ground there lay +The broken flutes of Arcady. + +The forest that was all so grand + When pipes and tabors had their sway +Stood leafless now, a ghostly band + Of skeletons in cold array. + A lonely surge of ancient spray +Told of an unforgetful sea, + But iron blows had hushed for aye +The broken flutes of Arcady. + +No more by summer breezes fanned, + The place was desolate and gray; +But still my dream was to command + New life into that shrunken clay. + I tried it. Yes, you scan to-day, +With uncommiserating glee, + The songs of one who strove to play +The broken flutes of Arcady. + + ENVOY + +So, Rock, I join the common fray, + To fight where Mammon may decree; +And leave, to crumble as they may, + The broken flutes of Arcady. + + + + +Ballade of Dead Friends + + + +As we the withered ferns + By the roadway lying, +Time, the jester, spurns + All our prayers and prying -- + All our tears and sighing, +Sorrow, change, and woe -- + All our where-and-whying +For friends that come and go. + +Life awakes and burns, + Age and death defying, +Till at last it learns + All but Love is dying; + Love's the trade we're plying, +God has willed it so; + Shrouds are what we're buying +For friends that come and go. + +Man forever yearns + For the thing that's flying. +Everywhere he turns, + Men to dust are drying, -- + Dust that wanders, eying +(With eyes that hardly glow) + New faces, dimly spying +For friends that come and go. + + ENVOY + +And thus we all are nighing + The truth we fear to know: +Death will end our crying + For friends that come and go. + + + + +Her Eyes + + + +Up from the street and the crowds that went, + Morning and midnight, to and fro, +Still was the room where his days he spent, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + +Year after year, with his dream shut fast, + He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim, +For the love that his brushes had earned at last, -- + And the whole world rang with the praise of him. + +But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead, + Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray. +"There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . . + "There are stars enough -- when the sun's away." + +Then he went back to the same still room + That had held his dream in the long ago, +When he buried his days in a nameless tomb, + And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow. + +And a passionate humor seized him there -- + Seized him and held him until there grew +Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair, + A perilous face -- and an angel's, too. + +Angel and maiden, and all in one, -- + All but the eyes. -- They were there, but yet +They seemed somehow like a soul half done. + What was the matter? Did God forget? . . . + +But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure + That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, -- +With a gleam of heaven to make them pure, + And a glimmer of hell to make them human. + +God never forgets. -- And he worships her + There in that same still room of his, +For his wife, and his constant arbiter + Of the world that was and the world that is. + +And he wonders yet what her love could be + To punish him after that strife so grim; +But the longer he lives with her eyes to see, + The plainer it all comes back to him. + + + + +Two Men + + + +There be two men of all mankind + That I should like to know about; +But search and question where I will, + I cannot ever find them out. + +Melchizedek he praised the Lord, + And gave some wine to Abraham; +But who can tell what else he did + Must be more learned than I am. + +Ucalegon he lost his house + When Agamemnon came to Troy; +But who can tell me who he was -- + I'll pray the gods to give him joy. + +There be two men of all mankind + That I'm forever thinking on: +They chase me everywhere I go, -- + Melchizedek, Ucalegon. + + + + +Villanelle of Change + + + +Since Persia fell at Marathon, + The yellow years have gathered fast: +Long centuries have come and gone. + +And yet (they say) the place will don + A phantom fury of the past, +Since Persia fell at Marathon; + +And as of old, when Helicon + Trembled and swayed with rapture vast +(Long centuries have come and gone), + +This ancient plain, when night comes on, + Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, +Since Persia fell at Marathon. + +But into soundless Acheron + The glory of Greek shame was cast: +Long centuries have come and gone, + +The suns of Hellas have all shone, + The first has fallen to the last: -- +Since Persia fell at Marathon, +Long centuries have come and gone. + + + + +John Evereldown + + + +"Where are you going to-night, to-night, -- + Where are you going, John Evereldown? +There's never the sign of a star in sight, + Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town. +Why do you stare as a dead man might? +Where are you pointing away from the light? +And where are you going to-night, to-night, -- + Where are you going, John Evereldown?" + +"Right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town. +The men are asleep, -- or awake, may be, -- + But the women are calling John Evereldown. +Ever and ever they call for me, +And while they call can a man be free? +So right through the forest, where none can see, + There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town." + +"But why are you going so late, so late, -- + Why are you going, John Evereldown? +Though the road be smooth and the path be straight, + There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town. +Come in by the fire, old man, and wait! +Why do you chatter out there by the gate? +And why are you going so late, so late, -- + Why are you going, John Evereldown?" + +"I follow the women wherever they call, -- + That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town. +God knows if I pray to be done with it all, + But God is no friend to John Evereldown. +So the clouds may come and the rain may fall, +The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, -- +But I follow the women wherever they call, + And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town." + + + + +Luke Havergal + + + +Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, -- +There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, -- +And in the twilight wait for what will come. +The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some -- +Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; +But go, and if you trust her she will call. +Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal -- +Luke Havergal. + +No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies +To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; +But there, where western glooms are gathering, +The dark will end the dark, if anything: +God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, +And hell is more than half of paradise. +No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies -- +In eastern skies. + +Out of a grave I come to tell you this, -- +Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss +That flames upon your forehead with a glow +That blinds you to the way that you must go. +Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, -- +Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. +Out of a grave I come to tell you this -- +To tell you this. + +There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, +There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. +Go, -- for the winds are tearing them away, -- +Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, +Nor any more to feel them as they fall; +But go! and if you trust her she will call. +There is the western gate, Luke Havergal -- +Luke Havergal. + + + + +The House on the Hill + + + +They are all gone away, + The House is shut and still, +There is nothing more to say. + +Through broken walls and gray + The winds blow bleak and shrill: +They are all gone away. + +Nor is there one to-day + To speak them good or ill: +There is nothing more to say. + +Why is it then we stray + Around that sunken sill? +They are all gone away, + +And our poor fancy-play + For them is wasted skill: +There is nothing more to say. + +There is ruin and decay + In the House on the Hill: +They are all gone away, +There is nothing more to say. + + + + +Richard Cory + + + +Whenever Richard Cory went down town, +We people on the pavement looked at him: +He was a gentleman from sole to crown, +Clean favored, and imperially slim. + +And he was always quietly arrayed, +And he was always human when he talked; +But still he fluttered pulses when he said, +"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. + +And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, -- +And admirably schooled in every grace: +In fine, we thought that he was everything +To make us wish that we were in his place. + +So on we worked, and waited for the light, +And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; +And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, +Went home and put a bullet through his head. + + + + +Two Octaves + + + + I + + +Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms +All outward recognition of revealed +And righteous omnipresence are the days +Of most of us affrighted and diseased, +But rather by the common snarls of life +That come to test us and to strengthen us +In this the prentice-age of discontent, +Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame. + + + + II + + +When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down +Upon a stagnant earth where listless men +Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat, +Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, -- +It seems to me somehow that God himself +Scans with a close reproach what I have done, +Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears, +And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts. + + + + +Calvary + + + +Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, +Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, +Stung by the mob that came to see the show, +The Master toiled along to Calvary; +We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee, +Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow; +We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, -- +And this was nineteen hundred years ago. + +But after nineteen hundred years the shame +Still clings, and we have not made good the loss +That outraged faith has entered in his name. +Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong! +Tell me, O Lord -- tell me, O Lord, how long +Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross! + + + + +Dear Friends + + + +Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, +Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say +That I am wearing half my life away +For bubble-work that only fools pursue. +And if my bubbles be too small for you, +Blow bigger then your own: the games we play +To fill the frittered minutes of a day, +Good glasses are to read the spirit through. + +And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; +And some unprofitable scorn resign, +To praise the very thing that he deplores; +So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, +The shame I win for singing is all mine, +The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours. + + + + +The Story of the Ashes and the Flame + + + +No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, +There was her place. No matter what men said, +No matter what she was; living or dead, +Faithful or not, he loved her all the same. +The story was as old as human shame, +But ever since that lonely night she fled, +With books to blind him, he had only read +The story of the ashes and the flame. + +There she was always coming pretty soon +To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes +That had in them the laughter of the moon +For baffled lovers, and to make him think -- +Before she gave him time enough to wink -- +Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise. + + + + +For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold + + + +Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, +He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, +And brings their crystal cadence back once more +To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land +Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band +Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore +Of heroes and the men that long before +Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned. + +Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go +For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray -- +For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; +And still does art's imperial vista show, +On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, +Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms. + + + + +Amaryllis + + + +Once, when I wandered in the woods alone, +An old man tottered up to me and said, +"Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made +For Amaryllis." There was in the tone +Of his complaint such quaver and such moan +That I took pity on him and obeyed, +And long stood looking where his hands had laid +An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone. + +Far out beyond the forest I could hear +The calling of loud progress, and the bold +Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear; +But though the trumpets of the world were glad, +It made me lonely and it made me sad +To think that Amaryllis had grown old. + + + + +Kosmos + + + +Ah, -- shuddering men that falter and shrink so +To look on death, -- what were the days we live, +Where life is half a struggle to forgive, +But for the love that finds us when we go? +Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw +Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive +For some vague end that never shall arrive? +And is He not yet weary of the show? + +Think of it, all ye millions that have planned, +And only planned, the largess of hard youth! +Think of it, all ye builders on the sand, +Whose works are down! -- Is love so small, forsooth? +Be brave! To-morrow you will understand +The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth! + + + + +Zola + + + +Because he puts the compromising chart +Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; +Because he counts the price that you have paid +For innocence, and counts it from the start, +You loathe him. But he sees the human heart +Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed +Your squeamish and emasculate crusade +Against the grim dominion of his art. + +Never until we conquer the uncouth +Connivings of our shamed indifference +(We call it Christian faith!) are we to scan +The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth +To find, in hate's polluted self-defence +Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man. + + + + +The Pity of the Leaves + + + +Vengeful across the cold November moors, +Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak +Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek, +Reverberant through lonely corridors. +The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce, +Words out of lips that were no more to speak -- +Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek +Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors. + +And then there were the leaves that plagued him so! +The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside +Skipped with a freezing whisper. Now and then +They stopped, and stayed there -- just to let him know +How dead they were; but if the old man cried, +They fluttered off like withered souls of men. + + + + +Aaron Stark + + + +Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- +Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. +A miser was he, with a miser's nose, +And eyes like little dollars in the dark. +His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; +And when he spoke there came like sullen blows +Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, +As if a cur were chary of its bark. + +Glad for the murmur of his hard renown, +Year after year he shambled through the town, -- +A loveless exile moving with a staff; +And oftentimes there crept into his ears +A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, -- +And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh. + + + + +The Garden + + + +There is a fenceless garden overgrown +With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves; +And once, among the roses and the sheaves, +The Gardener and I were there alone. +He led me to the plot where I had thrown +The fennel of my days on wasted ground, +And in that riot of sad weeds I found +The fruitage of a life that was my own. + +My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed! +And there were all the lives of humankind; +And they were like a book that I could read, +Whose every leaf, miraculously signed, +Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed, +Love-rooted in God's garden of the mind. + + + + +Cliff Klingenhagen + + + +Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine +With him one day; and after soup and meat, +And all the other things there were to eat, +Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine +And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign +For me to choose at all, he took the draught +Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed +It off, and said the other one was mine. + +And when I asked him what the deuce he meant +By doing that, he only looked at me +And grinned, and said it was a way of his. +And though I know the fellow, I have spent +Long time a-wondering when I shall be +As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is. + + + + +Charles Carville's Eyes + + + +A melancholy face Charles Carville had, +But not so melancholy as it seemed, -- +When once you knew him, -- for his mouth redeemed +His insufficient eyes, forever sad: +In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, -- +Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; +His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, +His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad. + +He never was a fellow that said much, +And half of what he did say was not heard +By many of us: we were out of touch +With all his whims and all his theories +Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his +Might speak them. Then we heard them, every word. + + + + +The Dead Village + + + +Here there is death. But even here, they say, -- +Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon +As desolate as ever the dead moon +Did glimmer on dead Sardis, -- men were gay; +And there were little children here to play, +With small soft hands that once did keep in tune +The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon +The change came, and the music passed away. + +Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things, -- +No life, no love, no children, and no men; +And over the forgotten place there clings +The strange and unrememberable light +That is in dreams. The music failed, and then +God frowned, and shut the village from His sight. + + + + +Boston + + + +My northern pines are good enough for me, +But there's a town my memory uprears -- +A town that always like a friend appears, +And always in the sunrise by the sea. +And over it, somehow, there seems to be +A downward flash of something new and fierce, +That ever strives to clear, but never clears +The dimness of a charmed antiquity. + + + + +Two Sonnets + + + + I + + +Just as I wonder at the twofold screen +Of twisted innocence that you would plait +For eyes that uncourageously await +The coming of a kingdom that has been, +So do I wonder what God's love can mean +To you that all so strangely estimate +The purpose and the consequent estate +Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen. + +No, I have not your backward faith to shrink +Lone-faring from the doorway of God's home +To find Him in the names of buried men; +Nor your ingenious recreance to think +We cherish, in the life that is to come, +The scattered features of dead friends again. + + + + II + + +Never until our souls are strong enough +To plunge into the crater of the Scheme -- +Triumphant in the flash there to redeem +Love's handsel and forevermore to slough, +Like cerements at a played-out masque, the rough +And reptile skins of us whereon we set +The stigma of scared years -- are we to get +Where atoms and the ages are one stuff. + +Nor ever shall we know the cursed waste +Of life in the beneficence divine +Of starlight and of sunlight and soul-shine +That we have squandered in sin's frail distress, +Till we have drunk, and trembled at the taste, +The mead of Thought's prophetic endlessness. + + + + +The Clerks + + + +I did not think that I should find them there +When I came back again; but there they stood, +As in the days they dreamed of when young blood +Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. +Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, -- +And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood +About them; but the men were just as good, +And just as human as they ever were. + +And you that ache so much to be sublime, +And you that feed yourselves with your descent, +What comes of all your visions and your fears? +Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, +Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, +Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. + + + + +Fleming Helphenstine + + + +At first I thought there was a superfine +Persuasion in his face; but the free glow +That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!" +Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. +He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, +But be that as it may; -- I only know +He talked of this and that and So-and-So, +And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. + +But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, +And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed +With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince: +Then, with a wordless clogged apology +That sounded half confused and half amazed, +He dodged, -- and I have never seen him since. + + + + +For a Book by Thomas Hardy + + + +With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways, +I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near, +Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, +Twisting and turning in a bootless chase, -- +When, like an exile given by God's grace +To feel once more a human atmosphere, +I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, +Flung from a singing river's endless race. + +Then, through a magic twilight from below, +I heard its grand sad song as in a dream: +Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe +It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam, +Across the music of its onward flow +I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam. + + + + +Thomas Hood + + + +The man who cloaked his bitterness within +This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries, +God never gave to look with common eyes +Upon a world of anguish and of sin: +His brother was the branded man of Lynn; +And there are woven with his jollities +The nameless and eternal tragedies +That render hope and hopelessness akin. + +We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel +A still chord sorrow-swept, -- a weird unrest; +And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal, +As if the very ghost of mirth were dead -- +As if the joys of time to dreams had fled, +Or sailed away with Ines to the West. + + + + +The Miracle + + + +"Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead, +And you shall see no more this face of mine, +Let nothing but red roses be the sign +Of the white life I lost for him," she said; +"No, do not curse him, -- pity him instead; +Forgive him! -- forgive me! . . God's anodyne +For human hate is pity; and the wine +That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read +Love's message in love's murder, and I die." +And so they laid her just where she would lie, -- +Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell; +But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, +And spring came, -- lo, from every bud's green shell +Burst a white blossom. -- Can love reason why? + + + + +Horace to Leuconoe + + + +I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore +With unpermitted eyes on what may be +Appointed by the gods for you and me, +Nor on Chaldean figures any more. +'T were infinitely better to implore +The present only: -- whether Jove decree +More winters yet to come, or whether he +Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore +Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last -- +Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill +Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, +The envious close of time is narrowing; -- +So seize the day, -- or ever it be past, -- +And let the morrow come for what it will. + + + + +Reuben Bright + + + +Because he was a butcher and thereby +Did earn an honest living (and did right), +I would not have you think that Reuben Bright +Was any more a brute than you or I; +For when they told him that his wife must die, +He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, +And cried like a great baby half that night, +And made the women cry to see him cry. + +And after she was dead, and he had paid +The singers and the sexton and the rest, +He packed a lot of things that she had made +Most mournfully away in an old chest +Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs +In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house. + + + + +The Altar + + + +Alone, remote, nor witting where I went, +I found an altar builded in a dream -- +A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam +So swift, so searching, and so eloquent +Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent +With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme +Unending impulse to that human stream +Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent. + +Alas! I said, -- the world is in the wrong. +But the same quenchless fever of unrest +That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng +Thrilled me, and I awoke . . . and was the same +Bewildered insect plunging for the flame +That burns, and must burn somehow for the best. + + + + +The Tavern + + + +Whenever I go by there nowadays +And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass, +The torn blue curtains and the broken glass, +I seem to be afraid of the old place; +And something stiffens up and down my face, +For all the world as if I saw the ghost +Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host, +With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze. + +The Tavern has a story, but no man +Can tell us what it is. We only know +That once long after midnight, years ago, +A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town, +Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran +That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown. + + + + +Sonnet + + + +Oh for a poet -- for a beacon bright +To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray; +To spirit back the Muses, long astray, +And flush Parnassus with a newer light; +To put these little sonnet-men to flight +Who fashion, in a shrewd, mechanic way, +Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, +To vanish in irrevocable night. + +What does it mean, this barren age of ours? +Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, +The seasons, and the sunset, as before. +What does it mean? Shall not one bard arise +To wrench one banner from the western skies, +And mark it with his name forevermore? + + + + +George Crabbe + + + +Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, +Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will, -- +But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still +With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. +In spite of all fine science disavows, +Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill +There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, +Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. + +Whether or not we read him, we can feel +From time to time the vigor of his name +Against us like a finger for the shame +And emptiness of what our souls reveal +In books that are as altars where we kneel +To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. + + + + +Credo + + + +I cannot find my way: there is no star +In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; +And there is not a whisper in the air +Of any living voice but one so far +That I can hear it only as a bar +Of lost, imperial music, played when fair +And angel fingers wove, and unaware, +Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are. + +No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, +For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, +The black and awful chaos of the night; +For through it all, -- above, beyond it all, -- +I know the far-sent message of the years, +I feel the coming glory of the Light! + + + + +On the Night of a Friend's Wedding + + + +If ever I am old, and all alone, +I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; +For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait +Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown. +The devil only knows what I have done, +But here I am, and here are six or eight +Good friends, who most ingenuously prate +About my songs to such and such a one. + +But everything is all askew to-night, -- +As if the time were come, or almost come, +For their untenanted mirage of me +To lose itself and crumble out of sight, +Like a tall ship that floats above the foam +A little while, and then breaks utterly. + + + + +Sonnet + + + +The master and the slave go hand in hand, +Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave, +And there be kings do sorrowfully crave +The joyance that a scullion may command. +But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand +The mission of his bondage, or the grave +May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save +The perfect word that is the poet's wand! + +The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes +Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones; +But shapes and echoes that are never done +Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes +Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones +The crash of battles that are never won. + + + + +Verlaine + + + +Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers +To touch the covered corpse of him that fled +The uplands for the fens, and rioted +Like a sick satyr with doom's worshippers? +Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse +To tell the story of the life he led. +Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, +And let the worms be its biographers. + +Song sloughs away the sin to find redress +In art's complete remembrance: nothing clings +For long but laurel to the stricken brow +That felt the Muse's finger; nothing less +Than hell's fulfilment of the end of things +Can blot the star that shines on Paris now. + + + + +Sonnet + + + +When we can all so excellently give +The measure of love's wisdom with a blow, -- +Why can we not in turn receive it so, +And end this murmur for the life we live? +And when we do so frantically strive +To win strange faith, why do we shun to know +That in love's elemental over-glow +God's wholeness gleams with light superlative? + +Oh, brother men, if you have eyes at all, +Look at a branch, a bird, a child, a rose, -- +Or anything God ever made that grows, -- +Nor let the smallest vision of it slip, +Till you can read, as on Belshazzar's wall, +The glory of eternal partnership! + + + + +Supremacy + + + +There is a drear and lonely tract of hell +From all the common gloom removed afar: +A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, +Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell. +I walked among them and I knew them well: +Men I had slandered on life's little star +For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar +Upon their brows of woe ineffable. + +But as I went majestic on my way, +Into the dark they vanished, one by one, +Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, +The dream of all my glory was undone, -- +And, with a fool's importunate dismay, +I heard the dead men singing in the sun. + + + + +The Night Before + + + +Look you, Dominie; look you, and listen! +Look in my face, first; search every line there; +Mark every feature, -- chin, lip, and forehead! +Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson +You read there; measure my nose, and tell me +Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie, +Is often the cast of his inward spirit; +So mark mine well. But why do you smile so? +Pity, or what? Is it written all over, +This face of mine, with a brute's confession? +Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars? +Or is it because there is something better -- +A glimmer of good, maybe -- or a shadow +Of something that's followed me down from childhood -- +Followed me all these years and kept me, +Spite of my slips and sins and follies, +Spite of my last red sin, my murder, -- +Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind? +And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie, +The one good man in the world who knows me, -- +My one good friend in a world that mocks me, +Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it +To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying? +Are these things tears? Tears! What! am I frightened? +I, who swore I should go to the scaffold +With big strong steps, and -- No more. I thank you, +But no -- I am all right now! No! -- listen! +I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow +At six o'clock, when the sun is rising. +And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you +But this poor shivering thing before you, +This fluttering wreck of the man God made him, +For God knows what wild reason. Hear me, +And learn from my lips the truth of my story. +There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you, +Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly, -- +But damnably human, -- and you shall hear it. +Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it; +The judge, with his big bald head, never knew it; +And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it. +Once there were three in the world who could tell it; +Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow, -- +You, my friend, and -- But there's the story: -- + +When I was a boy the world was heaven. +I never knew then that the men and the women +Who petted and called me a brave big fellow +Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom -- +Which comes with the years, you know -- soon showed me +The secret of all my glittering childhood, +The broken key to the fairies' castle +That held my life in the fresh, glad season +When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly -- +And yet so swiftly! -- there came the knowledge +That the marvellous life I had lived was my life; +That the glorious world I had loved was my world; +And that every man, and every woman, +And every child was a different being, +Wrought with a different heat, and fired +With passions born of a single spirit; +That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, +Nor my sorrow -- a kind of nameless pity +For something, I knew not what -- their sorrow. +And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, -- +The lesson we suffer the most in learning: +That a happy man is a man forgetful +Of all the torturing ills around him. +When or where I first met the woman +I cherished and made my wife, no matter. +Enough to say that I found her and kept her +Here in my heart with as pure a devotion +As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me +For naming His name in your patient presence; +But I feel my words, and the truth I utter +Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, -- +Not for her face, but for something fairer, +Something diviner, I thought, than beauty: +I loved the spirit -- the human something +That seemed to chime with my own condition, +And make soul-music when we were together; +And we were never apart, from the moment +My eyes flashed into her eyes the message +That swept itself in a quivering answer +Back through my strange lost being. My pulses +Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure +Of this great world grew small and smaller, +Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean +Closed at last in a mist all golden +Around us two. And we stood for a season +Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming +That we were the king and the queen of the fire +That reddened the clouds of love that held us +Blind to the new world soon to be ours -- +Ours to seize and sway. The passion +Of that great love was a nameless passion, +Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, +Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, +Never a whit less pure for its fervor. +The baseness in me (for I was human) +Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing +Was left me then but a soul that mingled +Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered +In fearful triumph. When I consider +That helpless love and the cursed folly +That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman +Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage +(Whatever the word may mean), I wonder +If all the woe was her sin, or whether +The chains themselves were enough to lead her +In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners +And saints -- I say -- are rocked in the cradle, +But never are known till the will within them +Speaks in its own good time. So I foster +Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, +Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling +Of still regret; for the man -- But hear me, +And judge for yourself: -- + + For a time the seasons +Changed and passed in a sweet succession +That seemed to me like an endless music: +Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs +Of God were glad for our love. I fancied +All this, and more than I dare to tell you +To-night, -- yes, more than I dare to remember; +And then -- well, the music stopped. There are moments +In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, -- +Or seems to stop, -- till it comes to cheer them +Again with a larger sound. The curtain +Of life just then is lifted a little +To give to their sight new joys -- new sorrows -- +Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching +The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, +Flushed and alive with a long delusion +That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered +And felt like a knife that awful silence +That comes when the music goes -- forever. +The truth came over my life like a darkness +Over a forest where one man wanders, +Worse than alone. For a time I staggered +And stumbled on with a weak persistence +After the phantom of hope that darted +And dodged like a frightened thing before me, +To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing +Was left me then but the curse of living +And bearing through all my days the fever +And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger, +Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me, +Given me strength to crush my sorrow +With hate for her and the world that praised her -- +To have left her, then and there -- to have conquered +That old false life with a new and a wiser, -- +Such things are easy in words. You listen, +And frown, I suppose, that I never mention +That beautiful word, FORGIVE! -- I forgave her +First of all; and I praised kind Heaven +That I was a brave, clean man to do it; +And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness! +What does it mean when the one forgiven +Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses +The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him +A thousand things of a good man's mercy, +And then slips off with a laugh and plunges +Back to the sin she has quit for a season, +To tell him that hell and the world are better +For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me, +The love that dies ere its flames are wasted +In search of an alien soul is better, +Better by far than the lonely passion +That burns back into the heart that feeds it. +For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me, -- +Fooled with her endless pleading promise +Of future faith, -- the more I believed her +The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger +Her choking arms and her small hot kisses +Bound me and burned my brain to pity, +The more she grew to the heavenly creature +That brightened the life I had lost forever. +The truth was gone somehow for the moment; +The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied +We were again like gods together, +Loving again with the old glad rapture. +But scenes like these, too often repeated, +Failed at last, and her guile was wasted. +I made an end of her shrewd caresses +And told her a few straight words. She took them +Full at their worth -- and the farce was over. + . . . . . +At first my dreams of the past upheld me, +But they were a short support: the present +Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission +Of life (whatever it was) was blasted; +My game was lost. And I met the winner +Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers +His painful strength at the sight of his master; +And when he was past I cursed him, fearful +Of that strange chance which makes us mighty +Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated +The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed +His easy march with a backward envy, +And cursed myself for the beast within me. +But pride is the master of love, and the vision +Of those old days grew faint and fainter: +The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered +Was nothing now but a woman, -- a woman +Out of my way and out of my nature. +My battle with blinded love was over, +My battle with aching pride beginning. +If I was the loser at first, I wonder +If I am the winner now! . . . I doubt it. +My life is a losing game; and to-morrow -- +To-morrow! -- Christ! did I say to-morrow? . . . +Is your brandy good for death? . . . There, -- listen: -- + +When love goes out, and a man is driven +To shun mankind for the scars that make him +A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries +A double burden. The woes I suffered +After that hard betrayal made me +Pity, at first, all breathing creatures +On this bewildered earth. I studied +Their faces and made for myself the story +Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers +And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished +A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy +Between those people and me. But somehow, +As time went on, there came queer glances +Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me +Harassed my pride with a crazed impression +That every face in the surging city +Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers, +Now and then, as I walked and wearied +My wasted life twice over in bearing +With all my sorrow the sorrows of others, -- +Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled, -- +A poor scared thing, -- and their prying faces +Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing +At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it -- +That laughter! And then the children caught it; +And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened. +And then when I met the man who had weakened +A woman's love to his own desire, +It seemed to me that all hell were laughing +In fiendish concert! I was their victim -- +And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle! +As long as the earth we tread holds something +A tortured heart can love, the meaning +Of life is not wholly blurred; but after +The last loved thing in the world has left us, +We know the triumph of hate. The glory +Of good goes out forever; the beacon +Of sin is the light that leads us downward -- +Down to the fiery end. The road runs +Right through hell; and the souls that follow +The cursed ways where its windings lead them +Suffer enough, I say, to merit +All grace that a God can give. -- The fashion +Of our belief is to lift all beings +Born for a life that knows no struggle +In sin's tight snares to eternal glory -- +All apart from the branded millions +Who carry through life their faces graven +With sure brute scars that tell the story +Of their foul, fated passions. Science +Has yet no salve to smooth or soften +The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage; +No drug to purge from the vital essence +Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue +May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted +And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger +Never is known till there comes that battle +With sin to prove the victor. Perilous +Things are these demons we call our passions: +Slaves are we of their roving fancies, +Fools of their devilish glee. -- You think me, +I know, in this maundering way designing +To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it +Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me! +I'm partly a man, -- for all my weakness, -- +If weakness it were to stand and murder +Before men's eyes the man who had murdered +Me, and driven my burning forehead +With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me! +And try to believe my words but a portion +Of what God's purpose made me! The coward +Within me cries for this; and I beg you +Now, as I come to the end, to remember +That women and men are on earth to travel +All on a different road. Hereafter +The roads may meet. . . . I trust in something -- +I know not what. . . . + + Well, this was the way of it: -- +Stung with the shame and the secret fury +That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance +Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered +Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy, +Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him, +And laughed at the love that strove to touch me, -- +The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon +Close to my breast, and held him, praising +The fates and the furies that gave me the courage +To follow his wild command. Forgetful +Of all to come when the work was over, -- +There came to me then no stony vision +Of these three hundred days, -- I cherished +An awful joy in my brain. I pondered +And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried +In life to think that I was to conquer +Death at his own dark door, -- and chuckled +To think of it done so cleanly. One evening +I knew that my time had come. I shuddered +A little, but rather for doubt than terror, +And followed him, -- led by the nameless devil +I worshipped and called my brother. The city +Shone like a dream that night; the windows +Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements +Pulsed and swayed with a warmth -- or something +That seemed so then to my feet -- and thrilled me +With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women +And men, like marvellous things of magic, +Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder, +Sent with a wizard motion. Through it +And over and under it all there sounded +A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened +And laughed again to think of the flower +That grew, blood-red, for me! . . . This fellow +Was one of the popular sort who flourish +Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience +He carried a snug deceit that made him +The man of the time and the place, whatever +The time or the place might be. Were he sounding, +With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose, +Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman +Fooled with his brainless art, or sending +The midnight home with songs and bottles, -- +The cad was there, and his ease forever +Shone with the smooth and slippery polish +That tells the snake. That night he drifted +Into an up-town haunt and ordered -- +Whatever it was -- with a soft assurance +That made me mad as I stood behind him, +Gripping his death, and waited. Coward, +I think, is the name the world has given +To men like me; but I'll swear I never +Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him -- +Yes, in the back, -- I know it, I know it +Now; but what if I do? . . . As I watched him +Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust, +Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted +That things were still; that the walnut tables, +Where men but a moment before were sitting, +Were gone; that a screen of something around me +Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded +Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys +Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors +And glasses behind the bar were lighted +In some strange way, and into my spirit +A thousand shafts of terrible fire +Burned like death, and I fell. The story +Of what came then, you know. + + But tell me, +What does the whole thing mean? What are we, -- +Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets +Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it? +Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation, -- +Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie, +There are times in the lives of us poor devils +When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience +May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us +Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at, -- +And then we fall. And for all who have fallen -- +Even for him -- I hold no malice, +Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy +Than mine must shrive him. -- And I -- I am going +Into the light? -- or into the darkness? +Why do I sit through these sickening hours, +And hope? Good God! are they hours? -- hours? +Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow -- +We two may meet! To-morrow! -- To-morrow! . . . + + + + +Walt Whitman + + + +The master-songs are ended, and the man +That sang them is a name. And so is God +A name; and so is love, and life, and death, +And everything. But we, who are too blind +To read what we have written, or what faith +Has written for us, do not understand: +We only blink, and wonder. + +Last night it was the song that was the man, +But now it is the man that is the song. +We do not hear him very much to-day: +His piercing and eternal cadence rings +Too pure for us -- too powerfully pure, +Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; +But there are some that hear him, and they know +That he shall sing to-morrow for all men, +And that all time shall listen. + +The master-songs are ended? Rather say +No songs are ended that are ever sung, +And that no names are dead names. When we write +Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, +We write them there forever. + + + + +The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" + + + +Ye gods that have a home beyond the world, +Ye that have eyes for all man's agony, +Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen, -- +Look with a just regard, +And with an even grace, +Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king, +Here on a suffering world where men grow old +And wander like sad shadows till, at last, +Out of the flare of life, +Out of the whirl of years, +Into the mist they go, +Into the mist of death. + +O shades of you that loved him long before +The cruel threads of that black sail were spun, +May loyal arms and ancient welcomings +Receive him once again +Who now no longer moves +Here in this flickering dance of changing days, +Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, +And the black master Death is over all, +To chill with his approach, +To level with his touch, +The reigning strength of youth, +The fluttered heart of age. + +Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost -- +Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line! +Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release -- +Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! -- +And thou, the saddest wind +That ever blew from Crete, +Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship! -- +Sing to the western flame, +Sing to the dying foam, +A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be! + +Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, +Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, +Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, +To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore: -- +Whether or not there fell +To the touch of an alien hand +The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, +Better his end had been +To die as an old man dies, -- +But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown is ever a crown. + + + + +The Wilderness + + + +Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, +And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; +There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland +Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. +There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn +Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad +For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, +To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores. + + Come away! come away! you can hear them calling, calling, + Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. + Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, + There's an old song calling us to come! + +Come away! come away! -- for the scenes we leave behind us +Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; +And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, +That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. +The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us, +And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; +But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us +In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. + + Come away! come away! there is nothing now to cheer us -- + Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home: -- + Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, + And a warm hearth waits for us within. + +Come away! come away! -- or the roving-fiend will hold us, +And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring: +There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, +There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. +So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better +For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know: -- +The frost that skips the willow-leaf will again be back to blight it, +And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see. + + Come away! come away! there are dead men all around us -- + Frozen men that mock us with a wild, hard laugh + That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes, + And the long fall wind on the lake. + + + + +Octaves + + + + I + + +To get at the eternal strength of things, +And fearlessly to make strong songs of it, +Is, to my mind, the mission of that man +The world would call a poet. He may sing +But roughly, and withal ungraciously; +But if he touch to life the one right chord +Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake +To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well. + + + + II + + +We thrill too strangely at the master's touch; +We shrink too sadly from the larger self +Which for its own completeness agitates +And undetermines us; we do not feel -- +We dare not feel it yet -- the splendid shame +Of uncreated failure; we forget, +The while we groan, that God's accomplishment +Is always and unfailingly at hand. + + + + III + + +To mortal ears the plainest word may ring +Fantastic and unheard-of, and as false +And out of tune as ever to our own +Did ring the prayers of man-made maniacs; +But if that word be the plain word of Truth, +It leaves an echo that begets itself, +Persistent in itself and of itself, +Regenerate, reiterate, replete. + + + + IV + + +Tumultuously void of a clean scheme +Whereon to build, whereof to formulate, +The legion life that riots in mankind +Goes ever plunging upward, up and down, +Most like some crazy regiment at arms, +Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance, +And ever led resourcelessly along +To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters. + + + + V + + +To me the groaning of world-worshippers +Rings like a lonely music played in hell +By one with art enough to cleave the walls +Of heaven with his cadence, but without +The wisdom or the will to comprehend +The strangeness of his own perversity, +And all without the courage to deny +The profit and the pride of his defeat. + + + + VI + + +While we are drilled in error, we are lost +Alike to truth and usefulness. We think +We are great warriors now, and we can brag +Like Titans; but the world is growing young, +And we, the fools of time, are growing with it: -- +We do not fight to-day, we only die; +We are too proud of death, and too ashamed +Of God, to know enough to be alive. + + + + VII + + +There is one battle-field whereon we fall +Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! +We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves +To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred +By sorrow, and the ministering wheels +Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds +Of human gloom are lost against the gleam +That shines on Thought's impenetrable mail. + + + + VIII + + +When we shall hear no more the cradle-songs +Of ages -- when the timeless hymns of Love +Defeat them and outsound them -- we shall know +The rapture of that large release which all +Right science comprehends; and we shall read, +With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, +That record of All-Soul whereon God writes +In everlasting runes the truth of Him. + + + + IX + + +The guerdon of new childhood is repose: -- +Once he has read the primer of right thought, +A man may claim between two smithy strokes +Beatitude enough to realize +God's parallel completeness in the vague +And incommensurable excellence +That equitably uncreates itself +And makes a whirlwind of the Universe. + + + + X + + +There is no loneliness: -- no matter where +We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends +Forsake us in the seeming, we are all +At one with a complete companionship; +And though forlornly joyless be the ways +We travel, the compensate spirit-gleams +Of Wisdom shaft the darkness here and there, +Like scattered lamps in unfrequented streets. + + + + XI + + +When one that you and I had all but sworn +To be the purest thing God ever made +Bewilders us until at last it seems +An angel has come back restigmatized, -- +Faith wavers, and we wonder what there is +On earth to make us faithful any more, +But never are quite wise enough to know +The wisdom that is in that wonderment. + + + + XII + + +Where does a dead man go? -- The dead man dies; +But the free life that would no longer feed +On fagots of outburned and shattered flesh +Wakes to a thrilled invisible advance, +Unchained (or fettered else) of memory; +And when the dead man goes it seems to me +'T were better for us all to do away +With weeping, and be glad that he is gone. + + + + XIII + + +Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended, +And unremunerative years we search +To get where life begins, and still we groan +Because we do not find the living spark +Where no spark ever was; and thus we die, +Still searching, like poor old astronomers +Who totter off to bed and go to sleep, +To dream of untriangulated stars. + + + + XIV + + +With conscious eyes not yet sincere enough +To pierce the glimmered cloud that fluctuates +Between me and the glorifying light +That screens itself with knowledge, I discern +The searching rays of wisdom that reach through +The mist of shame's infirm credulity, +And infinitely wonder if hard words +Like mine have any message for the dead. + + + + XV + + +I grant you friendship is a royal thing, +But none shall ever know that royalty +For what it is till he has realized +His best friend in himself. 'T is then, perforce, +That man's unfettered faith indemnifies +Of its own conscious freedom the old shame, +And love's revealed infinitude supplants +Of its own wealth and wisdom the old scorn. + + + + XVI + + +Though the sick beast infect us, we are fraught +Forever with indissoluble Truth, +Wherein redress reveals itself divine, +Transitional, transcendent. Grief and loss, +Disease and desolation, are the dreams +Of wasted excellence; and every dream +Has in it something of an ageless fact +That flouts deformity and laughs at years. + + + + XVII + + +We lack the courage to be where we are: -- +We love too much to travel on old roads, +To triumph on old fields; we love too much +To consecrate the magic of dead things, +And yieldingly to linger by long walls +Of ruin, where the ruinous moonlight +That sheds a lying glory on old stones +Befriends us with a wizard's enmity. + + + + XVIII + + +Something as one with eyes that look below +The battle-smoke to glimpse the foeman's charge, +We through the dust of downward years may scan +The onslaught that awaits this idiot world +Where blood pays blood for nothing, and where life +Pays life to madness, till at last the ports +Of gilded helplessness be battered through +By the still crash of salvatory steel. + + + + XIX + + +To you that sit with Sorrow like chained slaves, +And wonder if the night will ever come, +I would say this: The night will never come, +And sorrow is not always. But my words +Are not enough; your eyes are not enough; +The soul itself must insulate the Real, +Or ever you do cherish in this life -- +In this life or in any life -- repose. + + + + XX + + +Like a white wall whereon forever breaks +Unsatisfied the tumult of green seas, +Man's unconjectured godliness rebukes +With its imperial silence the lost waves +Of insufficient grief. This mortal surge +That beats against us now is nothing else +Than plangent ignorance. Truth neither shakes +Nor wavers; but the world shakes, and we shriek. + + + + XXI + + +Nor jewelled phrase nor mere mellifluous rhyme +Reverberates aright, or ever shall, +One cadence of that infinite plain-song +Which is itself all music. Stronger notes +Than any that have ever touched the world +Must ring to tell it -- ring like hammer-blows, +Right-echoed of a chime primordial, +On anvils, in the gleaming of God's forge. + + + + XXII + + +The prophet of dead words defeats himself: +Whoever would acknowledge and include +The foregleam and the glory of the real, +Must work with something else than pen and ink +And painful preparation: he must work +With unseen implements that have no names, +And he must win withal, to do that work, +Good fortitude, clean wisdom, and strong skill. + + + + XXIII + + +To curse the chilled insistence of the dawn +Because the free gleam lingers; to defraud +The constant opportunity that lives +Unchallenged in all sorrow; to forget +For this large prodigality of gold +That larger generosity of thought, -- +These are the fleshly clogs of human greed, +The fundamental blunders of mankind. + + + + XXIV + + +Forebodings are the fiends of Recreance; +The master of the moment, the clean seer +Of ages, too securely scans what is, +Ever to be appalled at what is not; +He sees beyond the groaning borough lines +Of Hell, God's highways gleaming, and he knows +That Love's complete communion is the end +Of anguish to the liberated man. + + + + XXV + + +Here by the windy docks I stand alone, +But yet companioned. There the vessel goes, +And there my friend goes with it; but the wake +That melts and ebbs between that friend and me +Love's earnest is of Life's all-purposeful +And all-triumphant sailing, when the ships +Of Wisdom loose their fretful chains and swing +Forever from the crumbled wharves of Time. + + + + +Two Quatrains + + + + I + + Unity + + +As eons of incalculable strife +Are in the vision of one moment caught, +So are the common, concrete things of life +Divinely shadowed on the walls of Thought. + + + + II + + Paraphrase + + +We shriek to live, but no man ever lives +Till he has rid the ghost of human breath; +We dream to die, but no man ever dies +Till he has quit the road that runs to death. + + + + +Romance + + + + I + + Boys + +We were all boys, and three of us were friends; +And we were more than friends, it seemed to me: -- +Yes, we were more than brothers then, we three. . . . +Brothers? . . . But we were boys, and there it ends. + + + II + + James Wetherell + +We never half believed the stuff +They told about James Wetherell; +We always liked him well enough, +And always tried to use him well; +But now some things have come to light, +And James has vanished from our view, -- +There is n't very much to write, +There is n't very much to do. + + + + +The Torrent + + + +I found a torrent falling in a glen +Where the sun's light shone silvered and leaf-split; +The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it +All made a magic symphony; but when +I thought upon the coming of hard men +To cut those patriarchal trees away, +And turn to gold the silver of that spray, +I shuddered. Yet a gladness now and then +Did wake me to myself till I was glad +In earnest, and was welcoming the time +For screaming saws to sound above the chime +Of idle waters, and for me to know +The jealous visionings that I had had +Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go. + + + + +L'Envoi + + + +Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word, +Now in a voice that thrills eternity, +Ever there comes an onward phrase to me +Of some transcendent music I have heard; +No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered, +No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory, +But a glad strain of some still symphony +That no proud mortal touch has ever stirred. + +There is no music in the world like this, +No character wherewith to set it down, +No kind of instrument to make it sing. +No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is! +And after time and place are overthrown, +God's touch will keep its one chord quivering. + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Children of the Night + + + + diff --git a/old/chnit10.zip b/old/chnit10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c852e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/chnit10.zip |