A Minor Poet

I am a shell. From me you shall not hear

The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,

The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,

Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.

Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,

A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,

The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,

The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,

Making even Love in music audible,

And earth one glory. I am but a shell

That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;

Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,

A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

The Lover in Hell

Eternally the choking steam goes up

From the black pools of seething oil. . . .

                                   How merry

Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork

From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! -- oh look, look!

They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!

Lord, how he squeals! Stop it . . . it's, well -- indecent!

But funny! . . . See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

. . . Eternally that stifling reek arises,

Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,

Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things

Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands,

Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles

Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick

Man piled to smite the sun. And all around

Are devils. One can laugh . . . but that hunched shape

The face one stone, like those Assyrian kings!

One sees in carvings, watching men flayed red

Horribly laughable in leaps and writhes;

That face -- utterly evil, clouded round

With evil like a smoke -- it turns smiles sour!

. . . And Nero there, the flabby cheeks astrain

And sweating agony . . . long agony . . .

Imperishable, unappeasable

For ever . . . well . . . it droops the mouth. Till I

Look up.

          There's one blue patch no smoke dares touch.

Sky, clear, ineffable, alive with light,

Always the same . . .

                   Before, I never knew

Rest and green peace.

                    She stands there in the sun.

. . . It seems so quaint she should have long gold wings.

I never have got used -- folded across

Her breast, or fluttering with fierce, pure light,

Like shaken steel. Her crown too. Well, it's queer!

And then she never cared much for the harp

On earth. Here, though . . .

                         She is all peace, all quiet,

All passionate desires, the eloquent thunder

Of new, glad suns, shouting aloud for joy,

Over fresh worlds and clean, trampling the air

Like stooping hawks, to the long wind of horns,

Flung from the bastions of Eternity . . .

And she is the low lake, drowsy and gentle,

And good words spoken from the tongues of friends,

And calmness in the evening, and deep thoughts,

Falling like dreams from the stars' solemn mouths.

All these.

           They said she was unfaithful once.

Or I remembered it -- and so, for that,

I lie here, I suppose. Yes, so they said.

You see she is so troubled, looking down,

Sorrowing deeply for my torments. I

Of course, feel nothing while I see her -- save

That sometimes when I think the matter out,

And what earth-people said of us, of her,

It seems as if I must be, here, in heaven,

And she --

           . . . Then I grow proud; and suddenly

There comes a splatter of oil against my skin,

Hurting this time. And I forget my pride:

And my face writhes.

                       Some day the little ladder

Of white words that I build up, up, to her

May fetch me out. Meanwhile it isn't bad. . . .

But what a sense of humor God must have!

Winged Man

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,

The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,

The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,

Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.

There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,

The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.

His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,

A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.

Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,

Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,

And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,

But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.

He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,

Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,

Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,

With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.

Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,

On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,

Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.

Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,

And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,

As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.

Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,

And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves

In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.

Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,

Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,

See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.

You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,

Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,

Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.

On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,

In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death

Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.

Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear

Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,

Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!

Music

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool

A little higher; left his pipe to cool;

Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;

And propped it open.

                      Whitely without rest,

His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,

. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,

Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,

An army stormed the bastions of the air!

Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,

Marching together as the lightnings march,

And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars

Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars

Above the screaming horns. In state they passed,

Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast --

Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,

The flame, the noble pageant of our life!

The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture

To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;

Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,

And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;

That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,

From the loose net of words to deeds again

And to all courage! Perilous and sharp

The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!

. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,

"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.

The Innovator

I said, "Why should a pyramid

Stand always dully on its base?

I'll change it! Let the top be hid,

The bottom take the apex-place!"

And as I bade they did.

The people flocked in, scores on scores,

To see it balance on its tip.

They praised me with the praise that bores,

My godlike mind on every lip.

-- Until it fell, of course.

And then they took my body out

From my crushed palace, mad with rage,

-- Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt --

Their crazy anger to assuage

By dragging it about.

The end? Foul birds defile my skull.

The new king's praises fill the land.

He clings to precept, simple, dull;

HIS pyramids on bases stand.

But -- Lord, how usual!

Love in Twilight

There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips

Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom

Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --

And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,

As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;

Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,

Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round

To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.

Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,

And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast

Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,

Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.

I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.

I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.

Only the rustle of flames like a broken song

That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.

One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,

While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.

And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky

Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!

The Fiddling Wood

Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,

Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked

Over the rough crest of the hairy wood

In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,

Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ

The trees with magic. All the wood was still --

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples

Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,

Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth --

Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose

That crouching log there, where the white light stipples

Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" --

I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled,

Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred

The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled

Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger!

And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.

His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.

And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly --

He swept his beaver in a rush of wings!

Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,

Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,

Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny,

He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon

Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini

They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips hard on

A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted.

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,

From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster,

Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,

The music wailed unutterable disaster;

Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,

Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away

Upon one minor chord, and was resumed

In anguish; fell again to a low cry,

Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,

Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,

Hurling mad, broken legions down to die

Through everlasting hells -- The tears were salt

Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind

The fury of the player, all the trees

Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind,

Sweeping mad bows to music without fault,

Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune

Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust

Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim --

Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust --

Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim,

Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!

Portrait of a Boy

After the whipping he crawled into bed,

Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.

How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!

He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping

A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before

In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,

Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor

Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light

Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth

Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,

The crooked constellations of the South;

Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,

The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.

Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,

Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold

Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,

Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,

A black chest bore the skull and bones in white

Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,

Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,

Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,

The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.

"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"

Portrait of a Baby

He lay within a warm, soft world

Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled,

Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,

Wave upon wave that broke and whirled

To vanish in the grey-green gloom,

Perspectiveless and shadowy.

A bulging world that had no walls,

A flowing world, most like the sea,

Compassing all infinity

Within a shapeless, ebbing room,

An endless tide that swells and falls . . .

He slept and woke and slept again.

As a veil drops Time dropped away;

Space grew a toy for children's play,

Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense --

He lay in naked impotence;

Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls

Heavily up brown, light-baked walls,

To fall in wreck, her task undone,

Yet somehow striving toward the sun.

So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter,

Shut in the old way of the fighter,

His feet curled up to grip the ground,

His muscles tautened for a bound;

And though he felt, and felt alone,

Strange brightness stirred him to the bone,

Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep

Buried the hope, the call, the leap;

A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark.

He was absorbed into the dark.

He woke again and felt a surge

Within him, a mysterious urge

That grew one hungry flame of passion;

The whole world altered shape and fashion.

Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn,

He scourged the heavens with his scorn,

Lifting a bitter voice to cry

Against the eternal treachery --

Till, suddenly, he found the breast,

And ceased, and all things were at rest,

The earth grew one warm languid sea

And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept

Throughout him. He was quenched and slept.

So, while the moon made broad her ring,

He slept and cried and was a king.

So, worthily, he acted o'er

The endless miracle once more.

Facing immense adventures daily,

He strove still onward, weeping, gaily,

Conquered or fled from them, but grew

As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do.

Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect.

He gripped the air and stood erect

And splendid. With immortal rage

He entered on man's heritage!

The General Public

"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"

The old man said. A dry smile creased his face

With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!

That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?

The time that I remember best is this --

A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,

And all the trees were harried by cold rain

That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,

Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist

Over the school. The walks were like blurred glass.

The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh

Against the deepening darkness of the sky;

And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,

Filling the space about with golden motes,

And making all things larger than they were.

One yellow halo hung above a door,

That gave on a black passage. Round about

Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,

Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea,

With shouting faces, turned a pasty white

By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods,

Or slimy balls of mud. A few gripped stones.

And there, his back against the battered door,

His pile of books scattered about his feet,

Stood Shelley while two others held him fast,

And the clods beat upon him. `Shelley! Shelley!'

The high shouts rang through all the corridors,

`Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!'

And all the crowd dug madly at the earth,

Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud,

And fouled each other and themselves. And still

Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame

Set in some white, still room; for all his face

Was white, a whiteness like no human color,

But white and dreadful as consuming fire.

His hands shook now and then, like slender cords

Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.

So I saw Shelley plain."

                        "And you?" I said.

"I? I threw straighter than the most of them,

And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least

Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."

Road and Hills

I shall go away

To the brown hills, the quiet ones,

The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,

Sun-fired and drowsy!

My horse snuffs delicately

At the strange wind;

He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs tramp the dust.

The road winds, straightens,

Slashes a marsh,

Shoulders out a bridge,

Then --

Again the hills.

Unchanged, innumerable,

Bowing huge, round backs;

Holding secret, immense converse:

In gusty voices,

Fruitful, fecund, toiling

Like yoked black oxen.

The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts

And vanish

In the intense blue.

My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.

A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.

The immensity, the spaces,

Are like the spaces

Between star and star.

The hills sleep.

If I put my hand on one,

I would feel the vast heave of its breath.

I would start away before it awakened

And shook the world from its shoulders.

A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.

The hills open

To show a slope of poppies,

Ardent, noble, heroic,

A flare, a great flame of orange;

Giving sleepy, brittle scent

That stings the lungs.

A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,

answering Beauty's voice . . .

The horse whinnies. I dismount

And tie him to the grey worn fence.

I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;

And climb the rounded breast,

That flows like a sea-wave.

The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from

the flagellating glare.

I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.

My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,

it is like the body of another.

The air blazes. The air is diamond.

Small noises move among the grass . . .

Blackly,

A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane

Seeking the star-road,

Seeking the end . . .

But there is no end.

Here, in this light, there is no end. . . .

Elegy for an Enemy

Say, does that stupid earth

Where they have laid her,

Bind still her sullen mirth,

Mirth which betrayed her?

Do the lush grasses hold,

Greenly and glad,

That brittle-perfect gold

She alone had?

Smugly the common crew,

Over their knitting,

Mourn her -- as butchers do

Sheep-throats they're slitting!

She was my enemy,

One of the best of them.

Would she come back to me,

God damn the rest of them!

Damn them, the flabby, fat,

Sleek little darlings!

We gave them tit for tat,

Snarlings for snarlings!

Squashy pomposities,

Shocked at our violence,

Let not one tactful hiss

Break her new silence!

Maids of antiquity,

Look well upon her;

Ice was her chastity,

Spotless her honor.

Neighbors, with breasts of snow,

Dames of much virtue,

How she could flame and glow!

Lord, how she hurt you!

She was a woman, and

Tender -- at times!

(Delicate was her hand)

One of her crimes!

Hair that strayed elfinly,

Lips red as haws,

You, with the ready lie,

Was that the cause?

Rest you, my enemy,

Slain without fault,

Life smacks but tastelessly

Lacking your salt!

Stuck in a bog whence naught

May catapult me,

Come from the grave, long-sought,

Come and insult me!

WE knew that sugared stuff

Poisoned the other;

Rough as the wind is rough,

Sister and brother!

Breathing the ether clear

Others forlorn have found --

Oh, for that peace austere

She and her scorn have found!

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