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 I broke my life there.  Let it stand
        At that.
                  The waters are a plain,
        Heaving and bright on either hand,
        A tremulous and lustral peace
        Which shall endure though all things cease,
        Filling my heart as water fills
        A cup.  There stand the quiet hills.
        So, waiting for my wings to grow,
        I watch the gulls sail to and fro,
        Rising and falling, soft and swift,
        Drifting along as bubbles drift.
        And, though I see the face of God
        Hereafter -- this day have I trod
        Nearer to Him than I shall tread
        Ever again.  The night is dead.
        And there's the dawn, poured out like wine
        Along the dim horizon-line.
        And from the city comes the chimes --
       
        We have our heaven on earth -- sometimes!
       
       
       
       
        Going Back to School
       
       
       
        The boat ploughed on.  Now Alcatraz was past
        And all the grey waves flamed to red again
        At the dead sun's last glimmer.  Far and vast
        The Sausalito lights burned suddenly
        In little dots and clumps, as if a pen
        Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills;
        The sky was like a cup some rare wine fills,
        And stars came as he watched
                                     -- and he was free
        One splendid instant -- back in the great room,
        Curled in a chair with all of them beside
        And the whole world a rush of happy voices,
        With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . .
        Saw once again the heat of harvest fume
        Up to the empty sky in threads like glass,
        And ran, and was a part of what rejoices
        In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass
        Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze
        Of tiny stems into a new green world;
        Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze
        With clear, dry heat on the brown, rolling fields;
        Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in bed
        Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . .
        The ship slowed, jarred and stopped.  There, straight ahead,
        Were dock and fellows.  Stumbling, he was whirled
        Out and away to meet them -- and his back
        Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack;
        A big boy's arm went round him -- and a twist
        Sent shattering pain along his tortured wrist,
        As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat,
        "Why it's Miss Nancy!  Come along, you rat!"
       
       
       
       
        Nos Immortales
       
       
       
        Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun,
        Into the free companionship of air;
        Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done,
        All's one to me -- I do not greatly care;
        So long as there are brown hills -- and a tree
        Like a mad prophet in a land of dearth --
        And I can lie and hear eternally
        The vast monotonous breathing of the earth.
       
        I have known hours, slow and golden-glowing,
        Lovely with laughter and suffused with light,
        O Lord, in such a time appoint my going,
        When the hands clench, and the cold face grows white,
        And the spark dies within the feeble brain,
        Spilling its star-dust back to dust again.
       
       
       
       
        Young Blood
       
        "But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!"
        The Canon shook his head indulgently.  "Young blood, Cousin," he boomed.
        "Young blood!  Youth will be served!"  -- D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.
       
       
       
        He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth
        And lay there heavily, while dancing motes
        Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams,
        And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes
        So that they could not open fully.  Yet
        After some time his blurred mind stumbled back
        To its last ragged memory -- a room;
        Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling crowd
        Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink
        Out to the street; a crazy rout of cabs;
        The steady mutter of his neighbor's voice,
        Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote;
        And then . . . well, they had brought him home it seemed,
        Since he awoke in bed -- oh, damn the business!
        He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes,
        "One last, great night of freedom ere you're married!"
        "You'll get no fun then!"  "H-ssh, don't tell that story!
        He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down
        To drink till you were sodden! . . .
                                              Like great light
        She came into his thoughts.  That was the worst.
        To wallow in the mud like this because
        His friends were fools. . . .  He was not fit to touch,
        To see, oh far, far off, that silver place
        Where God stood manifest to man in her. . . .
        Fouling himself. . . .  One thing he brought to her,
        At least.  He had been clean; had taken it
        A kind of point of honor from the first . . .
        Others might do it . . . but he didn't care
        For those things. . . .
                                 Suddenly his vision cleared.
        And something seemed to grow within his mind. . . .
        Something was wrong -- the color of the wall --
        The queer shape of the bedposts -- everything
        Was changed, somehow . . . his room.  Was this his room?
       
        . . . He turned his head -- and saw beside him there
        The sagging body's slope, the paint-smeared face,
        And the loose, open mouth, lax and awry,
        The breasts, the bleached and brittle hair . . . these things.
        . . . As if all Hell were crushed to one bright line
        Of lightning for a moment.  Then he sank,
        Prone beneath an intolerable weight.
        And bitter loathing crept up all his limbs.
       
       
       
       
        The Quality of Courage
       
       
       
        Black trees against an orange sky,
        Trees that the wind shook terribly,
        Like a harsh spume along the road,
        Quavering up like withered arms,
        Writhing like streams, like twisted charms
        Of hot lead flung in snow.  Below
        The iron ice stung like a goad,
        Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,
        And all the air was bitter sleet.
       
        And all the land was cramped with snow,
        Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan,
        Like pale plains of obsidian.
        -- And yet I strove -- and I was fire
        And ice -- and fire and ice were one
        In one vast hunger of desire.
        A dim desire, of pleasant places,
        And lush fields in the summer sun,
        And logs aflame, and walls, and faces,
        -- And wine, and old ambrosial talk,
        A golden ball in fountains dancing,
        And unforgotten hands.  (Ah, God,
        I trod them down where I have trod,
        And they remain, and they remain,
        Etched in unutterable pain,
        Loved lips and faces now apart,
        That once were closer than my heart --
        In agony, in agony,
        And horribly a part of me. . . .
        For Lethe is for no man set,
        And in Hell may no man forget.)
       
        And there were flowers, and jugs, bright-glancing,
        And old Italian swords -- and looks,
        A moment's glance of fire, of fire,
        Spiring, leaping, flaming higher,
        Into the intense, the cloudless blue,
        Until two souls were one, and flame,
        And very flesh, and yet the same!
        As if all springs were crushed anew
        Into one globed drop of dew!
        But for the most I thought of heat,
        Desiring greatly. . . .  Hot white sand
        The lazy body lies at rest in,
        Or sun-dried, scented grass to nest in,
        And fires, innumerable fires,
        Great fagots hurling golden gyres
        Of sparks far up, and the red heart
        In sea-coals, crashing as they part
        To tiny flares, and kindling snapping,
        Bunched sticks that burst their string and wrapping
        And fall like jackstraws; green and blue
        The evil flames of driftwood too,
        And heavy, sullen lumps of coke
        With still, fierce heat and ugly smoke. . . .
        . . . And then the vision of his face,
        And theirs, all theirs, came like a sword,
        Thrice, to the heart -- and as I fell
        I thought I saw a light before.
       
        I woke.  My hands were blue and sore,
        Torn on the ice.  I scarcely felt
        The frozen sleet begin to melt
        Upon my face as I breathed deeper,
        But lay there warmly, like a sleeper
        Who shifts his arm once, and moans low,
        And then sinks back to night.  Slow, slow,
        And still as Death, came Sleep and Death
        And looked at me with quiet breath.
        Unbending figures, black and stark
        Against the intense deeps of the dark.
        Tall and like trees.  Like sweet and fire
        Rest crept and crept along my veins,
        Gently.  And there were no more pains. . . .
       
        Was it not better so to lie?
        The fight was done.  Even gods tire
        Of fighting. . . .  My way was the wrong.
        Now I should drift and drift along
        To endless quiet, golden peace . . .
        And let the tortured body cease.
       
        And then a light winked like an eye.
        . . . And very many miles away
        A girl stood at a warm, lit door,
        Holding a lamp.  Ray upon ray
        It cloaked the snow with perfect light.
        And where she was there was no night
        Nor could be, ever.  God is sure,
        And in his hands are things secure.
        It is not given me to trace
        The lovely laughter of that face,
        Like a clear brook most full of light,
        Or olives swaying on a height,
        So silver they have wings, almost;
        Like a great word once known and lost
        And meaning all things.  Nor her voice
        A happy sound where larks rejoice,
        Her body, that great loveliness,
        The tender fashion of her dress,
        I may not paint them.
                               These I see,
        Blazing through all eternity,
        A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!
       
        She stood there, and at once I knew
        The bitter thing that I must do.
        There could be no surrender now;
        Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.
        My way was wrong.  So.  Would it mend
        If I shrank back before the end?
        And sank to death and cowardice?
        No, the last lees must be drained up,
        Base wine from an ignoble cup;
        (Yet not so base as sleek content
        When I had shrunk from punishment)
        The wretched body strain anew!
        Life was a storm to wander through.
        I took the wrong way.  Good and well,
        At least my feet sought out not Hell!
        Though night were one consuming flame
        I must go on for my base aim,
        And so, perhaps, make evil grow
        To something clean by agony . . .
        And reach that light upon the snow . . .
        And touch her dress at last . . .
                                          So, so,
        I crawled.  I could not speak or see
        Save dimly.  The ice glared like fire,
        A long bright Hell of choking cold,
        And each vein was a tautened wire,
        Throbbing with torture -- and I crawled.
        My hands were wounds.
                               So I attained
        The second Hell.  The snow was stained
        I thought, and shook my head at it
        How red it was!  Black tree-roots clutched
        And tore -- and soon the snow was smutched
        Anew; and I lurched babbling on,
        And then fell down to rest a bit,
        And came upon another Hell . . .
        Loose stones that ice made terrible,
        That rolled and gashed men as they fell.
        I stumbled, slipped . . . and all was gone
        That I had gained.  Once more I lay
        Before the long bright Hell of ice.
        And still the light was far away.
        There was red mist before my eyes
        Or I could tell you how I went
        Across the swaying firmament,
        A glittering torture of cold stars,
        And how I fought in Titan wars . . .
        And died . . . and lived again upon
        The rack . . . and how the horses strain
        When their red task is nearly done. . . .
       
        I only know that there was Pain,
        Infinite and eternal Pain.
        And that I fell -- and rose again.
       
        So she was walking in the road.
        And I stood upright like a man,
        Once, and fell blind, and heard her cry . . .
        And then there came long agony.
        There was no pain when I awoke,
        No pain at all.  Rest, like a goad,
        Spurred my eyes open -- and light broke
        Upon them like a million swords:
        And she was there.  There are no words.
       
        Heaven is for a moment's span.
        And ever.
                   So I spoke and said,
        "My honor stands up unbetrayed,
        And I have seen you.  Dear . . ."
                                           Sharp pain
        Closed like a cloak. . . .
                                    I moaned and died.
       
        Here, even here, these things remain.
        I shall draw nearer to her side.
       
        Oh dear and laughing, lost to me,
        Hidden in grey Eternity,
        I shall attain, with burning feet,
        To you and to the mercy-seat!
        The ages crumble down like dust,
        Dark roses, deviously thrust
        And scattered in sweet wine -- but I,
        I shall lift up to you my cry,
        And kiss your wet lips presently
        Beneath the ever-living Tree.
       
        This in my heart I keep for goad!
        Somewhere, in Heaven she walks that road.
        Somewhere . . . in Heaven . . . she walks . . . that . . . road. . . .
       
       
       
       
        Campus Sonnets:
       
       
       
          1.  Before an Examination
       
       
        The little letters dance across the page,
        Flaunt and retire, and trick the tired eyes;
        Sick of the strain, the glaring light, I rise
        Yawning and stretching, full of empty rage
        At the dull maunderings of a long dead sage,
        Fling up the windows, fling aside his lies;
        Choosing to breathe, not stifle and be wise,
        And let the air pour in upon my cage.
       
        The breeze blows cool and there are stars and stars
        Beyond the dark, soft masses of the elms
        That whisper things in windy tones and light.
        They seem to wheel for dim, celestial wars;
        And I -- I hear the clash of silver helms
        Ring icy-clear from the far deeps of night.
       
       
       
          2.  Talk
       
       
        Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
        From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
        Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
        As formless as our talk.  Phil, drawling, bets
        Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
        While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
        Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
        John gives large views about the last few dances.
       
        And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,
        A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
        The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
        Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
        Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --
        Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.
       
       
       
          3.  May Morning
       
       
        I lie stretched out upon the window-seat
        And doze, and read a page or two, and doze,
        And feel the air like water on me close,
        Great waves of sunny air that lip and beat
        With a small noise, monotonous and sweet,
        Against the window -- and the scent of cool,
        Frail flowers by some brown and dew-drenched pool
        Possesses me from drowsy head to feet.
       
        This is the time of all-sufficing laughter
        At idiotic things some one has done,
        And there is neither past nor vague hereafter.
        And all your body stretches in the sun
        And drinks the light in like a liquid thing;
        Filled with the divine languor of late spring.
       
       
       
          4.  Return -- 1917
       
          "The College will reopen Sept. --."  `Catalogue'.
       
       
        I was just aiming at the jagged hole
        Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,
        When something threw me sideways with a wrench,
        And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll
        And disappear . . . and propped against the bole
        Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds
        Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,
        And I was clean again, and young, and whole.
       
        Lord, what a dream that was!  And what a doze
        Waiting for Bill to come along to class!
        I've cut it now -- and he --  Oh, hello, Fred!
        Why, what's the matter? -- here -- don't be an ass,
        Sit down and tell me! --  What do you suppose?
        I dreamed I . . . AM I . . . wounded?  "YOU ARE DEAD."
       
       
       
       
        Alexander VI Dines with the Cardinal of Capua
       
       
       
        Next, then, the peacock, gilt
        With all its feathers.  Look, what gorgeous dyes
        Flow in the eyes!
        And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt
        Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest
        Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!
       
        A strange fowl!  But most fit
        For feasts like this, whereby I honor one
        Pure as the sun!
        Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!
        Some wine?  Your goblet's empty?  Let it foam!
        It is not often that you come to Rome!
       
        You like the Venice glass?
        Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,
        Neck like a girl's,
        Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?
        You start -- 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!
        Ave Maria stella! -- ah, it broke!
       
        'Tis said they break alone
        When poison writhes within.  A foolish tale!
        What, you look pale?
        Caraffa, fetch a silver cup! . . .  You own
        A Birth of Venus, now -- or so I've heard,
        Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.
       
        Also a Dancing Faun,
        Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;
        Globed pearls to please
        A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn --
        How happy I could be with but a tithe
        Of your possessions, fortunate one!  Don't writhe
       
        But take these cushions here!
        Now for the fruit!  Great peaches, satin-skinned,
        Rough tamarind,
        Pomegranates red as lips -- oh they come dear!
        But men like you we feast at any price --
        A plum perhaps?  They're looking rather nice!
       
        I'll cut the thing in half.
        There's yours!  Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife
        One might snuff life
        And leave one's friend with -- "fool" for epitaph!
        An old trick?  Truth!  But when one has the itch
        For pretty things and isn't very rich. . . .
       
        There, eat it all or I'll
        Be angry!  You feel giddy?  Well, it's hot!
        This bergamot
        Take home and smell -- it purges blood of bile!
        And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,
        Think of the poor Pope in his misery!
       
        Now you may kiss my ring!
        Ho there, the Cardinal's litter! --  You must dine
        When the new wine
        Is in, again with me -- hear Bice sing,
        Even admire my frescoes -- though they're nought
        Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!
       
        Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!
        And take a weak man's blessing!  Help him there
        To the cool air! . . .
        Lucrezia here?  You're ready for the ball?
        -- He'll die within ten hours, I suppose --
        MhM!  Kiss your poor old father, little rose!
       
       
       
       
        The Breaking Point
       
       
       
        It was not when temptation came,
        Swiftly and blastingly as flame,
        And seared me white with burning scars;
        When I stood up for age-long wars
        And held the very Fiend at grips;
        When all my mutinous body rose
        To range itself beside my foes,
        And, like a greyhound in the slips,
        The Beast that dwells within me roared,
        Lunging and straining at his cord. . . .
        For all the blusterings of Hell,
        It was not then I slipped and fell;
        For all the storm, for all the hate,
        I kept my soul inviolate!
       
        But when the fight was fought and won,
        And there was Peace as still as Death
        On everything beneath the sun.
        Just as I started to draw breath,
        And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself,
        -- The grass began to whisper things --
        And every tree became an elf,
        That grinned and chuckled counsellings:
        Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said,
        Beating and dinning at my head.
        I could not fly.  I could not shun it.
        Slimily twisting, slow and blind,
        It crept and crept into my mind.
        Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed,
        Screamed out until my brain was daft. . . .
        One snaky word, "WHAT IF YOU'D DONE IT?"
       
        And I began to think . . .
                                   Ah, well,
        What matter how I slipped and fell?
        Or you, you gutter-searcher say!
        Tell where you found me yesterday!
       
       
       
       
        Lonely Burial
       
       
       
        There were not many at that lonely place,
        Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
        The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
        Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race
        Unseen by any.  Toward the further woods
        A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
        -- We were most silent in those solitudes --
        Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,
       
        The clotted earth piled roughly up about
        The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
        Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout
        Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
        Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
        The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.
       
       
       
       
        Dinner in a Quick Lunch Room
       
       
       
        Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
        Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
        Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
        Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
        Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
        Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
        Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
        A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
       
        Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
        Then the green silence of many watercresses;
        Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
        Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
        Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
        And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
       
       
       
       
        The Hemp
       
        (A Virginia Legend.)
       
       
       
          The Planting of the Hemp.
       
       
             Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
              (Black is the gap below the plank)
             From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
              (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).
       
             His fear was on the seaport towns,
             The weight of his hand held hard the downs.
             And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black,
             For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack
             Was all of their ships that might come back.
       
             For all he had one word alone,
             One clod of dirt in their faces thrown,
             "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"
       
             His name bestrode the seas like Death.
             The waters trembled at his breath.
       
             This is the tale of how he fell,
             Of the long sweep and the heavy swell,
             And the rope that dragged him down to hell.
       
        The fight was done, and the gutted ship,
        Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip,
       
        Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame,
        Back to the land from where she came,
        A skimming horror, an eyeless shame.
       
        And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck,
        And saw the sky and saw the wreck.
       
        Below, a butt for sailors' jeers,
        White as the sky when a white squall nears,
        Huddled the crowd of the prisoners.
       
        Over the bridge of the tottering plank,
        Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank,
        They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank,
       
        Pinioned arms and hands bound fast.
        One girl alone was left at last.
       
        Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord.
        He sat in state at the Council board;
        The governors were as nought to him.
        From one rim to the other rim
       
        Of his great plantations, flung out wide
        Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride.
       
        Life and death in his white hands lay,
        And his only daughter stood at bay,
        Trapped like a hare in the toils that day.
       
        He sat at wine in his gold and his lace,
        And far away, in a bloody place,
        Hawk came near, and she covered her face.
       
        He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave,
        And far away his daughter gave
        A shriek that the seas cried out to hear,
        And he could not see and he could not save.
       
        Her white soul withered in the mire
        As paper shrivels up in fire,
        And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth,
        And her body he took for his desire.
       
       
          The Growing of the Hemp.
       
       
        Sir Henry stood in the manor room,
        And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom.
       
        And he said, "Go dig me furrows five
        Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive --
        There at its edge, where the rushes thrive."
       
        And where the furrows rent the ground,
        He sowed the seed of hemp around.
       
        And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid
        At the furrows five that rib the glade,
        And the voodoo work of the master's spade.
       
        For a cold wind blows from the marshland near,
        And white things move, and the night grows drear,
        And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear.
       
             But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean,
             The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen
             Veiled with a tenuous mist of green.
       
        And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees,
        And many men kneel at his knees.
       
        Sir Henry sits in his house alone,
        And his eyes are hard and dull like stone.
       
        And the waves beat, and the winds roar,
        And all things are as they were before.
       
        And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
        And nothing changes but the grass.
       
             But down where the fireflies are like eyes,
             And the damps shudder, and the mists rise,
             The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies.
       
        And down from the poop of the pirate ship
        A body falls, and the great sharks grip.
       
        Innocent, lovely, go in grace!
        At last there is peace upon your face.
       
        And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown,
        "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"
       
        Sir Henry's face is iron to mark,
        And he gazes ever in the dark.
       
        And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
        And the world is as it always was.
       
             But down by the marsh the sickles beam,
             Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam,
             And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream.
       
        And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees,
        Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas.
       
        Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair,
        And white as his hand is grown his hair.
       
        And the days pass, and the weeks pass,
        And the sands roll from the hour-glass.
       
             But down by the marsh in the blazing sun
             The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun,
             The rope made, and the work done.
       
       
          The Using of the Hemp.
       
       
        Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas
         (Black is the gap below the plank)
        From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees
         (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).
       
        He sailed in the broad Atlantic track,
        And the ships that saw him came not back.
       
        And once again, where the wide tides ran,
        He stooped to harry a merchantman.
       
        He bade her stop.  Ten guns spake true
        From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew,
        Lacking his great ship through and through.
   &nbs