Young Adventure Part 2

"O love, whom I have sought by devious ways; O hidden beauty, naked as a star; You whose bright hair has burned across my days, Making them lamps of praise; O dawn-wind, breathing of Arabia!

"You have I served. Now fire has parched the vine, And Death is on the singers and the song.

No longer are there lips to cling to mine, And the heart wearies of wine, And I am sick, for my desire is long.

"O love, soft-moving, delicate and tender!

In her gold house the pipe calls querulously, They cloud with thin green silks her body slender, They talk to her and tend her; Come, piteous, gentle love, and set me free!"

He ceased -- and, slowly rising o'er the deep, A faint song chimed, grew clearer, till at last A golden horn of light began to creep Where the dumb ripples sweep, Making the sea one splendor where it pa.s.sed.

A golden boat! The bright oars rested soon, And the prow met the sand. The purple veils Misting the cabin fell. Fair as the moon When the morning comes too soon, And all the air is silver in the dales,

A gold-robed princess stepped upon the beach.

The fisher knelt and kissed her garment's hem, And then her lips, and strove at last for speech.

The waters lapped the reach.

"Here thy strength breaks, thy might is nought to stem!"

He cried at last. Speech shook him like a flame: "Yea, though thou plucked the stars from out the sky, Each lovely one would be a withered shame -- Each thou couldst find or name -- To this fire-hearted beauty!" Wearily

The genie heard. A slow smile came like dawn Over his face. "Thy task is done!" he said.

A whirlwind roared, smoke shattered, he was gone; And, like a sudden horn, The moon shone clear, no longer smoked and red.

They pa.s.sed into the boat. The gold oars beat Loudly, then fainter, fainter, till at last Only the quiet waters barely moved Along the whispering sand -- till all the vast Expanse of sea began to shake with heat, And morning brought soft airs, by sailors loved.

And after?... Well...

The shop-bell clangs! Who comes?

Quinine -- I pour the little bitter grains Out upon blue, glazed squares of paper. So.

And all the dusk I shall sit here alone, With many powers in my hands -- ah, see How the blurred labels run on the old jars!

Opium -- and a cruel and sleepy scent, The harsh taste of white poppies; India -- The writhing woods a-crawl with monstrous life, Save where the deodars are set like spears, And a calm pool is mirrored ebony; Opium -- brown and warm and slender-breasted She rises, shaking off the cool black water, And twisting up her hair, that ripples down, A torrent of black water, to her feet; How the drops sparkle in the moonlight! Once I made a rhyme about it, singing softly:

Over Damascus every star Keeps his unchanging course and cold, The dark weighs like an iron bar, The intense and pallid night is old, Dim the moon's scimitar.

Still the lamps blaze within those halls, Where poppies heap the marble vats For girls to tread; the thick air palls; And shadows hang like evil bats About the scented walls.

The girls are many, and they sing; Their white feet fall like flakes of snow, Making a ceaseless murmuring -- Whispers of love, dead long ago, And dear, forgotten Spring.

One alone sings not. Tiredly She sees the white blooms crushed, and smells The heavy scent. They chatter: "See!

White Zira thinks of nothing else But the morn's jollity --

"Then Haroun takes her!" But she dreams, Unhearing, of a certain field Of poppies, cut by many streams, Like lines across a round Turk s.h.i.+eld, Where now the hot sun gleams.

The field whereon they walked that day, And splendor filled her body up, And his; and then the trampled clay, And slow smoke climbing the sky's cup From where the village lay.

And after -- much ache of the wrists, Where the cords irked her -- till she came, The price of many amethysts, Hither. And now the ultimate shame Blew trumpet in the lists.

And so she trod the poppies there, Remembering other poppies, too, And did not seem to see or care.

Without, the first gray drops of dew Sweetened the trembling air.

She trod the poppies. Hours pa.s.sed Until she slept at length -- and Time Dragged his slow sickle. When at last She woke, the moon shone, bright as rime, And night's tide rolled on fast.

She moaned once, knowing everything; Then, bitterer than death, she found The soft handmaidens, in a ring, Come to anoint her, all around, That she might please the king.

Opium -- and the odor dies away, Leaving the air yet heavy -- ca.s.sia -- myrrh -- Bitter and splendid. See, the poisons come, Trooping in squat green vials, blazoned red With grinning skulls: strychnine, a pallid dust Of tiny grains, like bones ground fine; and next The muddy green of a.r.s.enic, all livid, Likest the face of one long dead -- they creep Along the dusty shelf like deadly beetles, Whose fangs are carved with runnels, that the blood May run down easily to the blind mouth That snaps and gapes; and high above them there, My master's pride, a cobwebbed, yellow pot Of honey from Mount Hybla. Do the bees Still moan among the low sweet purple clover, Endlessly many? Still in deep-hushed woods, When the incredible silver of the moon Comes like a living wind through sleep-bowed branches, Still steal dark shapes from the enchanted glens, Which yet are purple with high dreams, and still Fronting that quiet and eternal s.h.i.+eld Which is much more than Peace, does there still stand One sharp black shadow -- and the short, smooth horns Are clear against that disk?

O great Diana!

I, I have praised thee, yet I do not know What moves my mind so strangely, save that once I lay all night upon a thymy hill, And watched the slow clouds pa.s.s like heaped-up foam Across blue marble, till at last no speck Blotted the clear expanse, and the full moon Rose in much light, and all night long I saw Her ordered progress, till, in midmost heaven, There came a terrible silence, and the mice Crept to their holes, the crickets did not chirp, All the small night-sounds stopped -- and clear pure light Rippled like silk over the universe, Most cold and bleak; and yet my heart beat fast, Waiting until the stillness broke. I know not For what I waited -- something very great -- I dared not look up to the sky for fear A brittle crackling should clash suddenly Against the quiet, and a black line creep Across the sky, and widen like a mouth, Until the broken heavens streamed apart, Like torn lost banners, and the immortal fires, Roaring like lions, asked their meat from G.o.d.

I lay there, a black blot upon a s.h.i.+eld Of quivering, watery whiteness. The hush held Until I staggered up and cried aloud, And then it seemed that something far too great For knowledge, and illimitable as G.o.d, Rent the dark sky like lightning, and I fell, And, falling, heard a wild and rus.h.i.+ng wind Of music, and saw lights that blinded me With white, impenetrable swords, and felt A pressure of soft hands upon my lips, Upon my eyelids -- and since then I cough At times, and have strange thoughts about the stars, That some day -- some day -- Come, I must be quick!

My master will be back soon. Let me light Thin blue Arabian pastilles, and sit Like a dead G.o.d incensed by chanting priests, And watch the pungent smoke wreathe up and up, Until he comes -- though he may rage because They cost good money. Then I shall walk home Over the moor. Already the moon climbs Above the world's edge. By the time he comes She will be fully risen. -- There's his step!

II. Miscellaneous.

Rain after a Vaudeville Show

The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother".

Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother; Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush, Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.

I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will.

Cleanness and rapture -- excellence made plain -- The storming, thras.h.i.+ng arrows of the rain!

Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods, Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods, Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky, Cras.h.i.+ng on thirsty panes, on gutters dry, Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air, -- Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flas.h.i.+ng, It smote the soul with a most iron clas.h.i.+ng!...

Like dragons' eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed, Yellow and round and dim-low globes of flame.

And, scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed.

Out of the petty wars, the daily shame, Beauty strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered....

I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered.

Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced, By splendor and by striving and swift haste -- Spring coming in with thunderings and strife -- I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life!

The City Revisited

The grey gulls drift across the bay Softly and still as flakes of snow Against the thinning fog. All day I sat and watched them come and go; And now at last the sun was set, Filling the waves with colored fire Till each seemed like a jewelled spire Thrust up from some drowned city. Soon From peak and cliff and minaret The city's lights began to wink, Each like a friendly word. The moon Began to broaden out her s.h.i.+eld, Spurting with silver. Straight before The brown hills lay like quiet beasts Stretched out beside a well-loved door, And filling earth and sky and field With the calm heaving of their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Nothing was gone, nothing was changed, The smallest wave was unestranged By all the long ache of the years Since last I saw them, blind with tears.

Their welcome like the hills stood fast: And I, I had come home at last.

So I laughed out with them aloud To think that now the sun was broad, And climbing up the iron sky, Where the raw streets stretched sullenly About another room I knew, In a mean house -- and soon there, too, The smith would burst the flimsy door And find me lying on the floor.

Just where I fell the other night, After that breaking wave of pain. -- How they will storm and rage and fight, Servants and mistress, one and all, "No money for the funeral!"