American Poetry, 1922 Part 13

PRAYERS FOR WIND

Let the winds come, And bury our feet in the sands of seven deserts; Let strong breezes rise, Was.h.i.+ng our ears with the far-off sounds of the foam.

Let there be between our faces Green turf and a branch or two of back-tossed trees; Set firmly over questioning hearts The deep unquenchable answer of the wind.

IMPROMPTU

My mind is a puddle in the street reflecting green Sirius; In thick dark groves trees huddle lifting their branches like beckoning hands.

We eat the grain, the grain is death, all goes back to the earth's dark ma.s.s, All but a song which moves across the plain like the wind's deep-muttering breath.

Bowed down upon the earth, man sets his plants and watches for the seed, Though he be part of the tragic pageant of the sky, no heaven will aid his mortal need.

I find flame in the dust, a word once uttered that will stir again, And a wine-cup reflecting Sirius in the water held in my hands.

CHINESE POET AMONG BARBARIANS

The rain drives, drives endlessly, Heavy threads of rain; The wind beats at the shutters, The surf drums on the sh.o.r.e; Drunken telegraph poles lean sideways; Dank summer cottages gloom hopelessly; Bleak factory-chimneys are etched on the filmy distance, Tepid with rain.

It seems I have lived for a hundred years Among these things; And it is useless for me now to make complaint against them.

For I know I shall never escape from this dull barbarian country, Where there is none now left to lift a cool jade winecup, Or share with me a single human thought.

SNOWY MOUNTAINS

Higher and still more high, Palaces made for cloud, Above the dingy city-roofs Blue-white like angels with broad wings, Pillars of the sky at rest The mountains from the great plateau Uprise.

But the world heeds them not; They have been here now for too long a time.

The world makes war on them, Tunnels their granite cliffs, Splits down their s.h.i.+ning sides, Plasters their cliffs with soap-advertis.e.m.e.nts, Destroys the lonely fragments of their peace.

Vaster and still more vast, Peak after peak, pile after pile, Wilderness still untamed, To which the future is as was the past, Barrier spread by G.o.ds, Sunning their s.h.i.+ning foreheads, Barrier broken down by those who do not need The joy of time-resisting storm-worn stone, The mountains swing along The south horizon of the sky; Welcoming with wide floors of blue-green ice The mists that dance and drive before the sun.

THE FUTURE

After ten thousand centuries have gone, Man will ascend the last long pa.s.s to know That all the summits which he saw at dawn Are buried deep in everlasting snow.

Below him endless gloomy valleys, chill, Will wreathe and whirl with fighting cloud, driven by the wind's fierce breath; But on the summit, wind and cloud are still:-- Only the sunlight, and death.

And staggering up to the brink of the gulf man will look down And painfully strive with weak sight to explore The silent gulfs below which the long shadows drown; Through every one of these he pa.s.sed before.

Then since he has no further heights to climb, And naught to witness he has come this endless way, On the wind-bitten ice cap he will wait for the last of time, And watch the crimson sunrays fading of the world's latest day:

And blazing stars will burst upon him there, Dumb in the midnight of his hope and pain, Speeding no answer back to his last prayer, And, if akin to him, akin in vain.

UPON THE HILL

A hundred miles of landscape spread before me like a fan; Hills behind naked hills, bronze light of evening on them shed; How many thousand ages have these summits spied on man?

How many thousand times shall I look on them ere this fire in me is dead?

THE ENDURING

If the autumn ended Ere the birds flew southward, If in the cold with weary throats They vainly strove to sing, Winter would be eternal; Leaf and bush and blossom Would never once more riot In the spring.

If remembrance ended When life and love are gathered, If the world were not living Long after one is gone, Song would not ring, nor sorrow Stand at the door in evening; Life would vanish and slacken, Men would be changed to stone.

But there will be autumn's bounty Dropping upon our weariness, There will be hopes unspoken And joys to haunt us still; There will be dawn and sunset Though we have cast the world away, And the leaves dancing Over the hill.

JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER

OLD MAN

When an old man walks with lowered head And eyes that do not seem to see, I wonder does he ponder on The worm he was or is to be.

Or has he turned his gaze within, Lost to his own vicinity; Erecting in a doubtful dream Frail bridges to Infinity.

TONE PICTURE

(Malipiero: _Impressioni Dal Vero_)