Songs and Satires Part 8

He sits before you silent as Buddha, And then you say This man is Rabelais.

And while you wonder what his stock is, English or Irish, you behold his eyes As big and brown as those desirable crockies With which as boys we used to play.

And then you see the spherical light that lies Just under the iris coloring, Before which everything, Becomes as plain as day.

If you have noticed the rolling jowls And the face that speaks its chief Delight in beer and roast beef Before you have seen his eyes, you see A man of fleshly jollity, Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls To make a show of scowls.

And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls In a humorous way like Fielding or Smollett That turns in a trice to Robert La Follette Or retraces to Thales of Crete, And touches upon Descartes coming back Through the intellectual Zodiac That's something of a feat.

And you see that the eyes are really the man, For the thought of him proliferates This way over to Hindostan, And that way descanting on Yeats.

With a word on Plato's symposium, And a little glimpse of Theocritus, Or something of Bruno's martyrdom, Or what St. Thomas Aquinas meant By a certain line obscure to us.

And then he'll take up Horace's odes Or the Roman civilization; Or a few of the Iliad's episodes, Or the Greek deterioration.

Or skip to a word on the plasmic jelly, Which Benjamin Moore and others think Is the origin of life. Then Sh.e.l.ley Comes in a for a look of understanding.

Or he'll tell you about the orientation Of the ancient dream of Zion.

Or what's the matter with Bryan.

And while the porter is bringing a drink Something into his fancy skips And he talks about the Apocalypse, Or a painter or writer now unknown In France or Germany who will soon Have fame of him through the whole earth blown.

It's not so hard a thing to be wise In the lore of books.

It's a different thing to be all eyes, Like a lighthouse which revolves and looks Over the land and out to sea: And a lighthouse is what he seems to me!

Sitting like Buddha spiritually cool, Young as the light of the sun is young, And taking the even with the odd As a matter of course, and the path he's trod As a path that was good enough.

With a sort of transcendental sense Whose hatred is less than indifference, And a gift of wisdom in love.

And who can say as he cla.s.sifies Men and ages with his eyes With cool detachment: this is dung, And that poor fellow is just a fool.

And say what you will death is a rod.

But I see a light that s.h.i.+nes and s.h.i.+nes And I rather think it's G.o.d.

A STUDY

If your thoughts were as clear as your eyes, And the whole of your heart were true, You were fitter by far for winning-- But then that would not be you.

If your pulse beat time to love As fast as you think and plan, You could kindle a lasting pa.s.sion In the breast of the strongest man.

If you felt as much as you thought, And dreamed what you seem to dream, A world of elysian beauty Your ruined heart would redeem.

If you thought in the light of the sun, Or the blood in your veins flowed free, If you gave your kisses but gladly, We two could better agree.

If you were strong where I counted, And weak where yourself were at stake, You would have my strength for your giving, You would gain and not lose for my sake.

If your heart overruled your head, Or your head were lord of your heart, Or the two were lovingly balanced, I think we never should part.

If you came to me spite of yourself, And staid not away through design, These days of loving and living Were sweet as Olympian wine.

If you could weep with another, And tears for yourself controlled, You could waken and hold to a pity You waken, but do not hold.

If your lips were as fain to speak As your face is fas.h.i.+oned to hide-- You would know that to lay up treasure A woman's heart must confide.

If your bosom were something richer, Or your hands more fragile and thin, You would call what the world calls evil, Or sin and be glad of the sin.

If your soul were aflame with love, Or your head were devoted to truth, You never would toss on your pillow Bewildered 'twixt rapture and ruth.

If you were the you of my dreams, And the you of my dreams were mine, These days, half sweet and half bitter, Would taste like Olympian wine.

Oh, subtle and mystic Egyptians!

Who chiseled the Sphinx in the East, With head and the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of a woman, And body and claws of a beast.

And gave her a marvellous riddle That the eyeless should read as he ran: What crawls and runs and is baffled By woman, the sphinx--but a man?

Many look in her face and are conquered, Where one all her heart has explored; A thousand have made her their sovereign, But one is her sovereign and lord.

For him she leaps from her standard And fawns at his feet in the sand, Who sees that himself is her riddle, And she but the work of his hand.

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN

The pathos in your face is like a peace, It is like resignation or a grace Which smiles at the surcease Of hope. But there is in your face The shadow of pain, and there is a trace Of memory of pain.

I look at you again and again, And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives My search for your despair.

I look at your pale hands--I look at your hair; And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves A flutter of color running under leaves-- Such anguished dreams in your eyes!

And I listen to you speak Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle, Or a star's twinkle.

Sometimes as we talk you rise And leave the room, and then I rub a streak Of a tear from my cheek.

You tell me such magical things Of pictures, books, romance And of your life in France In the varied music of exquisite words, And in a voice that sings.

All things are memory now with you, For poverty girds Your hopes, and only your dreams remain.

And sometimes here and there I see as you turn your head a whitened hair, Even when you are smiling most.

And a light comes in your eyes like a pa.s.sing ghost, And a color runs through your cheeks as fresh As burns in a girl's flesh.

Then I can shut my eyes and feel the pain That has become a part of you, though I feign Laughter myself. One sees another's bruise And shakes his thought out of it shuddering.

So I turn and clamp my will lest I bring Your sorrow into my flesh, who cannot choose But hear your words and laughter, And watch your hands and eyes.

Then as I think you over after I have gone from you, and your face Comes to me with its grace Of memory of unfound love: You seem to me the image of all women Who dream and keep under smiles the grief thereof, Or sew, or sit by windows, or read books To hide their Secret's looks.

And after a time go out of life and leave No uttered words but in their silence grieve For Life and for the things no tongue can tell: Why Life hurts so, and why Love haunts and hurts Poor men and women in this demi-h.e.l.l.

Perhaps your pathos means that it is well Death in his time the aspiring torch inverts, And all tired flesh and haunted eyes and hands Moving in pained whiteness are put under The soothing earth to brighten April's wonder.

IN THE CAGE

The sounds of mid-night trickle into the roar Of morning over the water growing blue.

At ten o'clock the August sunbeams pour A blinding flood on Michigan Avenue.

But yet the half-drawn shades of bottle green Leave the recesses of the room With misty auras drawn around their gloom Where things lie undistinguished, scarcely seen.