Songs
Unwind my riddle.
Cruel as hawks the hours fly;
Wounded men seldom come home to die;
The hard waves see an arm flung high;
Scorn hits strong because of a lie;
Yet there exists a mystic tie.
Unwind my riddle.
There was crimson clash of war.
Lands turned black and bare;
Women wept;
Babes ran, wondering.
There came one who understood not these things.
He said: "Why is this?"
Whereupon a million strove to answer him.
There was such intricate clamor of tongues,
That still the reason was not.
I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
"Sir," I addressed him,
"Let me read."
"Child --" he began.
"Sir," I said,
"Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Ay, much."
He smiled
Then he opened the book
And held it before me.
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.
The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that no one has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."
Black riders came from the sea.
There was clang and clang of spear and shield,
And clash and clash of hoof and heel,
Wild shouts and the wave of hair
In the rush upon the wind:
Thus the ride of Sin.
I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
And carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said, "Comrade! Brother!"
In heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.
"What did you do?"
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.
This one stayed a small way behind,
Ashamed.
Presently, God said,
"And what did you do?"
The little blade answered, "O my lord,
Memory is bitter to me,
For, if I did good deeds,
I know not of them."
Then God, in all His splendour,
Arose from His throne,
"O best little blade of grass!" He said.
There was, before me,
Mile upon mile
Of snow, ice, burning sand.
And yet I could look beyond all this,
To a place of infinite beauty;
And I could see the loveliness of her
Who walked in the shade of the trees.
When I gazed,
All was lost
But this place of beauty and her.
When I gazed,
And in my gazing, desired,
Then came again
Mile upon mile
Of snow, ice, burning sand.
Place among the stars,
Soft gardens near the sun,
Keep your distant beauty;
Shed no beams upon my weak heart.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Not your golden days
Nor your silver nights
Can call me to you.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Here I stay and wait.
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."
Now, this is it -
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
A youth in apparel that glittered
Went to walk in a grim forest,
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
"Sir," said this latter,
"I am enchanted, believe me,
To die, thus,
In this medieval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!"
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content.
"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
Often have I been to it,
Even to its highest tower,
From whence the world looks black."
"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom;
Long have I pursued it,
But never have I touched
The hem of its garment."
And I believed the second traveller;
For truth was to me
A breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom.
And never had I touched
The hem of its garment."
Behold, from the land of the farther suns
I returned.
And I was in a reptile-swarming place,
Peopled, otherwise, with grimaces,
Shrouded above in black impenetrableness.
I shrank, loathing,
Sick with it.
And I said to Him,
"What is this?"
He made answer slowly,
"Spirit, this is a world;
This was your home."
Two or three angels
Came near to the earth.
They saw a fat church.
Little black streams of people
Came and went in continually.
And the angels were puzzled
To know why the people went thus,
And why they stayed so long within.
A man saw a ball of gold in the sky;
He climbed for it,
And eventually he achieved it -
It was clay.
Now this is the strange part:
When the man went to the earth
And looked again,
Lo, there was the ball of gold.
Now this is the strange part:
It was a ball of gold.
Ay, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.
On the horizon the peaks assembled;
And as I looked,
The march of the mountains began.
As they marched, they sang,
"Ay! we come! we come!"
The ocean said to me once,
"Look!
Yonder on the shore
Is a woman, weeping.
I have watched her.
Go you and tell her this -
Her lover I have laid
In cool green hall.
There is wealth of golden sand
And pillars, coral-red;
Two white fish stand guard at his bier.
"Tell her this
And more -
That the king of the seas
Weeps too, old, helpless man.
The bustling fates
Heap his hands with corpses
Until he stands like a child
With surplus of toys."
Love walked alone.
The rocks cut her tender feet,
And the brambles tore her fair limbs.
There came a companion to her,
But, alas, he was no help,
For his name was heart's pain.
Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page.
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.
"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."
And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."
I stood musing in a black world,
Not knowing where to direct my feet.
And I saw the quick stream of men
Pouring ceaselessly,
Filled with eager faces,
A torrent of desire.
I called to them,
"Where do you go? what do you see?"
A thousand voices called to me.
A thousand fingers pointed.
"Look! look! There!"
I know not of it.
But, lo! in the far sky shone a radiance
Ineffable, divine -
A vision painted upon a pall;
And sometimes it was,
And sometimes it was not.
I hesitated.
Then from the stream
Came roaring voices,
Impatient:
"Look! look! There!"
So again I saw,
And leaped, unhesitant,
And struggled and fumed
With outspread clutching fingers.
The hard hills tore at my flesh;
The ways bit my feet.
At last I looked again,
No radiance in the far sky,
Ineffable, divine;
No vision painted upon a pall;
And always my eyes ached for the light.
Then I cried in despair,
"I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?"
The torrent turned again its faces:
"Look! look! There!"
And at the blindness of my spirit
They screamed,
"Fool! fool! fool!"
A man went before a strange God -
The God of many men, sadly wise.
And the Deity thundered loudly,
Fat with rage, and puffing,
"Kneel, mortal, and cringe
And grovel and do homage
To My Particularily Sublime Majesty."
The man fled.
Then the man went to another God -
The God of his inner thoughts.
And this one looked at him
With soft eyes
Lit with infinite comprehension,
And said, "My poor child!"
God lay dead in heaven;
Angels sang the hymn of the end;
Purple winds went moaning,
Their wings drip-dripping
With blood
That fell upon the earth.
It, groaning thing,
Turned black and sank.
Then from the far caverns
Of dead sins
Came monsters, livid with desire.
They fought,
Wrangled over the world,
A morsel.
But of all sadness this was sad -
A woman's arms tried to shield
The head of a sleeping man
From the jaws of the final beast.
There was a man with tongue of wood
Who essayed to sing,
And in truth it was lamentable.
But there was one who heard
The clip-clapper of this tongue of wood
And knew what the man
Wished to sing,
And with that the singer was content.
In the night In the morning In the evening In the night To the maiden To the sailor, wrecked, On the desert A man said to the universe: There was a land where lived no violets. Ay, workman, make me a dream, The trees in the garden rained flowers. Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Thou art my love, Love, forgive me if I wish you grief, You walk among men He had your picture in his room, Fool, not to know that thy little shoe God give me medals, Now let me crunch you Beware of my friends, The flower I gave thee once Once I saw thee idly rocking Love met me at noonday "It was wrong to do this," said the angel. "Not so," quoth the man
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.
A noise of men at work came across the clear blue miles,
And the little black cities were apparent.
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.
The sea was blue meadow,
Alive with little froth-people
Singing.
The sea was dead gray walls
Superlative in vacancy,
Upon which nevertheless at fateful time
Was written
The grim hatred of nature.
A silence from the moon's deepest valley.
Fire rays fall athwart the robes
Of hooded men, squat and dumb.
Before them, a woman
Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles
And distant thunder of drums,
While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour,
Sleepily fondle her body
Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand.
The snakes whisper softly;
The whispering, whispering snakes,
Dreaming and swaying and staring,
But always whispering, softly whispering.
The wind streams from the lone reaches
Of Arabia, solemn with night.
And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood
Over the robes of the hooded men
Squat and dumb.
Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow,
Circle the throat and the arms of her,
And over the sands serpents move warily
Slow, menacing and submissive,
Swinging to the whistles and drums,
The whispering, whispering snakes,
Dreaming and swaying and staring,
But always whispering, softly whispering.
The dignity of the accursed;
The glory of slavery, despair, death,
Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
A traveller at once demanded: "Why?"
The people told him:
"Once the violets of this place spoke thus:
'Until some woman freely gives her lover
To another woman
We will fight in bloody scuffle.'"
Sadly the people added:
"There are no violets here."
A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight,
Breezes, and flowers.
Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
And - good workman -
And let there be a man walking thereon.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers
Each to himself.
Now there were some
Who gathered great heaps -
Having opportunity and skill -
Until, behold, only chance blossoms
Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor
Ran importantly to the father, crying:
"Pray, come hither!
See this unjust thing in your garden!"
But when the father had surveyed,
He admonished the tutor:
"Not so, small sage!
This thing is just.
For, look you,
Are not they who possess the flowers
Stronger, bolder, shrewder
Than they who have none?
Why should the strong -
The beautiful strong -
Why should they not have the flowers?"
Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground.
"My lord," he said,
"The stars are displaced
By this towering wisdom."
And thou art the peace of sundown.
When the blue shadows soothe,
And the grasses and leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks,
Woe is me.
And thou art a storm
That breaks black along the sky,
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree,
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl -
Woe is me!
And thou art a tinsel thing,
And I in my play
Broke thee easily,
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow -
Woe is me.
And thou art a weary violet,
Drooping from sun-caresses,
Answering mine carelessly -
Woe is me.
And thou art the ashes of other men's love,
And I bury my face in these ashes,
And I love them -
Woe is me.
And thou art the beard
On another man's face -
Woe is me.
And thou art a temple,
And in this temple is an altar,
And on this altar is my heart -
Woe is me.
And thou art a wretch.
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,
For I am come to where I know your lies as truth
And your truth as lies -
Woe is me.
And thou art a priestess,
And in thy hand is a bloody dagger,
And my doom comes to me surely -
Woe is me.
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,
And I love thee -
Woe is me.
And I doubt thee.
And if peace came with thy murder
Then would I murder -
Woe is me.
And thou art death,
Ay, thou art death
Black and yet black,
But I love thee,
I love thee -
Woe, welcome woe, to me.
For in your grief
You huddle to my breast,
And for it
Would I pay the price of your grief.
And all men do not surrender,
And thus I understand
That love reaches his hand
In mercy to me.
A scurvy traitor picture,
And he smiled
- Merely a fat complacence of men who know fine women -
And thus I divided with him
A part of my love.
Can make men weep!
- Some men weep.
I weep and I gnash,
And I love the little shoe,
The little, little shoe.
God give me loud honours,
That I may strut before you, sweetheart,
And be worthy of -
The love I bear you.
With the full weight of affrighted love.
I doubted you
- I doubted you -
And in this short doubting
My love grew like a genie
For my further undoing.
Be not in speech too civil,
For in all courtesy
My weak heart sees spectres,
Mists of desire
Arising from the lips of my chosen;
Be not civil.
Was incident to a stride,
A detail of a gesture,
But search those pale petals
And see engraven thereon
A record of my intention.
- Idly rocking -
And chattering girlishly to other girls,
Bell-voiced, happy,
Careless with the stout heart of unscarred womanhood,
And life to thee was all light melody.
I thought of the great storms of love as I knew it.
Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my open sorrow,
I thought of the thunders that lived in my head,
And I wished to be an ogre,
And hale and haul my beloved to a castle,
And there use the happy cruel one cruelly,
And make her mourn with my mourning.
- Reckless imp,
To leave his shaded nights
And brave the glare -
And I saw him then plainly
For a bungler,
A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,
Breaking the hearts of brave people
As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,
And I cursed him,
Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,
Into all the silly mazes of his mind,
But in the end
He laughed and pointed to my breast,
Where a heart still beats for thee, beloved.
"You should live like a flower,
Holding malice like a puppy,
Waging war like the lambkin."
Who had no fear of spirits;
"It is only wrong for angels
Who can live like flowers,
Holding malice like the puppies,
Waging war like the lambkins."