Chapter I: Shall Never See You Again 241 (3)

When a man knows he is your diet
A solemn thrill
Shows in great eyes and spirit quiet
For fears that kill;
He is a maelstrom running riot,
At the center still.

Well, Robert Burns: You saw a louse
On a lady crawling.
But one can keep to his own house
Without forestalling
This demon on his death carouse
Breeding and sprawling.

But, Robert Burns, this does not tent
Our pride or tease us;
It is not heaven’s message sent
That virtue frees us.
It shows us hard or penitent
As Nature sees us!

CATO BRADEN

I went to Winston Prairie to attend
The funeral of Cato Braden. He
Had died at fifty-one and I had known him
Since he was twenty-four, but for fifteen
Years or more I had not seen him, nor
Exchanged with him more than a telegraphic
Note about some trivial thing. Indeed
I had not been in Winston Prairie during
These fifteen years.

But on the train I thought
Of Cato Braden, brought back all the days
Through which I knew him, from the very first
When he returned to Winston Prairie from
De Pauw, or was it Valparaiso? Yet
’Twas called a university I remember.
And when I knew him first he kept at hand
De Senectute, also Anthon’s Homer,
And lexicons in Latin and in Greek,
Both unabridged. Sometimes he let me read
The orations he had won the prizes with.
And sometimes he would tell me what it meant
To study at a university.
And what they did and what the boys were like.
This Cato Braden was a happy soul
At twenty-four, of a full noble brow,
A gentle smiling mouth, an honest eye,
A tall and handsome figure, altogether
A man conspicuous for form, a bearing
Of grace and courtliness, engaging ways;
He might be called most lovable, he had
The gift of friendship, was not envious,
Could scarcely be enraged, was not offended
By little things and often not by great.
He had in short a nature fit to work
With great capacity; had he combined
An intellect but half his nature’s worth
He might have won the race. But many thought
He promised much, his father most of all
Because he had these virtues, and in truth
Before his leaves unfolded with the spring
His mind seemed apt, perhaps seemed measured full
Of quality, the prizes he had won
At Valparaiso pointed to the fruit
He would produce at last.

So on the train
I thought of Cato Braden. Then I thought
Of when he came from school with his degree,
And for that summer when he walked the square,
Was whispered of as “Cato Braden, look.”
The first thing Winston Prairie knew it saw
His name conjoined with that of Jerry Ott’s--
It was Ott and Braden, editors and owners,
The Winston Prairie Eagle. Jerry Ott
Was sixty-nine and wheezy from the fight
For Jefferson Democracy, free trade.
Besides the capital that Cato Braden
Brought through his father to the enterprise
Meant bitter war on enemies of truth.
And Cato Braden’s father had some wealth
Made from the making of a vermifuge
And a preposterous compound which he called
Pesodorne; and I have always thought
That Cato Braden’s father garrisoned
His factory for making patent nostrums
By buying for his son this interest,
And place of power in journalism; for
The father’s strong devotion to the church
Did not protect him ’gainst the casual sneers
Of Winston Prairie’s paper called the Lance,
Which used to print such things as this, to instance:
“There’s Braden’s Vermifuge, well, Doctor Braden,
Try your own vermifuge, let’s see it work.”

Well, anyway I know that Cato Braden
Intended to pursue a legal course,
And practice the profession in a city.
I know his father bought for him this place
With Jerry Ott as editor of the Eagle.
I know he went to work. I know he changed
The paper’s motto from “Hew to the line,”
To _Principia non homines_. I know
He used to sing “Over the Garden Wall,”
While writing editorials and smoked
A number of cheroots. I know he had
A locked drawer where he kept a secret bottle
From which he’d take a drink at noon or night.
I know he was on terms of friendship with
The milliner and dressmaker in a month
After he came from Valparaiso. Yes,
I know he advocated a gymnasium,
And dancing hall for Winston Prairie, and
He opened up a fight to get a park
Where concerts might be given. Cato Braden
Had these ideas at least. About this park
A word remains to say.

Fernando Winston,
Who founded Winston Prairie and surveyed
The original town, laid out a square along
The river for a pleasure ground; in time,
Some fifty years or more, it was forgotten.
And when this Cato Braden came to town
And started as a journalist ’twas used
In part by Winston Prairie’s creamery;
In part ’twas used for gardening by the pastor
Of Winston Prairie’s strongest church. But Cato
Had searched the records, found them straight, began
To agitate the park. And it was this,
Together with _Principia non homines_,
Free trade, the dressmaker and milliner,
Perhaps the bottle in the drawer, whose secret
Leaked out at once, that clove the people of
The town into two groups of friends and foes.
He had but just begun his editorship
When I left Winston Prairie; after that
Knew little of it, saw him but at times,
Long separated, saw him not at all
For fifteen years before his death, and now
Because I was his friend was on the train
His funeral to attend.

I drove to Oakland
With Dr. Green and William Smoot the grocer.
’Twas hot without a breeze, the town was still.
The church bell tolled until we reached the grave,
It was the church whose pastor used the square
For gardening. And on the way I asked
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one.
“Why, whisky,” answered William Smoot, the grocer,
“And women,” for he had bad luck they say.
“How is that, Doc, you know?”

And Dr. Green
After a silence said: “It isn’t true.
“He was as sound, so far as that’s concerned
“As any of us.”

Then I asked again
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one.
And Dr. Green said laughing, “Well, you know
“They die at thirty-one and forty-one,
“And sixty-one of what killed Cato Braden,
“That’s Bright’s Disease.”

“And whisky brings that on--”
I ventured to assert.

“Sometimes” replied
The man of medicine, “But other things
“Produce it. There’s a man’s diathesis;
“There’s worry, over-work, sometimes disease
“Suffered in childhood, leaving an effect
“Like soil, all fertilized for such seed as this.
“He should have drunk no whisky, yet he drank
“Not half so much as Winston Prairie thought.
“But you can see if whisky caused this thing
“All whisky drinkers would be sure to have it,
“Or die of it if not killed by a train.”

We left the carriage, having reached the place
Where Cato Braden’s grave was dug, and stood
Together in a company of fifty
And heard the pastor pray for heaven’s lessons
From Cato Braden’s life. And after that
We separated, made the horses trot
To reach our different destinations. I
Looked up Will Boyden for a little talk
Before my train left for the city.

Will
Was in his office with his sleeves rolled up,
Cob-pipe in mouth, typing a legal paper,
A narratio in slander, so he said.
He smiled from ear to ear and dropped his work.
“You’re here for Cato’s funeral,” he said,
And added, “It’s a shame he had to die,
Damned if it isn’t.”

Then I asked again
Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one,
And Will said: “Winston Prairie, Illinois,
Killed Cato Braden.”

“Tell me what you mean?”
Then Will refreshed his pipe and talked to me:
“I’m fifty-two and good for twenty years
I have no stronger frame than Cato Braden,
But then I got a formula for life
As time went on, and it was one that suited
My nature, and I thrived as you can see.
I have the power to draw the nutriment
Out of this soil, and I get strength thereby
Wherewith to overcome the things that kill.
I work, but then I play, I hunt and fish,
I read and sometimes take a little trip.
I don’t drink whisky, not because I fear it,
But I hate putting in myself such fire--
Beer and light wines are pleasant, more like food
Than stimulants. Well, Cato Braden started
When ‘Over the Garden Wall’ was all the rage,
‘All Coons Look Alike to Me’ was my
Key-note for starting. You know what I mean:
Between my day and his there’s just the difference
That lies between waltz time and syncopation;
Between the magic lantern and the movie,
The rattan phaeton and Ford machine.
These new things came along before he died,
But he had made his life for the old things,
Could not adjust himself, De Senectute
And Valparaiso had not taught him how
To reach out in the world from Winston Prairie
And get the new things for his life. But if
They taught him how he lost the secret here.
For after all a place like Winston Prairie
Will kill your spirit just as surely as
The Island where they cooped up great Napoleon.
In the first place what is a man to do
With life in any place? That is the problem.
And what could Cato Braden do with life
In Winston Prairie? First he was as fitted
To be a journalist as I, and if
Endowed to be a journalist, just think
Of editing The Eagle. But you see
His father was at war then with the Lance
Over that vermifuge and pesodorne.
And under guise of starting him in life
Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish
Purpose of defending vermifuge.
And Cato did it too, and put away
From year to year his dream of studying
The law and practicing in a city.
During which time the poisons of this town
Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him.
He married Mary Comfort, as you know.
And Mary is--well, what I call a brood-mare,
Although they had no children. What I mean
She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve,
A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife
Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw,
And never an eye to help him see the things
That lay around him, which he stumbled over.
And marriage to my mind means this to man:
He drains his body out to be a father,
And drains his spirit out to be a husband,
Unless the woman helps him see or feel
More than he sees or feels for self. Well then
The years went on. And every day at eight
He could be seen toward his office bent.
At half past ten just as the morning train
Was whistling for the crossing he would go
To get the mail. Returning he would walk
Along Main Street, slapping the folded News
Against his leg. He scanned it in his office.
At twelve o’clock he went to dinner, then
As whisky made him eat, he over-ate
And took a nap till two o’clock. At three
One might discover him at solitaire--
He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough
To keep the boys in copy. Then at four
He might be sitting at the livery stable,
Or sometimes might be found in that back room
Of Little’s restaurant, where a keg of beer
Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps
He might be seen down there on Locust street,
Waiting to enter where the milliner lived.
So passed his life away from twenty-four
To fifty-one. It’s simple enough to ask
Why not write for the Eagle, make it better,
Give ideas to the people, help the town,
Refresh the mind, read, study history,
De Senectute? Fancy Teddy Roosevelt,
Who’s labored for this land with restless gifts,
Tied down in Winston Prairie--well, you can’t,
He’d break the ties, and that’s the point, you see.
For Cato couldn’t break them, had to stay,
Incapable to extract the good that’s here,
Susceptible to all the bad that’s here;
He was a nose half active
Who enters in a room where gas escapes,
Sits in the room unconscious of the gas
Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest
And dies unknowing. So I say it’s true
That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden
And killed him in the end.

You must go see,
Before you leave, our park called Willard Park,
Named after Emma Willard, that devout
Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so.
She left enough to build a granite coping,
Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone
Whereon to carve the words, ‘The gracious gift
Of Emma Willard.’ Well, this Cato Braden
First talked this park, was first to tell the truth
About this plot of ground. And more than that
When Cato Braden came here he had dreams:
He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing
Would help this town; that games were needed here;
That Americans seemed ignorant of the art
Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise
To play; that they were wise to work and pray,
Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said
The little town was cursed by just these things,
And many human souls destroyed by them.
These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere,
But knew them when he found them, that’s his credit.
What though he was a drunk man whom you ask
What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural
Sounds inarticulate? Or better still
What though he was a sick man who in vain
Attempts to make his household orders clear?
For it was true that Cato Braden spoke
About these things at first, then gave them up.
For no one seemed responsive to his plans.
And some there were who sneered, and others said
He’d better help the church, and leave alone
The questions which make bitterness and strife,
Which was their way of speaking of the square
Which Cato tried to make into a park.
They say a lung will turn to stone or steel
When men work in the filings and the dust.
At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned
His soul to dust.

You see old Jerry Ott
Had left a son his interest in the Eagle,
And Cato Braden died right at his table
While playing solitaire. This son came in
And found him dead, a card clutched in his hand.
The card was, strange enough, the deuce of clubs!
This son was glad that Cato Braden died
For now he runs the Eagle by himself.
This Cato Braden had three strains of thought.
I never met him lately but he talked
Some one of them, at times all three of them.
One was the American town must be improved,
So better to conserve the souls and bodies
Of boys and girls. And even when the movie,
And other things of this day came along
He still maintained they did not meet the case.
He never said what thing was requisite.
But in a general way I think he meant
A stronger, and more truthful and more natural
Outlook and attitude would save a town
From dust, and mold and death. For once he said:
“This winter I shall read Grote’s History.”
He never read it. But I think he meant
He would find out the secret of the Greeks.
And then he’d say the young, the middle aged
The old made separate spheres of feeling, thought;
And that a town should not be ruled by one,
Should not be governed as all folks were old,
Or young, or middle aged, but each should have
The town for his according to his age,
And thought and vital power, within his sphere
And period of life; these separate spheres
Should move untroubled by the others, move
Free, independent of the other spheres.

I talked with Cato Braden for the last
A week ago last night. He said to me:
I wake these mornings lately with the thought
Another chance will come to me, that death
Will bring another chance. And then he said:
This is the way of it. When you are young
You say in five years I shall take a trip,
See New York City, go abroad perhaps.
When five years pass you do not take the trip.
Then you say in a year I’ll take the trip.
And so it goes, while you say in a year,
Next year, next year, until at last you say
No, never now! Well, now you’d think a man
Would weep when he stands up against the wall,
And knows he cannot climb the wall. But no,
Something still whispers you will do it yet.
And then you know it must be after death,
In life again, the chance will come to you.
For you know well it is not in this life.
Then Cato Braden said: Not in this life
Shall I read Grote, I could not understand it
After these years in Winston Prairie--still
I have a feeling I shall know about it
Somewhere, somehow.
You’d better catch your train.
It’s good to see you. Up there in the city
Think sometimes of the American village and
What may be done for conservation of
The souls of men and women in the village.”

WINSTON PRAIRIE

“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie?
If you had come to me I could have told you
About the circuit judge, the state’s attorney,
The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer,
The assessors and collectors who belong
To what we call a court-house ring. You know
They run the county, re-elect themselves,
Play with the local bosses, stand in league
With sellers of cement, and brick and lumber,
And with the papers given the public printing,
And with the sharks who buy in property
For taxes sold, and with the intriguing thieves
Who make improvements, levy the assessments
For side-walk, sewers.”

So my friend to me.
“Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them,
I did not buy these lots. But apropos
Of what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter.
I write and write for statements of my taxes,
And cannot get them. Then I take the train,
And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie.
And I stand before a window asking for them.
Your property was sold, I am informed.
So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yard
To look at Cato Braden’s grave, and then
Catch the next train for home. A week or so
Elapses and I get a letter--hum!
Winston Prairie--office of the controller;
Your property was sold for special numbered
Two thousand and eighty-six, when you reply
Please mention sale 1019.--Damn these thieves!
So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,--
The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are those
Who break it, and who use it to despoil you--
Well, let me tell you.

In this very June
I went to Winston Prairie on this errand,
And after I had written several times
To get a statement. I arrived at noon--
And yet the court-house offices were closed,
The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all.
I met a janitor who said: All closed
Till half past one. That meant I’d miss my train
Back to Chicago, and would have to stay
In Winston Prairie until six o’clock.
I sat down in the hall-way with a curse.
But in a minute there were hideous yells,
Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten,
Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see,
And found a door behind which I could hear
Intolerable tears, the scratching of weak hands
Against the door and wall. What is the matter?
I hallooed through the door. O, go to hell
A woman said, you know what is the matter.
I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can.
Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherent
Blubbering of words. At last I saw a finger
Stuck through the broken plaster by the door,
And leaning down I said: look through at me.
And then I stooped and looking through the crack
Saw a gray eye, which looked as it might be
Of Slavic birth. But who can read an eye
Shown singly through a crack? So while I talked
To get the story of these girls in prison,
(For where they were was called the calaboose,
Built in the court-house) some one back of me
Said: They’ll be quiet in due time, the cooler
Cools people off. I turned and saw a man
Who seemed to be a judge, and was a judge,
As I discovered later. Well, I said,
I cannot bear to see a human being
In such distress and terror--what’s their ages?
One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge,
But they are bad ones, so I made the fine
Enough to hold them thirty days. I asked
What did they do? They were soliciting,
The judge replied, and here in Winston Prairie
The law is law and we enforce the law.
We do not do as you do in Chicago.
I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop,
And was about to say: You are a fool.
You are what some would have America,
You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul.
You are a figure in the court-house ring,
Whereof the tax shark is a figure too.
But then I thought these girls might prove to be
Worth while some time. But even if they live
Street walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets,
Devour no widows’ houses, do less harm
Than court-house rings and judges in the rings.
So this is what I said: May I enquire
What are your Honor’s hours for holding court?
And he replied: Court has adjourned till two.
I hold till six o’clock, we do not loaf
As judges in Chicago do, good-day!

Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes,
With interest, penalties and all the costs.
At two o’clock I stood before the bar
And to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor,
I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt,
Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jail
Under your Honor’s sentence. I have seen
The state’s attorney, who is satisfied
To let them go, if all the costs are paid.
I went to see him on a matter of taxes,
And this came up. The state’s attorney rose
And said: Your Honor, they are very young,
And though they have been caught before at this,
And warned that Winston Prairie is no place
For them to ply their trade, I am inclined
To think they will not break our laws again.

I thought I saw his honor’s eye light up
As if it caught a wireless, so he said:
“The court is satisfied.” I paid the costs
And took Christine and Garda to Chicago.
But at the station, as I said good bye,
Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that I
Will let you pay those costs, I am not cheap.
I may be bad, but I am square, she said.
And I have money in my room, come on
To Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you back
For me and Garda.

No, I said, go on.
Try to be good, but if you can’t be good,
Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie.
I turned and disappeared among the crowds.

WILL BOYDEN LECTURES

The Sunday after Cato Braden died
Will Boyden lectured in the Masons’ Hall
Upon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?”
At first he pointed out that Jesus knew
No history except that of the Jews.
And if he’d heard of Athens never spoke
A word about it, never read a line
Of Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle,
Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a word
Concerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s.
And then he dropped this point with the remark
That one could know one’s people’s history
And that alone, and still be great, perhaps.
But still he thought it was unfortunate
That Jesus gave the Hebrews such a lift
So that to-day they rule the Occident
Where Athens should have ruled, if only Time
Had given her the right dramatic touch
To catch the populace.

He then declared
That Jesus was a poet, but he said:
“What are his figures? Never a word of stars,
And never a word of oceans, nor of mountains
Save Olivet or Zion, so you see
His limitations as to imagery.
Then have you noted how his sombre soul
Picked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor,
And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups,
Wherewith to make interpretations, yes
He spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I.
And yet you people call me pessimist
Because I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie,
And have not shrunk from charging Winston Prairie
With Cato Braden’s death. The difference
Between the Man of Galilee and me
Is this: He wanted to fulfill the law
Of Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem,
Which was a Winston Prairie in a way,
A Hebrew citadel to rule the world.
And I, if I could have my way, would make
Of Winston Prairie Athens.”

Then he said
“I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon.
The first one is concerning hogs--you start:
Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and find
How certain hogs had cast in them the devils
Of fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ran
Down in the sea to kill themselves for being
Made perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogs
And let me try my hand at exorcising

The Winston Prairie devils which destroyed
Poor Cato Braden.
“My next thought is found
In Matthew chapter nine; and it is this;
When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting,
And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd,
His soul was stirred--that is a way with genius,
Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles,
Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine.
But think of this: If you would lead and save
The multitude, assuming that can be,
Shall you accomplish it by rules and laws
Applied externally, which is the way
Ecclesiastic powers pursue and find
Divine authority in Jesus for it?
Or shall you teach the way of opening up
The soul of man to sun-light, letting in
The Power which is around us, in the which
We live and move, and so give chance for growth
To what is in us? For your shepherd drives.
No, Jesus hit it better when he spoke
Of leaven than of shepherds.
“So if one
Find leaven and would give it, let there be
A few to watch the final hour with him,
When he would be delivered from the cup,
But knows it cannot be, that to refuse
The cup is to deny the inexorable law.

“So now I come to what is chiefest here:
Destroy this temple and I will re-build it
In three days. Now you know what preachers say:
This means the resurrection--not at all!
These were the greatest words that Jesus said.
And here his genius seized its fullest power,
Here was it that he hid Jerusalem
Under his hands as if it were a toy,
And tossed the world up as it were a ball.
Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, ages
Of beauty, glory, but the work of genius?
What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuff
Responsive to the touch of prophet hands?
What Winston Prairie, what America
And all this turbulence of bobbing heads
In fields and markets, temples, halls across
This continent of sovereign states but puppets
Which may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit,
Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wise
By genius’ hands, not revolutionists’,
Nor shepherds’. So destroy America,
But not by picks and axes, let it be
As in the movies where a lovelier face
Steals in and blots with brighter light a face,
Which must fade out to let the lovelier face
Complete the story.
Now in a moment’s silence
Let’s pray for Cato Braden.”

THE DESPLAINES FOREST

The sun has sunk below the level plain,
And yet above the forest’s leafy gloom
The glory of the evening lightens still.
Smooth as a mirror is the river’s face
With Heaven’s light, and all its radiant clouds
And shadows which against the river’s shore
Already are as night. From some retreat
Obscure and lonely, evening’s saddest bird
Whistles, and beyond the water comes
The musical reply, and silence reigns--
Save for the noisy chorus of the frogs,
And undistinguished sounds of faint portent
That night has come. There is a rustic bridge
Which spans the stream, from which we look below
At Heaven above, till revery reclaims
The mind from hurried thought and merges it
Into the universal mind which broods
O’er such a scene. Strange quietude o’erspreads
The restless flame of being, and the soul
Beholds its source and destiny and feels
Not sorrowful to sink into the breast
Of that large life whereof it is a part.
What are we? But the question is not solved
Here in the presence of intensest thought,
Where nature stills the clamor of the world,
And leaves us in communion with ourselves.
Hence to the strivings of the clear-eyed day
What take we that shall mitigate the pangs
That each soul is alone, and that all friends
Gentle and wise and good can never soothe
The ache of that sub-consciousness which is
Something unfathomed and unmedicined?
Yet this it is which keeps us in the path
Of some ambition cherished or pursued;
The still, small voice that is not quieted
By disregard, but ever speaks to us
Its mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks
A closer harmony with that great scheme
Which is the music of the universe.

So as the cherubim of Heaven defend
The realms of the unknown with flaming swords,
Thence are we driven to the world which is
Ours to be known through Art, who beckons us
To excellence, and in her rarer moods
Casts shadowy glances of serener lands,
Where all the serious gods, removed from stress
And interruption, build, as we conceive,
In fellowship that knows not that reserve
Which clouds the hearts of those who wish to live
As they, in that large realm of perfect mind.

THE GARDEN

I do not like my garden, but I love
The trees I planted and the flowers thereof.
How does one choose his garden? O with eyes
O’er which a passion or illusion lies.
Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawn
You knew before somewhere. Or you are drawn
By an old urn, a little gate, a roof
Which soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.
One buys a garden gladly. Even the worst
Seems tolerable or beautiful at first.
Their very faults give loving labor scope:
One can correct, adorn; ’tis sweet to hope
For beauty to emerge out of your toil,
To build the walks and fertilize the soil.
Before I knew my garden or awoke
To its banality I set an oak
At one end for a life-long husbandry,
A white syringa and a lilac tree,
Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall,
Which was my neighbor’s, held in several
Title and beyond my right to mend--
One cannot with an ancient time contend.
Some houses shadowed me. I did not dream
The sun would never look o’er them and gleam,
Save at the earliest hour. So all the day
One half my garden under twilight lay.
Another soul had overlooked the shade:
I found the boundaries of a bed he made
For tulips. Well, I had a fresher trust
And spent my heart upon this sterile dust.
What thing will grow where never the sun shines?
Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.
What years to learn the soil! Why even weeds
Look green and fresh. But if one concedes
Salvia will flourish not, nor palest phlox
One might have hope left for a row of box.

Why is it that some silent places thrill
With elfin comradeship, and others fill
The heart with sickening loneliness? My breast
Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest
Casting my eyes about my garden where
I still must live, breathing its lifeless air.
Why should I have a garden anyway?
I have so many friends who pass the day
In streets or squares, or little barren courts,
I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,
Far worse than mine. And who has this delight:
There’s my syringa with its blooms of white!
It flourishes in my garden! In this brief
Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf
What if I like my garden not but love
The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,
And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,
Amid the white syringa’s loveliness?

THE TAVERN

(_For my daughter Madeline_)

Nothing disturbed my night of sleep,
I wonder that I ever woke
It was so heavy, was so deep
I scarce had heard the thunder-stroke.
So what was drinking, feasting, talking
By guests who came and guests who went,
Or those who spent the time in walking
The halls and rooms in argument
About the Tavern? Some declared
No better Tavern could be built.
And others called it a deception,
Its purest gold but thinnest gilt,
A cruel cheat considering
No other Tavern gave reception
To folks who might be wayfaring
Anywhere in the whole wide land.

I woke a stranger to it all,
But quickly grew to understand
The ways and customs which prevailed:
Those who won favor, those who failed;
What feasting rooms had echoed laughter;
What kisses stolen in what hall;
What corners where the old had cried;
What stairways where the breathless bride
Paused for a moment just to toss
Among the bridesmaids her bouquet;
What rooms where men in work or play
Approved or cursed for gain or loss
The Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.

Then when I woke, as I have said,
Save a few children there was none
Who was not older far than I.
Many were trembling gray of head;
The strong walked forth in rain or sun
And seemed all danger to defy.
All welcomed me and called me fair,
And told me strange events which passed
Around the Tavern while I slept.
Soon there were changes. Scarce aware
Of their departure many stept
Out of the door and seemed to cast
Their fortunes elsewhere, but as fast
New guests came in to take the places
Of those who left. And through the day
I lost the old, remembering faces
Freshly arrived. When it was noon
I knew what things were opportune,
I had become one of the crowd
In all their ways initiate:
Knew what their love was, what their hate,
Myself stole kisses in the hall,
And saw the old who sat and cried
In corners, saw the rosy bride
Pause for a moment just to toss
Among the bridesmaids her bouquet,
Where I stood best man to the groom.
Was myself of the noisy room,
Where men in work or men in play
Approve or curse the gain or loss.

Toward afternoon I seemed to feel
More people knew me than I knew.
Then it was good to meet with you.
I saw you as you left the stair.
And who were you? I do not dare
To praise your brow, or paint your hair,
Your eyes how gray, or were they blue?
A pain strikes through me if I let
The full strength of my love have sway.
I only know I can forget
All others who had gone away
Remembering our happy day
Together in the house and yard.
It was to you all fair and new.
You listened with such rapt regard
To all the stories of the guests,
And what had been their interests.
And was the Tavern just the same
As it had been before you came,
You asked me, and I answered, yes,
No change, my dear, not even the name.

No change, except the people change,
And change they do, I must confess.
In truth a few alone remain
Of those who lived here when I first
Entered the door there, most are strange.
And as I rose much earlier
Than you arose, you may suppose
I shall grow drowsy, yet who knows
Before you do, and leave the stir
The dancing, feasting, just to creep
Back for another night of sleep.
I’d like so well to stay awake
And watch the dancing for your sake.
It may be, though it scarce may be--
No one remained awake for me.

You cannot fail to find the bed
When you are sleepy, but no doubt
It will be black with the light out.
Come dear, that sleep is loveliest
Where side by side two lovers rest,
That sweetens sleep--it may be best!

O SAEPE MECUM

(_For E. J. S._)

Edward! you knew the city and you knew
Where dancing and where music were,
And every hall and theatre,
And every green purlieu

Of gardens where beneath the vines and trees
One might sip beer and be consoled
By music mixed with talk, behold
The summer’s devotees

About the tables, idling June away.
And you knew chicory and cress,
With French or Mayonnaise could dress
A salad, growing gay

As you poured Burgundy or Rhenish wine,
Or had a sirloin brought to see
If it were ripe, the recipe
For broiling it, to dine

Thereon in fitting state, the waiter took
And bowed in admiration, then
You snapped your silver case again
And from the holders shook
Such cigarettes as Turkish grandees smoke,
And blew the perfumed incense forth,
Descanting on our life, the worth
Of lawyers, noted folk:

Of judges, politicians, governors,
Until the dinner came at last.
And there amid the rich repast
We poor solicitors

Gloried in life, and ruddy faced would laugh
At any mishap, any fate
That we could fancy might await,
And glorying would quaff

Incredible goblets of the quickening juice,
With blackest coffee topping all,
And afterwards a cordial--
Nothing we could abuse

And nothing hurt us, Edward! It was well
We lived, I think, and memories stored:
For now I am a little bored
With the invariable

And settled round of nights and days wherein
I must have sleep to work, and keep
Abstemious to work and sleep--
While you long since have been
The tangled lion of a woman’s hair
Who reads you novels and the news,
And mends you, tends you, even brews
Your broth and gives you care

In these dyspeptic mornings. As for me
The cafés, gardens haunt me yet.
I go about as one who can’t forget
A dead felicity--

The Bismarck, Rector’s where I enter not--
The music all is changed--and where
No faces that we knew are there,
And where we are forgot.

MALACHY DEGAN

Malachy, you stand a referee to judge
Under a torrent of blue light
The naked pugilists who fight,
Grim faces with a smudge

Of blood, or on the sliding arms or backs,
There on a platform roped, in palls
Of smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s,
And where the iterant cracks

Of matches struck for lights prick through the hum
Of voices over toned by cries
Of “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,”
“That sounded like a drum.”

When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang!
And a hush came over us, as then
Bath robes slipped off, the fighting men
Out of their corners sprang,

And in between the tangled arms and legs,
And clinches which you break, you glide
Red-haired, athletic, watchful eyed,
And like a lager keg’s
Round fulness is your chest, your arms all bare,
Coatless, a figure memorable.
You should not be forgotten--well
And if it be to dare

The censure of a taste American
To celebrate your courage, wit,
I write you down what here is writ:
A referee, a man!

A judge who loved the game and whose decree
Had no taint on it, was more pure
Than much of our judicature,
Of every knavery free.

And what is here to shock or shake such nerves
As children’s are, delicate women’s?
There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons,
And Thorne a moment swerves,

Then topples over, and lies quiet while
You count from one slowly to nine.
And Thorne lies there without a sign
Of life, but with a smile

After a time gets up, and reels across
The ring to his own corner, there
Flops wobbly in his corner’s chair,
And wonders at his loss.

While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shake
The master hand, the general’s.
Such was our sport at Tattersall’s
Before the Puritan rake

Combed through the city. Now the sport is dead,
And you are dust these several years.
And we who drift to stale careers,
And live along and tread

The old deserted ways we loved and knew,
Ask sometimes how it was a cough
Could seize upon you, take you off--
A lad as strong as you?

MY DOG PONTO

If I say to you “Come, Ponto, want some meat?”
You laugh in your dog-way and bark your “Yes.”
And if I say “Shall we go walking” or
“Stand up, nice Ponto,” then you stand up, or
If I say to you “Lie down” you lie down.
You know what meat is, what it is to walk.
You see the meat perhaps or get an image
Of scampering on the street or chasing dogs
While sniffing in fresh air, exploring bushes.
Upon these levels our minds meet at once,
As if they were the same stuff for such thoughts.
But if I look into your eye and say:
I’ll read to you a chapter on harmonics,
Here’s mad Spinoza’s close wrought demonstration
Of God as substance, here is Isaac Newton’s
Great book on gravitation, here’s a thesis
Upon the logos, of the word made man.
Or if I say let’s talk about my soul--
Since I have talked to yours in terms of meat--
Which sails out like a spider on its thread
Through mathematics, music,--look at you
You merely lie there with half open eye,
And thump your tail quite feebly just because,
And for no other reason save I’m talking,
And I’m your master and you’re fond of me,
And through affection would no doubt be glad
To know what I am saying, as ’twere meat
I might be saying. But I know a way
To make you howl for things not understood:
It makes you howl to hear my new Victrola
With a Beethoven record, why is this?
Perhaps this is to you a maddening token
Of realms that lie above the realms of meat,
And torture you because they have suggestions
Of things beyond you.

But in any case,
Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel
“You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.”
“And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.”
“And mathematics, music, can you eat them,”
“For what you cannot eat has no existence.”
Deny them as you will these spheres of thought
Lie as the steps of mountains over you.
They wait for you to gain them, you can find them
By rising to them, then how real they are!
As real as scampering when I take a walk.
But are they all? How do I know what spheres
Of life lie all around me and above me,
Just waiting not for me, but till I climb
And rest awhile and take their meaning in.
How do I know what hand plays a Victrola
With records greater than Beethoven’s song,
Which make me howl as piteously as you?
But here again our minds meet on a level:
I know no more than you do why I howl;
Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why,
Though not content with meat, I want to know,
And keep as all my own this higher music.

THE GOSPEL OF MARK

How long have you been waiting? Not so long?
I’m glad of that. You found the place at once.
Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re there
You see above this Collis Hortulorum,
A good place for two men like us to meet:
Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes.
That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not care
So much about us as some others do.
There is a tolerance comes from being rich,
An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa.
Our faith is not to these a wicked thing,
A deadly superstition as some deem it.
But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there--
What temples, arches, under the full moon!
Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree,
And while the soft wind blows out of the sea
Let’s finish up our talks. You must know all
Wherewith to write the story ere I die
Beneath the wrath of Nero. See that light,
Faint like a little candle--I passed there.
That’s one of our poor men, they make us lamps
Wherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens.
We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time.
We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house.
And I was telling them about the night
When in Gethsemane you followed Him,
Having a cloth around your naked body.
And how you laid hold on him, left the cloth
And fled. But when you write this you can say
“A certain young man,” leaving out your name,
You may not wish to have it known ’twas you
Who ran away, as I would like to hide
How I fell into sleep and failed to watch,
And afterwards declared I knew Him not:
But as for me omit no thing. The world
Will gain for seeing me rise out of weakness
To strength, and out of fear to boldness. Time
Has wrought his wonders in me, I am rock,
Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!

Then don’t forget the first man that he healed.
There’s deep significance in this, my son,
That first of all he’d take an unclean spirit
And cast it out. Then second was my mother
Cured of her fever, just as you might say:
Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague,
Then cool you of the fever of vain life.
But don’t forget to write how he would say
“Tell no man of this,” say that and no more.
Though I may think he said it lest the crowds
That followed him would take his strength for healing,
And leave no strength for words, let be and write
“Tell no man of this” simply. For you see
These madmen quieted, these lepers cleaned
Had soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps.
And with them ends their good. But what he said
Remains for generations yet to come, with power
To heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes,
Of what I’ve told you, even above your life.
Make many copies lest one script be lost.
I shall not to another tell it all
As I have told it you.

But as for me
What merit have I that I saw and said
“Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees.
That is a matter of the eye--behold
What is the eye? Is there an Eye Power which
Produces eyes, a primal source of seeing,
An ocean of beholding, as the ocean
Makes rivers, streams and pools, so does this Power
Make eyes? You take an egg and keep it warm
About a day, then break the shell and look:
You’ll find dark spots on either side of what
Will be the head in time, these will be eyes
In season, but just now they cannot see,
Although the Eye Power back of them can see
Both what they are and how to make them eyes
By giving them its quality and strength.
And all the time while these dark spots emerge
From yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less,
This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a child
It stares at flowers and tears them, or again
It claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast,
Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose.
The world around it lies here to be seen,
And will be seen from boyhood on to age
In different guises, aspects, richnesses
According to the man, for every man
Sees different from his fellow. What’s an eye?
I say not what’s an eye, but what is here
For eyes to see? What wonders in that sky
Beyond my eye! What living things concealed
Beneath my feet in grass or moss or slime,
As small to crickets as they are to us!
For Nero at the Circus holds a ruby
Before his eye to give his eye more sight
To see the games and tortures. So I say
There was no merit in me when I said
“Thou art the Christ.”

Let’s think of eyes this way:
The lawyers said there’s nothing in this fellow.
His family beheld no wonder in him.
Have Mary Magdalene and I invented
These words, this story?--who are we to do so,--
A fallen woman and a fisherman!
Or did this happen? Did we see these things?
Did Mary see him risen and did I?
Were other eyes still dark spots on the yolk,
And were our eyes full grown and did we see?
Is this a madman’s world where I can talk,
And have you write for centuries to read
And play the fool with them? Or do all things
Of spirit, as of stars, of spring and growth
Proceed in order, under law to ends?
No, Mark, my son, this is the truth, so write,
Preserve this story taken from my lips.
My work is almost done. Rome is the end
Of all my labors, I have faith The Eye
Will give me other eyes for other worlds!

Why should I not believe this? Not all seasons
Are for unfolding. In the winter time
You cannot see the miracle of birth,
Of germinating seeds, of blossoming.
Why not then that one time for seeing Death
Go up like mist before the rising sun?
And in this single instance of our Lord
Arising from the grave, see all men rise,
And all men’s souls discovered in his soul,
Their quality and essence, strength made clear?
And why not I the seer of these things?
Why should there be another and not I?
And I declare to you that untold millions
In centuries untold will live and die
By these words which you write, as I have told them.
And nation after nation will be moulded,
As heated wax is moulded, by these words.
And spirits in their inmost power will feel
Change and regeneration through them--well, what then?
Do you say God is living, that this world,
These constellations, move by law, that all
This miracle of life and light is held
In harmony, and that the soul of man
Moves not in order, but that it’s allowed
To prove an anarch to itself, sole thing
That turns upon itself, sole thing that’s shown
The path that leads no whither? is allowed
To feed on falsehood? that it’s allowed
To wander lawless to its ruin, fooled
By what it craves, by what it feels, by eyes
That swear the truth of what they see? by words
Which you will write from words I have affirmed?
And do you say that Life shall prove the foe
Of life, and Law of law? Or do you say
The child’s eyes see reality which see
The poppy blossoms or the mother’s breast,
And this Rome and these stars do not exist
Because the child’s eyes cannot compass them,
And get their image? Shall we trust our vision
Mounting to higher things, or only trust
Those things which all have seen except the souls
Who have not soared, or risen to the gift
Of seeing what seemed walking trees grow clear
As men or angels? No, it cannot be.
Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know,
Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport.
It is not set apart to be betrayed,
Or gulled to its undoing, left to dash
Its hopeless head against this rock’s exception,
No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it,
No law to guide it, though this universe
Is under Law, no God to mark its steps,
Except the God of worlds and suns and stars,
Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars,
And them alone, and leaves the soul to pass
Unfathered--lets me have a madman’s dream
And gives it such reality that I
Take fire and light the world, convincing eyes
Left foolish to believe. It cannot be....

Go write what I have told you, come what will
I’m going to the catacombs to pray.

MARSYAS