ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield !
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield !
Ezra-Pound-Provenca-English
LA FRAISNE1
SCENE : The Ash Wood of Malvern.
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so The young men at the sword-play;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways, She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
1 Prefatorynoteatendofthevolume.
? LaFraisnel wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love Which is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Aie-e ! 'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn;
There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
As a maiden, holding her fingers,
The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn. "
17
? InTem- Hesaith:"Redspearsborethewarriordawn Of old
**: Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning? "
She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
Together with him ; softly For we are old. "
CAMARADERIE
"Etuttogite tofossealacantpagniadimolti,quantaaliavista"
I feel thy cheek against my face
SOMETIMES soft as is the South's first breath Close-pressing,
That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space.
Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace.
Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast
My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.
18
nectutis. OA
,
T ,
? FOR E. McC.
THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER LEONARDO TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE
i~* ONE while your tastes were keen to you, \J Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly, Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
"Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not!
"Non tifidar" it is the sword that speaks
1
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry.
As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,
So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm
sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune, " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 19
"In me. "
? BALLAD FOR GLOOM
God, our God, is a gallant foe FOTRhat playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as maid to man, But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe
that plays behind the veil,
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed;
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth :
Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God, is a gallant foe
that playeth behind the veil,
Whom God deigns not to overthrow
hath need of triple mail.
20
? AT THE HEART O' ME A. D. 751
j ever one fear at the heart o me
WITH still sea-coasts Long by
coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights
of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with
fine pearls between.
Through the pale courses of
the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and
the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh,
and wine for my tales of wandering. And the cities gave me welcome
and the fields free passage, With ever one fear
j
at the heart o me.
An thou should'st grow weary
ere my returning,
An "they" should call to thee
from out the borderland, What should avail me
booty of whale-ways? What should avail me
gold rings or the chain-mail? What should avail me
the many-twined bracelets? What should avail me,
O my beloved,
21
? At the g ^|j
Here in this "Middan-gard" what should avail me
Out of the booty and gain of my goings?
*
THE TREE
From " A Lume Spento. "
T STOOD still and was a tree amid the wood,
A Knowing the truth of things unseen before; Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
That grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'T was not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart's home That they might do this wonder thing; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.
AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS
Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifei Glauco nel gustar del? erba
guahlesilffe"**consorto in mar degli altri dei* PARADISO, i, 67-9. "As Glaucus tasting the grass that made
hint sea-fellow with the other gods. "
I
WHITHER he went I may not follow him.
His eyes Were strange to-day. They always were,
After their fashion, kindred of the sea.
i Anglo-Saxon, "Earth. " 22
? To-dayIfoundhim. Itwasverylong
That I had sought among the nets, and when I
asked
The fishermen, they laughed at me.
I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to find The body-house of him, and then
There at the blue cave-mouth my joy
Grew pain for suddenness, to see him 'live. Whither he went I may not come, it seems
He is become estranged from all the rest,
And all the sea is now his wonder-house.
And he may sink unto strange depths, he tells me of, That have no light as we it deem. E'ennowhespeaksstrangewords. Ididnotknow One half the substance of his speech with me. And then when I saw naught he sudden leaped, And shot, a gleam of silver, down, away.
And I have spent three days upon this rock
And yet he comes no more.
He did not even seem to know
I watched him gliding through the vitreous deep.
n
They chide me that the skein I used to spin Holds not my interest now,
They mock me at the route. Well, I have come
again.
Last night I saw three white forms move,
Out past the utmost wave that bears the white foam
crest.
I somehow knew that he was one of them.
23
AnIdyl
? AnIdyl ^Glaucus
Oime, Oime! I think each time they come
^P *rom t^ie sea ^eart to our rea m
"
^ f a*1 They are more far-removed from the shore.
When first I found him here, he slept
E'en as he might after a long night's taking on the
deep,
And when he woke some whit the old kind smile
Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me. But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep
eyes
As though he saw beyond and saw not me, And when he moved to speak it troubled him. And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat. And then forgot me for the sea its charm
And leapt him in the wave and so was gone.
in
I wonder why he mocked me with the grass.
I know not any more how long it is
Since I have dwelt not in my mother's house.
I know they think me mad, for all night long
I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find
Some day the herb he offered unto me. Perhapshedidnotjest; theysaysomesimpleshave More wide-spanned power than old wives draw
from them.
Perhaps, found I this grass, he 'd come again. Perhaps 't is some strange charm to draw him here, 'Thout which he may not leave his new-found crew That ride the two-foot coursers of the deep,
And laugh in storms and break the fishers' nets. Oime, Oime!
24
? SONG
Voices in the Wind.
We have worn the blue and vair,
And all the sea-caves
Know us of old, and know our new-found mate. There 's many a secret stair
The sea-folk climb . . .
Out of the Wind. Oime, Oime !
I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem To mock me now, all night, all night, and
I have strayed among the cliffs here.
They say, some day I '11 fall
Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe
The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them. They try to keep me hid within four walls.
I will not stay !
Oime!
And the wind " Oime " saith, !
I am quite tired now.
I know the grass
Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast, If only he would come some little while and find
it me.
ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS 25
An Idyl for
Glaucus
? MARVOIL 1
A POOR clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,
And because I have small mind to Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year:
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging
His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends:
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They '11 know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him.
1
See note at end of volume. 26
sit
t
? As for will and testament I leave none,
Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of
Beziers
In return for the first kiss she gave me. "
May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon,
And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded
me.
O hole in the wall here ! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with
this parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly
my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,
Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here.
Mihi pergamena deest. 27
Marvoil
? IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL
DO not choose to dream; there cometh on me i Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-
going
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed ; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
REVOLT
AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY
WOULD shake off the lethargy of this our time, I and give
For shadows shapes of power, For dreams men.
"It is better to dream than do? "
Aye! and, No!
28
? Aye ! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Revolt Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.
No ! if we dream pale flowers,
Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.
If so we live and die not life but dreams,
Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life !
Let us be men that dream,
Not cowards, dabblers, waiters
For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed.
Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only
dreams,
Then tet us be such dreams the world shall tremble
at
And know we be its rulers though but dreams ! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall
tremble at
And know we be its masters though but shadow !
High God, if men are grown but pale sick
phantoms
That must live only in these mists and tempered
lights
And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud
Or tread too violent in passing them; 29
? Revolt Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin
ephemera,
I bid thee grapple chaos and beget
Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again.
AND THUS IN NINEVEH
YE! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.
"Lo! this thing is not mine
Nor thine to hinder,
For the custom is full old,
And here in Nineveh have I beheld
Many a singer pass and take his place
In those dim halls where no man troubleth
His sleep or song.
And many a one hath sung his songs
More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;
And many a one now doth surpass
My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb
Shall all men scatter rose leaves ere the night Slay light with her blue sword.
"It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life
As lesser men drink wine. "
30
? THE WHITE STAG
HA* seen them mid the clouds on the heather. i Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
"
Bid the world's hounds come to horn! "
'T is the white stag, Fame, we 're a-hunting,
PICCADILLY
tragical faces, BEAYUeTIthFatUwLe,re whole, and are so sunken;
And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved, That are so sodden and drunken,
Who hath forgotten you? O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!
The gross, the coarse, the brazen,
God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should
do,
But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,
Who hath forgotten you?
? EXULTATIONS
? / am an eternal spirit and the things I make are
but ephemera, yet I endure:
Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet
and we endure.
? TO CARLOS TRACY CHESTER
? NIGHT LITANY
oDIEU, purifiez nos coeurs! Purifiez nos coeurs!
Yea, the lines hast thou laid unto me
in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me
a thing of tears.
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs, For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,
Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked
37
? Night Upon the shadow of the waters
Litany
In this thy Venice.
And before the holiness
Of the shadow of thy handmaid Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us
And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters, And thy stars
Have seen this thing, out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,
O God of waters, Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.
Purifiez nos cosurs, O God of the silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs, O God of waters.
? SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi !
Judge ye !
Have I dug him up again ?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
The " Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).
DAYMouN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.
whoreson come dog, Papiols,
music!
I have no life save when the swords clash. Butah! whenIseethestandardsgold,vair,purple,
opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, op-
posing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
m
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing/
39
""
Papiols is his jongleur.
!
Let's to
? Sestina: Altaforte
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace with fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah ! there 's no wine like the blood's crimson !
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson, But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth 's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music !
There 's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush
clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace! "
vn
And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace! "
40
? BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE1
SIMON ZELOTES SPEAKETH IT SOMEWHILE AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION
FA' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
L For the priests and the gallows tree? Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see,
"First let these go! " quo' our Goodly Fere, "Or I '11 see ye damned," says he.
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about Alone in the town? " says he.
Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere, But a man o' men was he.
I ha* seen him drive a hundred men j
Wi' a bundle o cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house For their pawn and treasury.
They '11 no' get him a' in a book, I think,
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere, But aye loved the open sea.
1
Fere=s Mate, Companion. 41
? Ballad of If think they
ha' snared our Fere
^^
"I '11 go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree. "
"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'T is how a brave man dies on the tree. "
A son of God was the Goodly Fere That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men. I have seen him upon the tree.
He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.
42
they the Goodly They are {QQ]B tQ
Goodly degree
? A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
PORTRAIT
"
From LaM&reInconnue. "
NOW would I weave her portrait out of all dim
splendour.
Of Provence and far halls of memory,
Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity
Of blended bells at even's end, or
As the distant seas should send her
The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Outofalldreamsthatbe,
Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?
Nay ! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper
And ever doth attend her in that land
Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her.
SCENE : The Ash Wood of Malvern.
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so The young men at the sword-play;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways, She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
1 Prefatorynoteatendofthevolume.
? LaFraisnel wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love Which is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Aie-e ! 'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn;
There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
As a maiden, holding her fingers,
The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn. "
17
? InTem- Hesaith:"Redspearsborethewarriordawn Of old
**: Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning? "
She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
Together with him ; softly For we are old. "
CAMARADERIE
"Etuttogite tofossealacantpagniadimolti,quantaaliavista"
I feel thy cheek against my face
SOMETIMES soft as is the South's first breath Close-pressing,
That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space.
Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace.
Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast
My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.
18
nectutis. OA
,
T ,
? FOR E. McC.
THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER LEONARDO TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE
i~* ONE while your tastes were keen to you, \J Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly, Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
"Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not!
"Non tifidar" it is the sword that speaks
1
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry.
As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,
So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm
sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune, " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 19
"In me. "
? BALLAD FOR GLOOM
God, our God, is a gallant foe FOTRhat playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as maid to man, But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe
that plays behind the veil,
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed;
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth :
Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God, is a gallant foe
that playeth behind the veil,
Whom God deigns not to overthrow
hath need of triple mail.
20
? AT THE HEART O' ME A. D. 751
j ever one fear at the heart o me
WITH still sea-coasts Long by
coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights
of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with
fine pearls between.
Through the pale courses of
the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and
the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh,
and wine for my tales of wandering. And the cities gave me welcome
and the fields free passage, With ever one fear
j
at the heart o me.
An thou should'st grow weary
ere my returning,
An "they" should call to thee
from out the borderland, What should avail me
booty of whale-ways? What should avail me
gold rings or the chain-mail? What should avail me
the many-twined bracelets? What should avail me,
O my beloved,
21
? At the g ^|j
Here in this "Middan-gard" what should avail me
Out of the booty and gain of my goings?
*
THE TREE
From " A Lume Spento. "
T STOOD still and was a tree amid the wood,
A Knowing the truth of things unseen before; Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
That grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'T was not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart's home That they might do this wonder thing; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.
AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS
Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifei Glauco nel gustar del? erba
guahlesilffe"**consorto in mar degli altri dei* PARADISO, i, 67-9. "As Glaucus tasting the grass that made
hint sea-fellow with the other gods. "
I
WHITHER he went I may not follow him.
His eyes Were strange to-day. They always were,
After their fashion, kindred of the sea.
i Anglo-Saxon, "Earth. " 22
? To-dayIfoundhim. Itwasverylong
That I had sought among the nets, and when I
asked
The fishermen, they laughed at me.
I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to find The body-house of him, and then
There at the blue cave-mouth my joy
Grew pain for suddenness, to see him 'live. Whither he went I may not come, it seems
He is become estranged from all the rest,
And all the sea is now his wonder-house.
And he may sink unto strange depths, he tells me of, That have no light as we it deem. E'ennowhespeaksstrangewords. Ididnotknow One half the substance of his speech with me. And then when I saw naught he sudden leaped, And shot, a gleam of silver, down, away.
And I have spent three days upon this rock
And yet he comes no more.
He did not even seem to know
I watched him gliding through the vitreous deep.
n
They chide me that the skein I used to spin Holds not my interest now,
They mock me at the route. Well, I have come
again.
Last night I saw three white forms move,
Out past the utmost wave that bears the white foam
crest.
I somehow knew that he was one of them.
23
AnIdyl
? AnIdyl ^Glaucus
Oime, Oime! I think each time they come
^P *rom t^ie sea ^eart to our rea m
"
^ f a*1 They are more far-removed from the shore.
When first I found him here, he slept
E'en as he might after a long night's taking on the
deep,
And when he woke some whit the old kind smile
Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me. But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep
eyes
As though he saw beyond and saw not me, And when he moved to speak it troubled him. And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat. And then forgot me for the sea its charm
And leapt him in the wave and so was gone.
in
I wonder why he mocked me with the grass.
I know not any more how long it is
Since I have dwelt not in my mother's house.
I know they think me mad, for all night long
I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find
Some day the herb he offered unto me. Perhapshedidnotjest; theysaysomesimpleshave More wide-spanned power than old wives draw
from them.
Perhaps, found I this grass, he 'd come again. Perhaps 't is some strange charm to draw him here, 'Thout which he may not leave his new-found crew That ride the two-foot coursers of the deep,
And laugh in storms and break the fishers' nets. Oime, Oime!
24
? SONG
Voices in the Wind.
We have worn the blue and vair,
And all the sea-caves
Know us of old, and know our new-found mate. There 's many a secret stair
The sea-folk climb . . .
Out of the Wind. Oime, Oime !
I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem To mock me now, all night, all night, and
I have strayed among the cliffs here.
They say, some day I '11 fall
Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe
The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them. They try to keep me hid within four walls.
I will not stay !
Oime!
And the wind " Oime " saith, !
I am quite tired now.
I know the grass
Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast, If only he would come some little while and find
it me.
ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS 25
An Idyl for
Glaucus
? MARVOIL 1
A POOR clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,
And because I have small mind to Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year:
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging
His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends:
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They '11 know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him.
1
See note at end of volume. 26
sit
t
? As for will and testament I leave none,
Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of
Beziers
In return for the first kiss she gave me. "
May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon,
And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded
me.
O hole in the wall here ! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with
this parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly
my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,
Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here.
Mihi pergamena deest. 27
Marvoil
? IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL
DO not choose to dream; there cometh on me i Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-
going
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed ; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
REVOLT
AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY
WOULD shake off the lethargy of this our time, I and give
For shadows shapes of power, For dreams men.
"It is better to dream than do? "
Aye! and, No!
28
? Aye ! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Revolt Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.
No ! if we dream pale flowers,
Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.
If so we live and die not life but dreams,
Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life !
Let us be men that dream,
Not cowards, dabblers, waiters
For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed.
Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only
dreams,
Then tet us be such dreams the world shall tremble
at
And know we be its rulers though but dreams ! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall
tremble at
And know we be its masters though but shadow !
High God, if men are grown but pale sick
phantoms
That must live only in these mists and tempered
lights
And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud
Or tread too violent in passing them; 29
? Revolt Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin
ephemera,
I bid thee grapple chaos and beget
Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again.
AND THUS IN NINEVEH
YE! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.
"Lo! this thing is not mine
Nor thine to hinder,
For the custom is full old,
And here in Nineveh have I beheld
Many a singer pass and take his place
In those dim halls where no man troubleth
His sleep or song.
And many a one hath sung his songs
More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;
And many a one now doth surpass
My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb
Shall all men scatter rose leaves ere the night Slay light with her blue sword.
"It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life
As lesser men drink wine. "
30
? THE WHITE STAG
HA* seen them mid the clouds on the heather. i Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
"
Bid the world's hounds come to horn! "
'T is the white stag, Fame, we 're a-hunting,
PICCADILLY
tragical faces, BEAYUeTIthFatUwLe,re whole, and are so sunken;
And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved, That are so sodden and drunken,
Who hath forgotten you? O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!
The gross, the coarse, the brazen,
God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should
do,
But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,
Who hath forgotten you?
? EXULTATIONS
? / am an eternal spirit and the things I make are
but ephemera, yet I endure:
Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet
and we endure.
? TO CARLOS TRACY CHESTER
? NIGHT LITANY
oDIEU, purifiez nos coeurs! Purifiez nos coeurs!
Yea, the lines hast thou laid unto me
in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me
a thing of tears.
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs, For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,
Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked
37
? Night Upon the shadow of the waters
Litany
In this thy Venice.
And before the holiness
Of the shadow of thy handmaid Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us
And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters, And thy stars
Have seen this thing, out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,
O God of waters, Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.
Purifiez nos cosurs, O God of the silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs, O God of waters.
? SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi !
Judge ye !
Have I dug him up again ?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
The " Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).
DAYMouN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.
whoreson come dog, Papiols,
music!
I have no life save when the swords clash. Butah! whenIseethestandardsgold,vair,purple,
opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, op-
posing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
m
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing/
39
""
Papiols is his jongleur.
!
Let's to
? Sestina: Altaforte
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace with fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah ! there 's no wine like the blood's crimson !
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson, But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth 's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music !
There 's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush
clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace! "
vn
And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace! "
40
? BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE1
SIMON ZELOTES SPEAKETH IT SOMEWHILE AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION
FA' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
L For the priests and the gallows tree? Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see,
"First let these go! " quo' our Goodly Fere, "Or I '11 see ye damned," says he.
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about Alone in the town? " says he.
Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere, But a man o' men was he.
I ha* seen him drive a hundred men j
Wi' a bundle o cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house For their pawn and treasury.
They '11 no' get him a' in a book, I think,
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere, But aye loved the open sea.
1
Fere=s Mate, Companion. 41
? Ballad of If think they
ha' snared our Fere
^^
"I '11 go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree. "
"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'T is how a brave man dies on the tree. "
A son of God was the Goodly Fere That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men. I have seen him upon the tree.
He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.
42
they the Goodly They are {QQ]B tQ
Goodly degree
? A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
PORTRAIT
"
From LaM&reInconnue. "
NOW would I weave her portrait out of all dim
splendour.
Of Provence and far halls of memory,
Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity
Of blended bells at even's end, or
As the distant seas should send her
The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Outofalldreamsthatbe,
Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?
Nay ! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper
And ever doth attend her in that land
Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her.
