Sword Blades And Poppy Seed By Amy Lowell

Sword Blades and Poppy Seedby Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] [Note on text: Italicized stanzas or sections are marked by tildes (~). Other italics are capitalized. Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose poem.] Sword Blades and Poppy Seedby Amy Lowell ~”Face invisible! je t’ai grave/e en me/dailles D’argent doux comme l’aube pa^le,D’or ardent comme le soleil,D’airain sombre comme la nuit;Il y en a de tout me/tal,Qui tintent clair comme la joie,Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire,Comme l’amour, comme la mort;Et j’ai fait les plus belles de belle argile Se\che et fragile. “Une a\ une, vous les comptiez en souriant, Et vous disiez: Il est habile;Et vous passiez en souriant. “Aucun de vous n’a donc vuQue mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, Que tout le grand songe terrestreVivait en moi pour vivre en euxQue je gravais aux me/taux pieux,Mes Dieux.”~ Henri de Re/gnier, “Les Me/dailles d’Argile”. Preface No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing. In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we are from “admitting the Universe”! The Universe, which flings down its continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and Jose/-Maria de Heredia, or those of Henri de Re/gnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand rebuked. Indeed — “They order this matter better in France.” It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word “daybreak”, for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said “daybreak” so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call “Vers Libre”, a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in “unrhymed cadence”, for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They are built upon “organic rhythm”, or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his “Poems”, Henley speaks of “those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme.” The desire to “quintessentialize”, to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly “unrhymed cadence” is unique in its power of expressing this. Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment. But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves. Amy Lowell.May 19, 1914. Contents Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Sword Blades The Captured GoddessThe Precinct. RochesterThe CyclistsSunshine through a Cobwebbed Window A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.AstigmatismThe Coal PickerStorm-RackedConvalescencePatienceApologyA PetitionA BlockheadStupidityIronyHappinessThe Last Quarter of the MoonA Tale of StarvationThe ForeignerAbsenceA GiftThe BunglerFool’s Money BagsMiscast IMiscast IIAnticipationVintageThe Tree of Scarlet BerriesObligationThe TaxiThe Giver of StarsThe TempleEpitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success In Answer to a Request Poppy Seed The Great Adventure of Max BreuckSancta Maria, Succurre MiserisAfter Hearing a Waltz by BartokClear, with Light, Variable WindsThe BasketIn a CastleThe Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde The Exeter RoadThe ShadowThe ForsakenLate SeptemberThe PikeThe Blue ScarfWhite and GreenAubadeMusicA LadyIn a GardenA Tulip Garden Sword Blades and Poppy Seed ————————— Sword Blades and Poppy Seed A drifting, April, twilight sky,A wind which blew the puddles dry,And slapped the river into wavesThat ran and hid among the stavesOf an old wharf. A watery lightTouched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold,The city shivered in the cold.All day my thoughts had lain as dead, Unborn and bursting in my head.From time to time I wrote a wordWhich lines and circles overscored. My table seemed a graveyard, fullOf coffins waiting burial.I seized these vile abortions, tore Them into jagged bits, and sworeTo be the dupe of hope no more.Into the evening straight I went,Starved of a day’s accomplishment.Unnoticing, I wandered whereThe city gave a space for air,And on the bridge’s parapetI leant, while pallidly there setA dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.Behind me, where the tramways run,Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, When someone plucked me by the sleeve.“Your pardon, Sir, but I should beMost grateful could you lend to meA carfare, I have lost my purse.”The voice was clear, concise, and terse. I turned and met the quiet gazeOf strange eyes flashing through the haze. The man was old and slightly bent,Under his cloak some instrumentDisarranged its stately line,He rested on his cane a fineAnd nervous hand, an almandineSmouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine It burned in twisted gold, uponHis finger. Like some Spanish don,Conferring favours even whenAsking an alms, he bowed againAnd waited. But my pockets provedEmpty, in vain I poked and shoved,No hidden penny lurking thereGreeted my search. “Sir, I declareI have no money, pray forgive,But let me take you where you live.” And so we plodded through the mireWhere street lamps cast a wavering fire. I took no note of where we went,His talk became the elementWherein my being swam, content.It flashed like rapiers in the night Lit by uncertain candle-light,When on some moon-forsaken swardA quarrel dies upon a sword.It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, And the noise in the air the broad words made Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.Then it would run like a steady stream Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, Or lap the air like the lapping tideWhere a marble staircase lifts its wide Green-spotted steps to a garden gate,And a waning moon is sinking straight Down to a black and ominous sea,While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. I walked as though some opiateHad stung and dulled my brain, a state Acute and slumbrous. It grew late.We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. The old man scratched a match, the spark Lit up the keyhole of a door,We entered straight upon a floorWhite with finest powdered sandCarefully sifted, one might standMuddy and dripping, and yet no trace Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, And a cricket’s chirp filled all the room. My host threw pine-cones on the fireAnd crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre Wrapped in the golden flame’s desire.The chamber opened like an eye,As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy It peered at the stranger warily.A little shop with its various ware Spread on shelves with nicest care.Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, Pipkins, and mugs, and many lotsOf lacquered canisters, black and gold, Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned Against the wall, like ships careened.There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, The carved, white figures fluttering there Like leaves adrift upon the air.Classic in touch, but emasculate,The Greek soul grown effeminate.The factory of Sevres had lentElegant boxes with ornamentCulled from gardens where fountains splashed And golden carp in the shadows flashed,Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, Which ladies threw as the last of fads.Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, Hand on heart, and daintily speltTheir love in flowers, brittle and bright, Artificial and fragile, which told aright The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. The cruder tones of old Dutch jugsGlared from one shelf, where Toby mugs Endlessly drank the foaming ale,Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. The glancing light of the burning woodPlayed over a group of jars which stood On a distant shelf, it seemed the skyHad lent the half-tones of his blazonry To paint these porcelains with unknown hues Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, Of lustres with so evanescent a sheenTheir colours are felt, but never seen. Strange winged dragons writhe aboutThese vases, poisoned venoms spout, Impregnate with old Chinese charms;Sealed urns containing mortal harms, They fill the mind with thoughts impure, Pestilent drippings from the ureOf vicious thinkings. “Ah, I see,”Said I, “you deal in pottery.”The old man turned and looked at me. Shook his head gently. “No,” said he. Then from under his cloak he took the thing Which I had wondered to see him bringGuarded so carefully from sight.As he laid it down it flashed in the light, A Toledo blade, with basket hilt,Damascened with arabesques of gilt, Or rather gold, and tempered soIt could cut a floating thread at a blow. The old man smiled, “It has no sheath,‘Twas a little careless to have it beneath My cloak, for a jostle to my armWould have resulted in serious harm. But it was so fine, I could not wait,So I brought it with me despite its state.” “An amateur of arms,” I thought,“Bringing home a prize which he has bought.” “You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?” “Not in the way which you infer.I need them in business, that is all.” And he pointed his finger at the wall.Then I saw what I had not noticed before. The walls were hung with at least five score Of swords and daggers of every sizeWhich nations of militant men could devise. Poisoned spears from tropic seas,That natives, under banana trees,Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. Blood-dipped arrows, which savages makeAnd tip with feathers, orange and green, A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.High up, a fan of glancing steelWas formed of claymores in a wheel. Jewelled swords worn at kings’ leveesWere suspended next midshipmen’s dirks, and these Elbowed stilettos come from Spain,Chased with some splendid Hidalgo’s name. There were Samurai swords from old Japan, And scimitars from Hindoostan,While the blade of a Turkish yataghan Made a waving streak of vitreous whiteUpon the wall, in the firelight.Foils with buttons broken or lostLay heaped on a chair, among them tossed The boarding-pike of a privateer.Against the chimney leaned a queerTwo-handed weapon, with edges dullAs though from hacking on a skull.The rusted blood corroded it still. My host took up a paper spillFrom a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, And lighted it at a burning coal.At either end of the table, tallWax candles were placed, each in a small, And slim, and burnished candlestickOf pewter. The old man lit each wick, And the room leapt more obviouslyUpon my mind, and I could seeWhat the flickering fire had hid from me. Above the chimney’s yawning throat,Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, Was a mantelshelf of polished oakBlackened with the pungent smokeOf firelit nights; a Cromwell clock Of tarnished brass stood like a rockIn the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea Of every sort of cutlery.There lay knives sharpened to any use, The keenest lancet, and the obtuseAnd blunted pruning bill-hook; blades Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascadesOf penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl Of points and edges, and underneathShot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hearA battle-cry from somewhere near,The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. A smoky cloud had veiled the room,Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom Pounded with shouts and dying groans,With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. Sabres and lances in streaks of lightGleamed through the smoke, and at my right A creese, like a licking serpent’s tongue, Glittered an instant, while it stung.Streams, and points, and lines of fire! The livid steel, which man’s desireHad forged and welded, burned white and cold. Every blade which man could mould,Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear,Or slice, or hack, they all were there. Nerveless and shaking, round and round,I stared at the walls and at the ground, Till the room spun like a whipping top,And a stern voice in my ear said, “Stop! I sell no tools for murderers here.Of what are you thinking! Please clear Your mind of such imaginings.Sit down. I will tell you of these things.” He pushed me into a great chairOf russet leather, poked a flareOf tumbling flame, with the old long sword, Up the chimney; but said no word.Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, And brought back a crock of finest delf. He rested a moment a blue-veined handUpon the cover, then cut a bandOf paper, pasted neatly round,Opened and poured. A sliding soundCame from beneath his old white hands, And I saw a little heap of sands,Black and smooth. What could they be: “Pepper,” I thought. He looked at me.“What you see is poppy seed.Lethean dreams for those in need.”He took up the grains with a gentle hand And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. On his old white finger the almandineShot out its rays, incarnadine.“Visions for those too tired to sleep. These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. No single soul in the world could dwell, Without these poppy-seeds I sell.”For a moment he played with the shining stuff, Passing it through his fingers. EnoughAt last, he poured it back intoThe china jar of Holland blue,Which he carefully carried to its place. Then, with a smile on his aged face,He drew up a chair to the open space ‘Twixt table and chimney. “Without preface, Young man, I will say that what you seeIs not the puzzle you take it to be.” “But surely, Sir, there is something strange In a shop with goods at so wide a rangeEach from the other, as swords and seeds. Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs.” “My neighbours,” he said, and he stroked his chin, “Live everywhere from here to Pekin.But you are wrong, my sort of goods Is but one thing in all its moods.”He took a shagreen letter caseFrom his pocket, and with charming grace Offered me a printed card.I read the legend, “Ephraim Bard.Dealer in Words.” And that was all. I stared at the letters, whimsicalIndeed, or was it merely a jest.He answered my unasked request:“All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words. My firm is a very ancient house,The entries on my books would rouse Your wonder, perhaps incredulity.I inherited from an ancestryStretching remotely back and far,This business, and my clients areAs were those of my grandfather’s days, Writers of books, and poems, and plays.My swords are tempered for every speech, For fencing wit, or to carve a breachThrough old abuses the world condones. In another room are my grindstones and hones, For whetting razors and putting a pointOn daggers, sometimes I even anoint The blades with a subtle poison, soA twofold result may follow the blow. These are purchased by men who feelThe need of stabbing society’s heel, Which egotism has brought them to thinkIs set on their necks. I have foils to pink An adversary to quaint reply,And I have customers who buyScalpels with which to dissect the brains And hearts of men. UltramundanesEven demand some finer kindsTo open their own souls and minds.But the other half of my business deals With visions and fancies. Under seals,Sorted, and placed in vessels here, I keep the seeds of an atmosphere.Each jar contains a different kindOf poppy seed. From farthest IndCome the purple flowers, opium filled, From which the weirdest myths are distilled; My orient porcelains contain them all.Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit;And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat On that lowest shelf beside the door,Have a sort of Ideal, “couleur d’or”. Every castle of the airSleeps in the fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance, or lightWhiff of a dream for a summer night. I supply to every want and taste.”‘Twas slowly said, in no great haste He seemed to push his wares, but IDumfounded listened. By and byA log on the fire broke in two.He looked up quickly, “Sir, and you?” I groped for something I should say;Amazement held me numb. “To-dayYou sweated at a fruitless task.”He spoke for me, “What do you ask?How can I serve you?” “My kind host, My penniless state was not a boast;I have no money with me.” He smiled. “Not for that money I beguiledYou here; you paid me in advance.”Again I felt as though a tranceHad dimmed my faculties. AgainHe spoke, and this time to explain. “The money I demand is Life,Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!” What infamous proposal nowWas made me with so calm a brow?Bursting through my lethargy,Indignantly I hurled the cry:“Is this a nightmare, or am IDrunk with some infernal wine?I am no Faust, and what is mineIs what I call my soul! Old Man!Devil or Ghost! Your hellish planRevolts me. Let me go.” “My child,” And the old tones were very mild,“I have no wish to barter souls;My traffic does not ask such tolls. I am no devil; is there one?Surely the age of fear is gone.We live within a daylight worldLit by the sun, where winds unfurled Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain,And then blow back the sun again.I sell my fancies, or my swords,To those who care far more for words, Ideas, of which they are the sign,Than any other life-design.Who buy of me must simply payTheir whole existence quite away:Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, Their hours from morning till the timeWhen evening comes on tiptoe feet,And losing life, think it complete; Must miss what other men count being,To gain the gift of deeper seeing;Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, All which could hold or bind; must prove The farthest boundaries of thought,And shun no end which these have brought; Then die in satisfaction, knowingThat what was sown was worth the sowing. I claim for all the goods I sellThat they will serve their purpose well, And though you perish, they will live.Full measure for your pay I give.To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. What since has happened is the trainYour toiling brought. I spoke to you For my share of the bargain, due.”“My life! And is that all you crave In pay? What even childhood gave!I have been dedicate from youth.Before my God I speak the truth!”Fatigue, excitement of the pastFew hours broke me down at last.All day I had forgot to eat,My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. I bowed my head and felt the stormPlough shattering through my prostrate form. The tearless sobs tore at my heart.My host withdrew himself apart;Busied among his crockery,He paid no farther heed to me.Exhausted, spent, I huddled there,Within the arms of the old carved chair. A long half-hour dragged away,And then I heard a kind voice say,“The day will soon be dawning, when You must begin to work again.Here are the things which you require.” By the fading light of the dying fire,And by the guttering candle’s flare, I saw the old man standing there.He handed me a packet, tiedWith crimson tape, and sealed. “Inside Are seeds of many differing flowers,To occupy your utmost powersOf storied vision, and these swords Are the finest which my shop affords.Go home and use them; do not spareYourself; let that be all your care. Whatever you have means to buyBe very sure I can supply.”He slowly walked to the window, flung It open, and in the grey air rungThe sound of distant matin bells.I took my parcels. Then, as tellsAn ancient mumbling monk his beads, I tried to thank for his courteous deeds My strange old friend. “Nay, do not talk,” He urged me, “you have a long walkBefore you. Good-by and Good-day!”And gently sped upon my wayI stumbled out in the morning hush, As down the empty street a flushRan level from the rising sun.Another day was just begun. Sword Blades ———— The Captured Goddess Over the housetops,Above the rotating chimney-pots,I have seen a shiver of amethyst,And blue and cinnamon have flickered A moment,At the far end of a dusty street. Through sheeted rainHas come a lustre of crimson,And I have watched moonbeamsHushed by a film of palest green. It was her wings,Goddess!Who stepped over the clouds,And laid her rainbow feathersAslant on the currents of the air. I followed her for long,With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. I cared not where she led me,My eyes were full of colours:Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, And the indigo-blue of quartz;Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, Points of orange, spirals of vermilion,The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas.I followed,And watched for the flashing of her wings. In the city I found her,The narrow-streeted city.In the market-place I came upon her, Bound and trembling.Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, She was naked and cold,For that day the wind blewWithout sunshine. Men chaffered for her,They bargained in silver and gold,In copper, in wheat,And called their bids across the market-place. The Goddess wept. Hiding my face I fled,And the grey wind hissed behind me, Along the narrow streets. The Precinct. Rochester The tall yellow hollyhocks stand,Still and straight,With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine.And still is the old Roman wall,Rough with jagged bits of flint,And jutting stones,Old and cragged,Quite still in its antiquity.The pear-trees press their branches against it, And feeling it warm and kindly,The little pears ripen to yellow and red. They hang heavy, bursting with juice,Against the wall.So old, so still! The sky is still.The clouds make no soundAs they slide awayBeyond the Cathedral Tower,To the river,And the sea.It is very quiet,Very sunny.The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, But make no sound.The roses push their little tendrils up, And climb higher and higher.In spots they have climbed over the wall. But they are very still,They do not seem to move.And the old wall carries themWithout effort, and quietlyRipens and shields the vines and blossoms. A bird in a plane-treeSings a few notes,Cadenced and perfectThey weave into the silence.The Cathedral bell knocks,One, two, three, and again,And then again.It is a quiet sound,Calling to prayer,Hardly scattering the stillness,Only making it close in more densely. The gardener picks ripe gooseberriesFor the Dean’s supper to-night.It is very quiet,Very regulated and mellow.But the wall is old,It has known many days.It is a Roman wall,Left-over and forgotten. Beyond the Cathedral CloseYelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, Not well-regulated.People who care more for bread than for beauty, Who would break the tombs of saints,And give the painted windows of churches To their children for toys.People who say:“They are dead, we live!The world is for the living.” Fools! It is always the dead who breed. Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, Yet its seeds shall fructify,And trees rise where your huts were standing. But the little people are ignorant,They chaffer, and swarm.They gnaw like rats,And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. The Dean is in the Chapter House;He is reading the architect’s billFor the completed restoration of the Cathedral. He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, And then he will walk up and down the path By the wall,And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, Thinking how quiet and peacefulThe garden is.The old wall will watch him,Very quietly and patiently it will watch. For the wall is old,It is a Roman wall. The Cyclists Spread on the roadway,With open-blown jackets,Like black, soaring pinions,They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumagedBirds, after carrion,Careening and circling,Over the dying Of England. She lies with her bosomBeneath them, no longerThe Dominant Mother,The Virile — but rotting Before time. The smell of her, tainted,Has bitten their nostrils.Exultant they hover,And shadow the sun with Foreboding. Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin’s Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah’s ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. They have watered the street,It shines in the glare of lamps,Cold, white lamps,And liesLike a slow-moving river,Barred with silver and black.Cabs go down it,One,And then another.Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges,Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister,With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving,A river leading nowhere. Opposite my window,The moon cuts,Clear and round,Through the plum-coloured night.She cannot light the city;It is too bright.It has white lamps,And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless,But I love her.I know the moon,And this is an alien city. Astigmatism To Ezra Pound With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion The Poet took his walking-stickOf fine and polished ebony.Set in the close-grained woodWere quaint devices;Patterns in ambers,And in the clouded green of jades.The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, And a tassel of tarnished goldHung by a faded cord from a holePierced in the hard wood,Circled with silver.For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. His wealth had gone to enrich it,His experiences to pattern it,His labour to fashion and burnish it. To him it was perfect,A work of art and a weapon,A delight and a defence.The Poet took his walking-stickAnd walked abroad. Peace be with you, Brother. The Poet came to a meadow.Sifted through the grass were daisies, Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. The Poet struck them with his cane.The little heads flew off, and they lay Dying, open-mouthed and wondering,On the hard ground.“They are useless. They are not roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. The Poet came to a stream.Purple and blue flags waded in the water; In among them hopped the speckled frogs; The wind slid through them, rustling.The Poet lifted his cane,And the iris heads fell into the water. They floated away, torn and drowning.“Wretched flowers,” said the Poet,“They are not roses.” Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. The Poet came to a garden.Dahlias ripened against a wall,Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, And a trumpet-vine covered an arbourWith the red and gold of its blossoms. Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. Red and gold they lay scattered,Red and gold, as on a battle field; Red and gold, prone and dying.“They were not roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother.But behind you is destruction, and waste places. The Poet came home at evening,And in the candle-lightHe wiped and polished his cane.The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, And made the jades undulate like green pools. It played along the bright ebony,And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. But these things were dead,Only the candle-light made them seem to move. “It is a pity there were no roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. The Coal Picker He perches in the slime, inert,Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.The oil upon the puddles driesTo colours like a peacock’s eyes,And half-submerged tomato-cansShine scaly, as leviathansOozily crawling through the mud.The ground is here and there bestud With lumps of only part-burned coal.His duty is to glean the whole,To pick them from the filth, each one, To hoard them for the hidden sunWhich glows within each fiery coreAnd waits to be made free once more. Their sharp and glistening edges cutHis stiffened fingers. Through the smut Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. Wet through and shivering he kneelsAnd digs the slippery coals; like eels They slide about. His force all spent,He counts his small accomplishment. A half-a-dozen clinker-coalsWhich still have fire in their souls. Fire! And in his thought there burnsThe topaz fire of votive urns.He sees it fling from hill to hill, And still consumed, is burning still.Higher and higher leaps the flame,The smoke an ever-shifting frame.He sees a Spanish Castle old,With silver steps and paths of gold. From myrtle bowers comes the plashOf fountains, and the emerald flash Of parrots in the orange trees,Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. He knows he feeds the urns whose smokeBears visions, that his master-stroke Is out of dirt and miseryTo light the fire of poesy.He sees the glory, yet he knowsThat others cannot see his shows.To them his smoke is sightless, black, His votive vessels but a packOf old discarded shards, his fireA peddler’s; still to him the pyreIs incensed, an enduring goal!He sighs and grubs another coal. Storm-Racked How should I sing when buffeting salt waves And stung with bitter surges, in whose might I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night Marshals its undefeated dark and ravesIn brutal madness, reeling over graves Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. No parting cloud reveals a watery star, My cries are washed away upon the wind, My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, My eyes with hope o’erstrained, are growing blind. But painted on the sky great visions burn, My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! Convalescence From out the dragging vastness of the sea, Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands One moment, white and dripping, silently, Cut like a cameo in lazuli, Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands Prone in the jeering water, and his hands Clutch for support where no support can be. So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And sandflies dance their little lives away. The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. Patience Be patient with you? When the stooping skyLeans down upon the hillsAnd tenderly, as one who soothing stills An anguish, gathers earth to lieEmbraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When the snow-girt earthCracks to let through a spurtOf sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worthTo eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When pain’s iron barsTheir rivets tighten, sternTo bend and break their victims; as they turn, Hopeless, there stand the purple jarsOf night to spill oblivion. Do these men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? You! My sun and moon!My basketful of flowers!My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, Windless and still, of afternoon!You are my world and I your citizen. What meaning can have patience then? Apology Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by. Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds. Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town. Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell impearled. You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed. A Petition I pray to be the tool which to your hand Long use has shaped and moulded till it be Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, You take it for its service. I demandTo be forgotten in the woven strand Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, The railing to the stairway of the clouds, To guard your steps securely up, where streams A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. A Blockhead Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, Unseparated atoms, and I must Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, There are none, ever. As a monk who prays The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust Each tasteless particle aside, and just Begin again the task which never stays. And I have known a glory of great suns, When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty handThrew down the cup, and did not understand. Stupidity Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch I broke and bruised your rose. I hardly could supposeIt were a thing so fragile that my clutch Could kill it, thus. It stood so proudly up upon its stem, I knew no thought of fear, And coming very nearFell, overbalanced, to your garment’s hem, Tearing it down. Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, The crimson petals, all Outspread about my fall.They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone Of memory. And with my words I carve a little jar To keep their scented dust, Which, opening, you mustBreathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far More grieved than you. Irony An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease. Happiness Happiness, to some, elation;Is, to others, mere stagnation.Days of passive somnolence,At its wildest, indolence.Hours of empty quietness,No delight, and no distress. Happiness to me is wine,Effervescent, superfine.Full of tang and fiery pleasure,Far too hot to leave me leisureFor a single thought beyond it.Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it Means to give one’s soul to gainLife’s quintessence. Even painPricks to livelier living, thenWakes the nerves to laugh again,Rapture’s self is three parts sorrow. Although we must die to-morrow,Losing every thought but this;Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. Happiness: We rarely feel it.I would buy it, beg it, steal it,Pay in coins of dripping bloodFor this one transcendent good. The Last Quarter of the Moon How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, A spatter of rust on its polished steel! The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel.Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn’s knees. A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees,The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. Like dogs unleashed After a beast,They stream on the sky, an outflung string. A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guestsCrowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. I have not quailed, I was all unmailedAnd naked I strove, ’tis my only vaunt. The moon drops into the silver dayAs waking out of her swoon she comes. I hear the drums Of millenniumsBeating the mornings I still must stay. The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair,The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. An atom tossed in a chaos madeOf yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home?I hear no answer. I am afraid! I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing deathThis fight for a God, or this devil’s game. A Tale of Starvation There once was a man whom the gods didn’t love, And a disagreeable man was he.He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, And he cursed eternally. He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, And he blasted the winds in the sky.He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, And he raved at the birds as they fly. His oaths were many, and his range was wide, He swore in fancy ways;But his meaning was plain: that no created thing Was other than a hurt to his gaze. He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, And windows toward the hill there were none, And on the other side they were white-washed thick, To keep out every spark of the sun. When he went to market he walked all the way Blaspheming at the path he trod.He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, By all the names he knew of God. For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, And his hopes had curdled in his breast. His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over For the chinking money-bags she liked best. The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, The deer had trampled on his corn,His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, And his sheep had died unshorn. His hens wouldn’t lay, and his cow broke loose, And his old horse perished of a colic.In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes By little, glutton mice on a frolic. So he slowly lost all he ever had, And the blood in his body dried.Shrunken and mean he still lived on, And cursed that future which had lied. One day he was digging, a spade or two, As his aching back could lift,When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, And to get it out he made great shift. So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, And the veins in his forehead stood taut. At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, He gathered up what he had sought. A dim old vase of crusted glass, Prismed while it lay buried deep.Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon’s neck, At the touch of the sun began to leap. It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; Flashing like an opal-stone,Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, Where at first there had seemed to be none. It had handles on each side to bear it up, And a belly for the gurgling wine.Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, And its lip was curled and fine. The old man saw it in the sun’s bright stare And the colours started up through the crust, And he who had cursed at the yellow sun Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, And the sun shone without his sneer. Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, But it was only grey in the gloom.So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, And he went outside with a broom. And he washed his windows just to let the sun Lie upon his new-found vase;And when evening came, he moved it down And put it on a table near the place Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. The old man forgot to swear,Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, Dancing in the kitchen there. He forgot to revile the sun next morning When he found his vase afire in its light. And he carried it out of the house that day, And kept it close beside him until night. And so it happened from day to day. The old man fed his lifeOn the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. And his soul forgot its former strife. And the village-folk came and begged to see The flagon which was dug from the ground. And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy At showing what he had found. One day the master of the village school Passed him as he stooped at toil,Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. “My friend,” said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, “That’s a valuable thing you have there, But it might get broken out of doors, It should meet with the utmost care. What are you doing with it out here?” “Why, Sir,” said the poor old man,“I like to have it about, do you see? To be with it all I can.” “You will smash it,” said the schoolmaster, sternly right, “Mark my words and see!”And he walked away, while the old man looked At his treasure despondingly. Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! He had toiled for it, and now he cared. Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, Which his own hard work had bared. He would carry it round with him everywhere, As it gave him joy to do.A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! Who would dare to say so? Who? Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, And he bent to his hoe again. . . .A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, And he lurched with a cry of pain. For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. The old man’s body heaved with slow, dry sobs. He did not curse, he had no words. He gathered the fragments, one by one, And his fingers were cut and torn.Then he made a hole in the very place Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. He covered the hole, and he patted it down, Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows That no beam of light should cross the floor. He sat down in front of the empty hearth, And he neither ate nor drank.In three days they found him, dead and cold, And they said: “What a queer old crank!” The Foreigner Have at you, you Devils! My back’s to this tree,For you’re nothing so nice That the hind-side of meWould escape your assault. Come on now, all three! Here’s a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point,And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint.A spatter of blood, man! That’s just to anoint And make supple your limbs. ‘Tis a pity the silkOf your waistcoat is stained. Why! Your heart’s full of milk,And so full, it spills over! I’m not of your ilk. You said so, and laughed At my old-fashioned hose,At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose.To carve it to pattern I think you propose. Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my swordAre proving themselves In quite perfect accord.I grieve to have spotted Your shirt. On my word! And hullo! You Bully! That blade’s not a stickTo slash right and left, And my skull is too thickTo be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword. Now a lick Down the side of your face. What a pretty, red line!Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour. Don’t whineThat a stranger has marked you. * * * * * The tree’s there, You Swine! Did you think to get in At the back, while your friendsMade a little diversion In front? So it ends,With your sword clattering down On the ground. ‘Tis amends I make for your courteous Reception of me,A foreigner, landed From over the sea.Your welcome was fervent I think you’ll agree. My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hairOiled and scented, my jacket’s Not satin, I wearCorded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare! So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man,And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span‘Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men’s can. I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots,And my interests range From the sky, to the rootsOf this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree! Here’s at you, once more.You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door,And jeer at my ways, But you’re pinked to the core. And before I have done, I will prick my name inWith the front of my steel, And your lily-white skinShall be printed with me. For I’ve come here to win! Absence My cup is empty to-night,Cold and dry are its sides,Chilled by the wind from the open window. Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms.They sway in the moon’s radianceAnd tap against the wall.But the cup of my heart is still,And cold, and empty. When you come, it brimsRed and trembling with blood,Heart’s blood for your drinking;To fill your mouth with loveAnd the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. A Gift See! I give myself to you, Beloved!My words are little jarsFor you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them.Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me,But I shall be dead. The Bungler You glow in my heartLike the flames of uncounted candles. But when I go to warm my hands,My clumsiness overturns the light,And then I stumbleAgainst the tables and chairs. Fool’s Money Bags Outside the long window,With his head on the stone sill,The dog is lying,Gazing at his Beloved.His eyes are wet and urgent,And his body is taut and shaking.It is cold on the terrace;A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glassAnd is content. The Beloved is writing a letter.Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy? Miscast I I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, So sharp that the air would turn its edge Were it to be twisted in flight.Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, And the mark of them lies, in and out,Worm-like,With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. My brain is curved like a scimitar,And sighs at its cuttingLike a sickle mowing grass. But of what use is all this to me!I, who am set to crack stonesIn a country lane! Miscast II My heart is like a cleft pomegranateBleeding crimson seedsAnd dripping them on the ground.My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, And its seeds are bursting from it. But how is this other than a torment to me! I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, In a dark closet! Anticipation I have been temperate always,But I am like to be very drunkWith your coming.There have been timesI feared to walk down the streetLest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighboursAs they go by.I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisyWith the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. Vintage I will mix me a drink of stars, —Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,Cool, quiet, green stars.I will tear them out of the sky,And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. It will lap and scratchAs I swallow it down;And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly.His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh,Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. The Tree of Scarlet Berries The rain gullies the garden pathsAnd tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit,Filmed over with moisture.It seems as though the rain,Dripping from it,Should be tinged with colour.I desire the berries,But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. Probably, too, they are bitter. Obligation Hold your apron wideThat I may pour my gifts into it,So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them From falling to the ground. I would pour them upon youAnd cover you,For greatly do I feel this needOf giving you something,Even these poor things. Dearest of my Heart! The Taxi When I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? The Giver of Stars Hold your soul open for my welcoming. Let the quiet of your spirit bathe meWith its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame,And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world,And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. The Temple Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew And vanished in the sunshine. How it came We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew Together into fire. But we knewThe winds would slap and quench it in their game. And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks To treasure it, and placed them round about. With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, The baffled winds thrust at a column’s bole. Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success Beneath this sod lie the remainsOf one who died of growing pains. In Answer to a Request You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere?

title: “Sword Blades And Poppy Seed By Amy Lowell " ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-26” author: “Eleanora Verdi”

Sword Blades and Poppy Seedby Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet, 1874-1925.] [Note on text: Italicized stanzas or sections are marked by tildes (~). Other italics are capitalized. Lines longer than 78 characters have been cut and continued on the next line, which is indented 2 spaces unless in a prose poem.] Sword Blades and Poppy Seedby Amy Lowell ~”Face invisible! je t’ai grave/e en me/dailles D’argent doux comme l’aube pa^le,D’or ardent comme le soleil,D’airain sombre comme la nuit;Il y en a de tout me/tal,Qui tintent clair comme la joie,Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire,Comme l’amour, comme la mort;Et j’ai fait les plus belles de belle argile Se\che et fragile. “Une a\ une, vous les comptiez en souriant, Et vous disiez: Il est habile;Et vous passiez en souriant. “Aucun de vous n’a donc vuQue mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, Que tout le grand songe terrestreVivait en moi pour vivre en euxQue je gravais aux me/taux pieux,Mes Dieux.”~ Henri de Re/gnier, “Les Me/dailles d’Argile”. Preface No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing. In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we are from “admitting the Universe”! The Universe, which flings down its continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung! For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parnassian School, although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time. Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness. Before the works of Parnassians like Leconte de Lisle, and Jose/-Maria de Heredia, or those of Henri de Re/gnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand rebuked. Indeed — “They order this matter better in France.” It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word “daybreak”, for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said “daybreak” so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought. Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call “Vers Libre”, a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in “unrhymed cadence”, for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They are built upon “organic rhythm”, or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his “Poems”, Henley speaks of “those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme.” The desire to “quintessentialize”, to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly “unrhymed cadence” is unique in its power of expressing this. Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment. But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more classic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot. In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves. Amy Lowell.May 19, 1914. Contents Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Sword Blades The Captured GoddessThe Precinct. RochesterThe CyclistsSunshine through a Cobwebbed Window A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.AstigmatismThe Coal PickerStorm-RackedConvalescencePatienceApologyA PetitionA BlockheadStupidityIronyHappinessThe Last Quarter of the MoonA Tale of StarvationThe ForeignerAbsenceA GiftThe BunglerFool’s Money BagsMiscast IMiscast IIAnticipationVintageThe Tree of Scarlet BerriesObligationThe TaxiThe Giver of StarsThe TempleEpitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success In Answer to a Request Poppy Seed The Great Adventure of Max BreuckSancta Maria, Succurre MiserisAfter Hearing a Waltz by BartokClear, with Light, Variable WindsThe BasketIn a CastleThe Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde The Exeter RoadThe ShadowThe ForsakenLate SeptemberThe PikeThe Blue ScarfWhite and GreenAubadeMusicA LadyIn a GardenA Tulip Garden Sword Blades and Poppy Seed ————————— Sword Blades and Poppy Seed A drifting, April, twilight sky,A wind which blew the puddles dry,And slapped the river into wavesThat ran and hid among the stavesOf an old wharf. A watery lightTouched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold,The city shivered in the cold.All day my thoughts had lain as dead, Unborn and bursting in my head.From time to time I wrote a wordWhich lines and circles overscored. My table seemed a graveyard, fullOf coffins waiting burial.I seized these vile abortions, tore Them into jagged bits, and sworeTo be the dupe of hope no more.Into the evening straight I went,Starved of a day’s accomplishment.Unnoticing, I wandered whereThe city gave a space for air,And on the bridge’s parapetI leant, while pallidly there setA dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.Behind me, where the tramways run,Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, When someone plucked me by the sleeve.“Your pardon, Sir, but I should beMost grateful could you lend to meA carfare, I have lost my purse.”The voice was clear, concise, and terse. I turned and met the quiet gazeOf strange eyes flashing through the haze. The man was old and slightly bent,Under his cloak some instrumentDisarranged its stately line,He rested on his cane a fineAnd nervous hand, an almandineSmouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine It burned in twisted gold, uponHis finger. Like some Spanish don,Conferring favours even whenAsking an alms, he bowed againAnd waited. But my pockets provedEmpty, in vain I poked and shoved,No hidden penny lurking thereGreeted my search. “Sir, I declareI have no money, pray forgive,But let me take you where you live.” And so we plodded through the mireWhere street lamps cast a wavering fire. I took no note of where we went,His talk became the elementWherein my being swam, content.It flashed like rapiers in the night Lit by uncertain candle-light,When on some moon-forsaken swardA quarrel dies upon a sword.It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, And the noise in the air the broad words made Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.Then it would run like a steady stream Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, Or lap the air like the lapping tideWhere a marble staircase lifts its wide Green-spotted steps to a garden gate,And a waning moon is sinking straight Down to a black and ominous sea,While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree. I walked as though some opiateHad stung and dulled my brain, a state Acute and slumbrous. It grew late.We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. The old man scratched a match, the spark Lit up the keyhole of a door,We entered straight upon a floorWhite with finest powdered sandCarefully sifted, one might standMuddy and dripping, and yet no trace Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, And a cricket’s chirp filled all the room. My host threw pine-cones on the fireAnd crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre Wrapped in the golden flame’s desire.The chamber opened like an eye,As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy It peered at the stranger warily.A little shop with its various ware Spread on shelves with nicest care.Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, Pipkins, and mugs, and many lotsOf lacquered canisters, black and gold, Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned Against the wall, like ships careened.There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, The carved, white figures fluttering there Like leaves adrift upon the air.Classic in touch, but emasculate,The Greek soul grown effeminate.The factory of Sevres had lentElegant boxes with ornamentCulled from gardens where fountains splashed And golden carp in the shadows flashed,Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, Which ladies threw as the last of fads.Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, Hand on heart, and daintily speltTheir love in flowers, brittle and bright, Artificial and fragile, which told aright The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. The cruder tones of old Dutch jugsGlared from one shelf, where Toby mugs Endlessly drank the foaming ale,Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. The glancing light of the burning woodPlayed over a group of jars which stood On a distant shelf, it seemed the skyHad lent the half-tones of his blazonry To paint these porcelains with unknown hues Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, Of lustres with so evanescent a sheenTheir colours are felt, but never seen. Strange winged dragons writhe aboutThese vases, poisoned venoms spout, Impregnate with old Chinese charms;Sealed urns containing mortal harms, They fill the mind with thoughts impure, Pestilent drippings from the ureOf vicious thinkings. “Ah, I see,”Said I, “you deal in pottery.”The old man turned and looked at me. Shook his head gently. “No,” said he. Then from under his cloak he took the thing Which I had wondered to see him bringGuarded so carefully from sight.As he laid it down it flashed in the light, A Toledo blade, with basket hilt,Damascened with arabesques of gilt, Or rather gold, and tempered soIt could cut a floating thread at a blow. The old man smiled, “It has no sheath,‘Twas a little careless to have it beneath My cloak, for a jostle to my armWould have resulted in serious harm. But it was so fine, I could not wait,So I brought it with me despite its state.” “An amateur of arms,” I thought,“Bringing home a prize which he has bought.” “You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?” “Not in the way which you infer.I need them in business, that is all.” And he pointed his finger at the wall.Then I saw what I had not noticed before. The walls were hung with at least five score Of swords and daggers of every sizeWhich nations of militant men could devise. Poisoned spears from tropic seas,That natives, under banana trees,Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. Blood-dipped arrows, which savages makeAnd tip with feathers, orange and green, A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.High up, a fan of glancing steelWas formed of claymores in a wheel. Jewelled swords worn at kings’ leveesWere suspended next midshipmen’s dirks, and these Elbowed stilettos come from Spain,Chased with some splendid Hidalgo’s name. There were Samurai swords from old Japan, And scimitars from Hindoostan,While the blade of a Turkish yataghan Made a waving streak of vitreous whiteUpon the wall, in the firelight.Foils with buttons broken or lostLay heaped on a chair, among them tossed The boarding-pike of a privateer.Against the chimney leaned a queerTwo-handed weapon, with edges dullAs though from hacking on a skull.The rusted blood corroded it still. My host took up a paper spillFrom a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, And lighted it at a burning coal.At either end of the table, tallWax candles were placed, each in a small, And slim, and burnished candlestickOf pewter. The old man lit each wick, And the room leapt more obviouslyUpon my mind, and I could seeWhat the flickering fire had hid from me. Above the chimney’s yawning throat,Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, Was a mantelshelf of polished oakBlackened with the pungent smokeOf firelit nights; a Cromwell clock Of tarnished brass stood like a rockIn the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea Of every sort of cutlery.There lay knives sharpened to any use, The keenest lancet, and the obtuseAnd blunted pruning bill-hook; blades Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascadesOf penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl Of points and edges, and underneathShot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hearA battle-cry from somewhere near,The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. A smoky cloud had veiled the room,Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom Pounded with shouts and dying groans,With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. Sabres and lances in streaks of lightGleamed through the smoke, and at my right A creese, like a licking serpent’s tongue, Glittered an instant, while it stung.Streams, and points, and lines of fire! The livid steel, which man’s desireHad forged and welded, burned white and cold. Every blade which man could mould,Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear,Or slice, or hack, they all were there. Nerveless and shaking, round and round,I stared at the walls and at the ground, Till the room spun like a whipping top,And a stern voice in my ear said, “Stop! I sell no tools for murderers here.Of what are you thinking! Please clear Your mind of such imaginings.Sit down. I will tell you of these things.” He pushed me into a great chairOf russet leather, poked a flareOf tumbling flame, with the old long sword, Up the chimney; but said no word.Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, And brought back a crock of finest delf. He rested a moment a blue-veined handUpon the cover, then cut a bandOf paper, pasted neatly round,Opened and poured. A sliding soundCame from beneath his old white hands, And I saw a little heap of sands,Black and smooth. What could they be: “Pepper,” I thought. He looked at me.“What you see is poppy seed.Lethean dreams for those in need.”He took up the grains with a gentle hand And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. On his old white finger the almandineShot out its rays, incarnadine.“Visions for those too tired to sleep. These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. No single soul in the world could dwell, Without these poppy-seeds I sell.”For a moment he played with the shining stuff, Passing it through his fingers. EnoughAt last, he poured it back intoThe china jar of Holland blue,Which he carefully carried to its place. Then, with a smile on his aged face,He drew up a chair to the open space ‘Twixt table and chimney. “Without preface, Young man, I will say that what you seeIs not the puzzle you take it to be.” “But surely, Sir, there is something strange In a shop with goods at so wide a rangeEach from the other, as swords and seeds. Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs.” “My neighbours,” he said, and he stroked his chin, “Live everywhere from here to Pekin.But you are wrong, my sort of goods Is but one thing in all its moods.”He took a shagreen letter caseFrom his pocket, and with charming grace Offered me a printed card.I read the legend, “Ephraim Bard.Dealer in Words.” And that was all. I stared at the letters, whimsicalIndeed, or was it merely a jest.He answered my unasked request:“All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words. My firm is a very ancient house,The entries on my books would rouse Your wonder, perhaps incredulity.I inherited from an ancestryStretching remotely back and far,This business, and my clients areAs were those of my grandfather’s days, Writers of books, and poems, and plays.My swords are tempered for every speech, For fencing wit, or to carve a breachThrough old abuses the world condones. In another room are my grindstones and hones, For whetting razors and putting a pointOn daggers, sometimes I even anoint The blades with a subtle poison, soA twofold result may follow the blow. These are purchased by men who feelThe need of stabbing society’s heel, Which egotism has brought them to thinkIs set on their necks. I have foils to pink An adversary to quaint reply,And I have customers who buyScalpels with which to dissect the brains And hearts of men. UltramundanesEven demand some finer kindsTo open their own souls and minds.But the other half of my business deals With visions and fancies. Under seals,Sorted, and placed in vessels here, I keep the seeds of an atmosphere.Each jar contains a different kindOf poppy seed. From farthest IndCome the purple flowers, opium filled, From which the weirdest myths are distilled; My orient porcelains contain them all.Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit;And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat On that lowest shelf beside the door,Have a sort of Ideal, “couleur d’or”. Every castle of the airSleeps in the fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance, or lightWhiff of a dream for a summer night. I supply to every want and taste.”‘Twas slowly said, in no great haste He seemed to push his wares, but IDumfounded listened. By and byA log on the fire broke in two.He looked up quickly, “Sir, and you?” I groped for something I should say;Amazement held me numb. “To-dayYou sweated at a fruitless task.”He spoke for me, “What do you ask?How can I serve you?” “My kind host, My penniless state was not a boast;I have no money with me.” He smiled. “Not for that money I beguiledYou here; you paid me in advance.”Again I felt as though a tranceHad dimmed my faculties. AgainHe spoke, and this time to explain. “The money I demand is Life,Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!” What infamous proposal nowWas made me with so calm a brow?Bursting through my lethargy,Indignantly I hurled the cry:“Is this a nightmare, or am IDrunk with some infernal wine?I am no Faust, and what is mineIs what I call my soul! Old Man!Devil or Ghost! Your hellish planRevolts me. Let me go.” “My child,” And the old tones were very mild,“I have no wish to barter souls;My traffic does not ask such tolls. I am no devil; is there one?Surely the age of fear is gone.We live within a daylight worldLit by the sun, where winds unfurled Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain,And then blow back the sun again.I sell my fancies, or my swords,To those who care far more for words, Ideas, of which they are the sign,Than any other life-design.Who buy of me must simply payTheir whole existence quite away:Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, Their hours from morning till the timeWhen evening comes on tiptoe feet,And losing life, think it complete; Must miss what other men count being,To gain the gift of deeper seeing;Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, All which could hold or bind; must prove The farthest boundaries of thought,And shun no end which these have brought; Then die in satisfaction, knowingThat what was sown was worth the sowing. I claim for all the goods I sellThat they will serve their purpose well, And though you perish, they will live.Full measure for your pay I give.To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. What since has happened is the trainYour toiling brought. I spoke to you For my share of the bargain, due.”“My life! And is that all you crave In pay? What even childhood gave!I have been dedicate from youth.Before my God I speak the truth!”Fatigue, excitement of the pastFew hours broke me down at last.All day I had forgot to eat,My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. I bowed my head and felt the stormPlough shattering through my prostrate form. The tearless sobs tore at my heart.My host withdrew himself apart;Busied among his crockery,He paid no farther heed to me.Exhausted, spent, I huddled there,Within the arms of the old carved chair. A long half-hour dragged away,And then I heard a kind voice say,“The day will soon be dawning, when You must begin to work again.Here are the things which you require.” By the fading light of the dying fire,And by the guttering candle’s flare, I saw the old man standing there.He handed me a packet, tiedWith crimson tape, and sealed. “Inside Are seeds of many differing flowers,To occupy your utmost powersOf storied vision, and these swords Are the finest which my shop affords.Go home and use them; do not spareYourself; let that be all your care. Whatever you have means to buyBe very sure I can supply.”He slowly walked to the window, flung It open, and in the grey air rungThe sound of distant matin bells.I took my parcels. Then, as tellsAn ancient mumbling monk his beads, I tried to thank for his courteous deeds My strange old friend. “Nay, do not talk,” He urged me, “you have a long walkBefore you. Good-by and Good-day!”And gently sped upon my wayI stumbled out in the morning hush, As down the empty street a flushRan level from the rising sun.Another day was just begun. Sword Blades ———— The Captured Goddess Over the housetops,Above the rotating chimney-pots,I have seen a shiver of amethyst,And blue and cinnamon have flickered A moment,At the far end of a dusty street. Through sheeted rainHas come a lustre of crimson,And I have watched moonbeamsHushed by a film of palest green. It was her wings,Goddess!Who stepped over the clouds,And laid her rainbow feathersAslant on the currents of the air. I followed her for long,With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. I cared not where she led me,My eyes were full of colours:Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, And the indigo-blue of quartz;Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, Points of orange, spirals of vermilion,The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas.I followed,And watched for the flashing of her wings. In the city I found her,The narrow-streeted city.In the market-place I came upon her, Bound and trembling.Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, She was naked and cold,For that day the wind blewWithout sunshine. Men chaffered for her,They bargained in silver and gold,In copper, in wheat,And called their bids across the market-place. The Goddess wept. Hiding my face I fled,And the grey wind hissed behind me, Along the narrow streets. The Precinct. Rochester The tall yellow hollyhocks stand,Still and straight,With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine.And still is the old Roman wall,Rough with jagged bits of flint,And jutting stones,Old and cragged,Quite still in its antiquity.The pear-trees press their branches against it, And feeling it warm and kindly,The little pears ripen to yellow and red. They hang heavy, bursting with juice,Against the wall.So old, so still! The sky is still.The clouds make no soundAs they slide awayBeyond the Cathedral Tower,To the river,And the sea.It is very quiet,Very sunny.The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, But make no sound.The roses push their little tendrils up, And climb higher and higher.In spots they have climbed over the wall. But they are very still,They do not seem to move.And the old wall carries themWithout effort, and quietlyRipens and shields the vines and blossoms. A bird in a plane-treeSings a few notes,Cadenced and perfectThey weave into the silence.The Cathedral bell knocks,One, two, three, and again,And then again.It is a quiet sound,Calling to prayer,Hardly scattering the stillness,Only making it close in more densely. The gardener picks ripe gooseberriesFor the Dean’s supper to-night.It is very quiet,Very regulated and mellow.But the wall is old,It has known many days.It is a Roman wall,Left-over and forgotten. Beyond the Cathedral CloseYelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, Not well-regulated.People who care more for bread than for beauty, Who would break the tombs of saints,And give the painted windows of churches To their children for toys.People who say:“They are dead, we live!The world is for the living.” Fools! It is always the dead who breed. Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, Yet its seeds shall fructify,And trees rise where your huts were standing. But the little people are ignorant,They chaffer, and swarm.They gnaw like rats,And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed. The Dean is in the Chapter House;He is reading the architect’s billFor the completed restoration of the Cathedral. He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, And then he will walk up and down the path By the wall,And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, Thinking how quiet and peacefulThe garden is.The old wall will watch him,Very quietly and patiently it will watch. For the wall is old,It is a Roman wall. The Cyclists Spread on the roadway,With open-blown jackets,Like black, soaring pinions,They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumagedBirds, after carrion,Careening and circling,Over the dying Of England. She lies with her bosomBeneath them, no longerThe Dominant Mother,The Virile — but rotting Before time. The smell of her, tainted,Has bitten their nostrils.Exultant they hover,And shadow the sun with Foreboding. Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries. Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze. Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin’s Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah’s ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk. They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung. A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. They have watered the street,It shines in the glare of lamps,Cold, white lamps,And liesLike a slow-moving river,Barred with silver and black.Cabs go down it,One,And then another.Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges,Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister,With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving,A river leading nowhere. Opposite my window,The moon cuts,Clear and round,Through the plum-coloured night.She cannot light the city;It is too bright.It has white lamps,And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless,But I love her.I know the moon,And this is an alien city. Astigmatism To Ezra Pound With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion The Poet took his walking-stickOf fine and polished ebony.Set in the close-grained woodWere quaint devices;Patterns in ambers,And in the clouded green of jades.The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, And a tassel of tarnished goldHung by a faded cord from a holePierced in the hard wood,Circled with silver.For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. His wealth had gone to enrich it,His experiences to pattern it,His labour to fashion and burnish it. To him it was perfect,A work of art and a weapon,A delight and a defence.The Poet took his walking-stickAnd walked abroad. Peace be with you, Brother. The Poet came to a meadow.Sifted through the grass were daisies, Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. The Poet struck them with his cane.The little heads flew off, and they lay Dying, open-mouthed and wondering,On the hard ground.“They are useless. They are not roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. The Poet came to a stream.Purple and blue flags waded in the water; In among them hopped the speckled frogs; The wind slid through them, rustling.The Poet lifted his cane,And the iris heads fell into the water. They floated away, torn and drowning.“Wretched flowers,” said the Poet,“They are not roses.” Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. The Poet came to a garden.Dahlias ripened against a wall,Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, And a trumpet-vine covered an arbourWith the red and gold of its blossoms. Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. Red and gold they lay scattered,Red and gold, as on a battle field; Red and gold, prone and dying.“They were not roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother.But behind you is destruction, and waste places. The Poet came home at evening,And in the candle-lightHe wiped and polished his cane.The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, And made the jades undulate like green pools. It played along the bright ebony,And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. But these things were dead,Only the candle-light made them seem to move. “It is a pity there were no roses,” said the Poet. Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. The Coal Picker He perches in the slime, inert,Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.The oil upon the puddles driesTo colours like a peacock’s eyes,And half-submerged tomato-cansShine scaly, as leviathansOozily crawling through the mud.The ground is here and there bestud With lumps of only part-burned coal.His duty is to glean the whole,To pick them from the filth, each one, To hoard them for the hidden sunWhich glows within each fiery coreAnd waits to be made free once more. Their sharp and glistening edges cutHis stiffened fingers. Through the smut Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. Wet through and shivering he kneelsAnd digs the slippery coals; like eels They slide about. His force all spent,He counts his small accomplishment. A half-a-dozen clinker-coalsWhich still have fire in their souls. Fire! And in his thought there burnsThe topaz fire of votive urns.He sees it fling from hill to hill, And still consumed, is burning still.Higher and higher leaps the flame,The smoke an ever-shifting frame.He sees a Spanish Castle old,With silver steps and paths of gold. From myrtle bowers comes the plashOf fountains, and the emerald flash Of parrots in the orange trees,Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. He knows he feeds the urns whose smokeBears visions, that his master-stroke Is out of dirt and miseryTo light the fire of poesy.He sees the glory, yet he knowsThat others cannot see his shows.To them his smoke is sightless, black, His votive vessels but a packOf old discarded shards, his fireA peddler’s; still to him the pyreIs incensed, an enduring goal!He sighs and grubs another coal. Storm-Racked How should I sing when buffeting salt waves And stung with bitter surges, in whose might I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night Marshals its undefeated dark and ravesIn brutal madness, reeling over graves Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. No parting cloud reveals a watery star, My cries are washed away upon the wind, My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, My eyes with hope o’erstrained, are growing blind. But painted on the sky great visions burn, My voice, oblation from a shattered urn! Convalescence From out the dragging vastness of the sea, Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands One moment, white and dripping, silently, Cut like a cameo in lazuli, Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands Prone in the jeering water, and his hands Clutch for support where no support can be. So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And sandflies dance their little lives away. The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. Patience Be patient with you? When the stooping skyLeans down upon the hillsAnd tenderly, as one who soothing stills An anguish, gathers earth to lieEmbraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When the snow-girt earthCracks to let through a spurtOf sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worthTo eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When pain’s iron barsTheir rivets tighten, sternTo bend and break their victims; as they turn, Hopeless, there stand the purple jarsOf night to spill oblivion. Do these men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? You! My sun and moon!My basketful of flowers!My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, Windless and still, of afternoon!You are my world and I your citizen. What meaning can have patience then? Apology Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by. Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds. Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town. Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell impearled. You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed. A Petition I pray to be the tool which to your hand Long use has shaped and moulded till it be Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, You take it for its service. I demandTo be forgotten in the woven strand Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, The railing to the stairway of the clouds, To guard your steps securely up, where streams A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky. A Blockhead Before me lies a mass of shapeless days, Unseparated atoms, and I must Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays, There are none, ever. As a monk who prays The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust Each tasteless particle aside, and just Begin again the task which never stays. And I have known a glory of great suns, When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty handThrew down the cup, and did not understand. Stupidity Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch I broke and bruised your rose. I hardly could supposeIt were a thing so fragile that my clutch Could kill it, thus. It stood so proudly up upon its stem, I knew no thought of fear, And coming very nearFell, overbalanced, to your garment’s hem, Tearing it down. Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, The crimson petals, all Outspread about my fall.They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone Of memory. And with my words I carve a little jar To keep their scented dust, Which, opening, you mustBreathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far More grieved than you. Irony An arid daylight shines along the beach Dried to a grey monotony of tone, And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach Sparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each. And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze. Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright. For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease. Happiness Happiness, to some, elation;Is, to others, mere stagnation.Days of passive somnolence,At its wildest, indolence.Hours of empty quietness,No delight, and no distress. Happiness to me is wine,Effervescent, superfine.Full of tang and fiery pleasure,Far too hot to leave me leisureFor a single thought beyond it.Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it Means to give one’s soul to gainLife’s quintessence. Even painPricks to livelier living, thenWakes the nerves to laugh again,Rapture’s self is three parts sorrow. Although we must die to-morrow,Losing every thought but this;Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. Happiness: We rarely feel it.I would buy it, beg it, steal it,Pay in coins of dripping bloodFor this one transcendent good. The Last Quarter of the Moon How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, A spatter of rust on its polished steel! The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel.Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn’s knees. A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees,The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. Like dogs unleashed After a beast,They stream on the sky, an outflung string. A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guestsCrowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. I have not quailed, I was all unmailedAnd naked I strove, ’tis my only vaunt. The moon drops into the silver dayAs waking out of her swoon she comes. I hear the drums Of millenniumsBeating the mornings I still must stay. The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair,The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. An atom tossed in a chaos madeOf yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home?I hear no answer. I am afraid! I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing deathThis fight for a God, or this devil’s game. A Tale of Starvation There once was a man whom the gods didn’t love, And a disagreeable man was he.He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him, And he cursed eternally. He damned the sun, and he damned the stars, And he blasted the winds in the sky.He sent to Hell every green, growing thing, And he raved at the birds as they fly. His oaths were many, and his range was wide, He swore in fancy ways;But his meaning was plain: that no created thing Was other than a hurt to his gaze. He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill, And windows toward the hill there were none, And on the other side they were white-washed thick, To keep out every spark of the sun. When he went to market he walked all the way Blaspheming at the path he trod.He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to, By all the names he knew of God. For his heart was soured in his weary old hide, And his hopes had curdled in his breast. His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over For the chinking money-bags she liked best. The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin, The deer had trampled on his corn,His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought, And his sheep had died unshorn. His hens wouldn’t lay, and his cow broke loose, And his old horse perished of a colic.In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes By little, glutton mice on a frolic. So he slowly lost all he ever had, And the blood in his body dried.Shrunken and mean he still lived on, And cursed that future which had lied. One day he was digging, a spade or two, As his aching back could lift,When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, And to get it out he made great shift. So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, And the veins in his forehead stood taut. At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, He gathered up what he had sought. A dim old vase of crusted glass, Prismed while it lay buried deep.Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon’s neck, At the touch of the sun began to leap. It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; Flashing like an opal-stone,Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, Where at first there had seemed to be none. It had handles on each side to bear it up, And a belly for the gurgling wine.Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, And its lip was curled and fine. The old man saw it in the sun’s bright stare And the colours started up through the crust, And he who had cursed at the yellow sun Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust. And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, And the sun shone without his sneer. Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, But it was only grey in the gloom.So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, And he went outside with a broom. And he washed his windows just to let the sun Lie upon his new-found vase;And when evening came, he moved it down And put it on a table near the place Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door. The old man forgot to swear,Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, Dancing in the kitchen there. He forgot to revile the sun next morning When he found his vase afire in its light. And he carried it out of the house that day, And kept it close beside him until night. And so it happened from day to day. The old man fed his lifeOn the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape. And his soul forgot its former strife. And the village-folk came and begged to see The flagon which was dug from the ground. And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy At showing what he had found. One day the master of the village school Passed him as he stooped at toil,Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side Was the vase, on the turned-up soil. “My friend,” said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, “That’s a valuable thing you have there, But it might get broken out of doors, It should meet with the utmost care. What are you doing with it out here?” “Why, Sir,” said the poor old man,“I like to have it about, do you see? To be with it all I can.” “You will smash it,” said the schoolmaster, sternly right, “Mark my words and see!”And he walked away, while the old man looked At his treasure despondingly. Then he smiled to himself, for it was his! He had toiled for it, and now he cared. Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, Which his own hard work had bared. He would carry it round with him everywhere, As it gave him joy to do.A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row! Who would dare to say so? Who? Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, And he bent to his hoe again. . . .A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, And he lurched with a cry of pain. For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass, And the vase fell to iridescent sherds. The old man’s body heaved with slow, dry sobs. He did not curse, he had no words. He gathered the fragments, one by one, And his fingers were cut and torn.Then he made a hole in the very place Whence the beautiful vase had been borne. He covered the hole, and he patted it down, Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door. He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows That no beam of light should cross the floor. He sat down in front of the empty hearth, And he neither ate nor drank.In three days they found him, dead and cold, And they said: “What a queer old crank!” The Foreigner Have at you, you Devils! My back’s to this tree,For you’re nothing so nice That the hind-side of meWould escape your assault. Come on now, all three! Here’s a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point,And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint.A spatter of blood, man! That’s just to anoint And make supple your limbs. ‘Tis a pity the silkOf your waistcoat is stained. Why! Your heart’s full of milk,And so full, it spills over! I’m not of your ilk. You said so, and laughed At my old-fashioned hose,At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose.To carve it to pattern I think you propose. Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my swordAre proving themselves In quite perfect accord.I grieve to have spotted Your shirt. On my word! And hullo! You Bully! That blade’s not a stickTo slash right and left, And my skull is too thickTo be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword. Now a lick Down the side of your face. What a pretty, red line!Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour. Don’t whineThat a stranger has marked you. * * * * * The tree’s there, You Swine! Did you think to get in At the back, while your friendsMade a little diversion In front? So it ends,With your sword clattering down On the ground. ‘Tis amends I make for your courteous Reception of me,A foreigner, landed From over the sea.Your welcome was fervent I think you’ll agree. My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hairOiled and scented, my jacket’s Not satin, I wearCorded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare! So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man,And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span‘Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men’s can. I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots,And my interests range From the sky, to the rootsOf this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree! Here’s at you, once more.You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door,And jeer at my ways, But you’re pinked to the core. And before I have done, I will prick my name inWith the front of my steel, And your lily-white skinShall be printed with me. For I’ve come here to win! Absence My cup is empty to-night,Cold and dry are its sides,Chilled by the wind from the open window. Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms.They sway in the moon’s radianceAnd tap against the wall.But the cup of my heart is still,And cold, and empty. When you come, it brimsRed and trembling with blood,Heart’s blood for your drinking;To fill your mouth with loveAnd the bitter-sweet taste of a soul. A Gift See! I give myself to you, Beloved!My words are little jarsFor you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them.Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me,But I shall be dead. The Bungler You glow in my heartLike the flames of uncounted candles. But when I go to warm my hands,My clumsiness overturns the light,And then I stumbleAgainst the tables and chairs. Fool’s Money Bags Outside the long window,With his head on the stone sill,The dog is lying,Gazing at his Beloved.His eyes are wet and urgent,And his body is taut and shaking.It is cold on the terrace;A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glassAnd is content. The Beloved is writing a letter.Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy? Miscast I I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, So sharp that the air would turn its edge Were it to be twisted in flight.Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, And the mark of them lies, in and out,Worm-like,With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. My brain is curved like a scimitar,And sighs at its cuttingLike a sickle mowing grass. But of what use is all this to me!I, who am set to crack stonesIn a country lane! Miscast II My heart is like a cleft pomegranateBleeding crimson seedsAnd dripping them on the ground.My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, And its seeds are bursting from it. But how is this other than a torment to me! I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, In a dark closet! Anticipation I have been temperate always,But I am like to be very drunkWith your coming.There have been timesI feared to walk down the streetLest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighboursAs they go by.I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisyWith the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups. Vintage I will mix me a drink of stars, —Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,Cool, quiet, green stars.I will tear them out of the sky,And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. It will lap and scratchAs I swallow it down;And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly.His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh,Forgetting that I have ever known a woman. The Tree of Scarlet Berries The rain gullies the garden pathsAnd tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit,Filmed over with moisture.It seems as though the rain,Dripping from it,Should be tinged with colour.I desire the berries,But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. Probably, too, they are bitter. Obligation Hold your apron wideThat I may pour my gifts into it,So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them From falling to the ground. I would pour them upon youAnd cover you,For greatly do I feel this needOf giving you something,Even these poor things. Dearest of my Heart! The Taxi When I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night? The Giver of Stars Hold your soul open for my welcoming. Let the quiet of your spirit bathe meWith its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory. Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame,And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world,And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten. The Temple Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew And vanished in the sunshine. How it came We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew Together into fire. But we knewThe winds would slap and quench it in their game. And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks To treasure it, and placed them round about. With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, The baffled winds thrust at a column’s bole. Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success Beneath this sod lie the remainsOf one who died of growing pains. In Answer to a Request You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere?