, , . - : - ? , , . : - - , . . - , , - . , , - . , . , : "!" . - 61 - I There was a man and a woman Who sinned. Then did the man heap the punishment All upon the head of her, And went away gayly. II There was a man and a woman Who sinned. And the man stood with her. As upon her head, so upon his, Fell blow and blow, And all people screaming: "Fool!" He was a brave heart. III He was a brave heart. Would you speak with him, friend? Well, he is dead, And there went your opportunity. Let it be your grief That he is dead And your opportunity gone; For, in that, you were a coward. I . , . II . , , , , : " !" . III . , ? , , . , , - . . - 62 - There was a man who lived a life of fire. Even upon the fabric of time, Where purple becomes orange And orange purple, This life glowed, A dire red slain, indelible; Yet when he was dead, He saw that he had not lived. , . , , - , - . , , . . - 63 - There was a great cathedral. To solemn song, A white procession Moved toward the altar. The chief man there Was erect, and bore himself proudly. Yet some could see him cringe, As in a place of danger, Throwing frightened glances into the air, A-start at threatening faces of the past. To . . , , , . - , , , , . . - 64 - Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground. Why do you stand, expectant? Do you hope to see it In one of your withered days? With your old eyes Do you hope to see The triumphal march of justice? Do not wait, friend! Take your white beard And your old eyes To more tender lands. , . ? ? ? , ! , , , . . , . , ? ? ? . . . - 65 - Once, I knew a fine song, - It is true, believe me, - It was all of birds, And I held them in a basket; When I opened the wicket, Heavens! they all flew away. I cried: "Come back little thoughts!" But they only laughed. They flew on Until they were as sand Thrown between me and the sky. - , - , - , . , ! . : - , ! . , , . . - 66 - If I should cast off this tattered coal, And go free into the mighty sky; If I should find nothing there But a vast blue, Echoless, ignorant, - What then? ; , , , , - ? . - 67 - God lay dead in Heaven; Angels sang the hymn of the end; Purple winds went moaning, Their wings drip-dripping With blood That fell upon the earth. It, groaning thing, Turned black and sank. Then from the far caverns Of dead sins Came monsters, livid with desire. They fought, Wrangled over the world, A morsel. But of all sadness this was sad, - A woman's arms tried to shield The head of a sleeping man From the jaws of the final beast. ; ; , , , . , . , , . , , . , , , . . - 68 - A spirit sped Through spaces of night; And as he sped, he called: "God! God!" He went through valleys Of black death-slime, Ever calling: "God! God!" Their echoes From crevice and cavern Mocked him: "God! God! God!" Fleetly into the plains of space He went, ever calling: "God! God!" Eventually, then, he screamed, Mad in denial: "Ah, there is no God!" A swift hand, A sword from the sky, Smote him, And he was dead. ; : - ! ! , : - ! ! , , : - ! ! ! , : - ! ! , , : - , , , ! , , - . . - 69-73 - "LEGENDS" I A man builded a bugle for the storms to blow. The focussed winds hurled him afar. He said that the instrument was a failure. II When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: "Why?" He replied: "Because no one admired me." III A man said: "Thou tree!" The tree answered with the same scorn: "Thoy man! Thoy art greater ehan I only in thy possibilities." IV A warrior stood upon a peak and defied the stars. A little magpie, happening there, desired the soldier's plume, and so plucked it. V The wind that waves the blossoms sang, sang, sang from age to age. The flowers were made curious by this joy. "Oh, wind," they said, "why sing you at your labour, while we, pink beneficiaries, sing not, but idle, idle, idle from age to age?" "" I , . -. , . II , : - ? - , - . III : - - ! : - - ! , . IV . , , - . V , , , , ... . - , - , - , , , , , , . . - 74 - When a people reach the top of a hill Then does God lean toward them, Shortens tongues, lengthens arms. A vision of their dead comes to the weak. The moon shall not be loo old Before the new battalions rise - Blue battalions - The moon shall not be too old When the children of change shall fall Before the new battalions - The blue battalions - Mistakes and virtues will be trampled deep A church a thief shall fall together A sword will come at the bidding of the eyeless, The God-led, turning only to beckon. Swinging a creed like a censer At the head of the new battalions - Blue battalions - March the tools of nature's impulse Men born of wrong, men born of right Men of the new battalions - The blue battalions - The clang of swords is Thy wisdom The wounded make gestures like Thy Son's The feet of mad horses is one part, - Aye, another is the hand of a mother on the brow of a son. Then swift as they charge through a shadow. The men of the new battalions - Blue battalions - God lead them high. God lead them far Lead them far, lead them high These new battalions - The blue battalions - , , , . . , - - , , - - , , , , . , , - - , , , , , , - - - , ; - , - . - - . . , - - . - 75 - Rumbling, buzzing, turning, whirling Wheels, Dizzy Wheels! Wheels! , , , , ! ! . " " - 1899 - - 76 - Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind. Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom - A field where a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind. Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie. Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind. He , , . , . . , ; , , , ; . , - , . , , . , , , , . . , - . , . , - , , , . , , , , . . . , , . - , , . . , , , . , - . , , . - , , , , . . , , . , . , , . . . - 77 - "What says the sea, little shell? What says the sea? Long has our brother been silent to us, Kept his message for the ships, Awkward ships, stupid ships." "The sea bids you mourn, oh, pines, Sing low in the moonlight. He sends tale of the land of doom, Of place where endless falls A rain of women's tears, And men in grey robes - Men in grey robes - Chant the unknown pain." "What says the sea, little shell? What says the sea? Long has our brother been silent to us, Kept his message for the ships, Puny ships, silly ships." "The sea bids you teach, oh, pines, Sing low in the moonlight, Teach the gold of patience, Cry gospel of gentle hands, Cry a brotherhood of hearts. The sea bids you teach, oh, pines." "And where is the reward, little shell? What says the sea? Long has our brother been silent to us, Kept his message for the ships, Puny ships, silly ships." "No word says the sea, oh, pines, No word says the sea. Long will your brother be silent to you, Keep his message for the ships, Oh, puny pines, silly pines." - , ? ? , , , . - , , . , , - - . - , ? ? , , , . - , , , , , . , . - , ? ? , , , . - , , . , , , . . - 78 - To the maiden The sea was blue meadow Alive with little froth-people Singing. To the sailor, wrecked, The sea was dead grey walls Superlative in vacancy Upon which nevertheless at fateful time Was written The grim hatred of nature. , . - , , , , , , . . , . , , , , . . - 79 - A little ink more or less! It surely can't matter? Even the sky and the opulent sea, The plains and the hills, aloof, Hear the uproar of all these books. But it is only a little ink more or less. What? You define me God with these trinkets? Can my misery meal on an ordered walking Of surpliced numbskulls? And a fanfare of lights? Or even upon the measured pulpitings Of the familiar false and true? Is this God? Where, then, is hell? Show me some bastard mushroom Sprung from a pollution of blood. It is better. Where is God? - ? , , . - . ? ? ? ? ? - ? ? , . . ? . - 80 - "Have you ever made a just man?" "Oh, I have made three," answered God, "But two of them are dead And the third - Listen! Listen! And you will hear the third of his defeat." - ? - , , - , - , ... - , . . " - ?" " , - , - , - ! ! ? !" . - 81 - I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night, The sweep of each sad lost wave The dwindling boom of the steel thing's striving The little cry of a man to a man A shadow falling across the greyer night And the sinking of the small star. Then the waste, the far waste of waters And the soft lashing of black waves For long and in loneliness. Remember, thou, o ship of love Thou leaves! a far waste of waters And the soft lashing of black waves For long and in loneliness. , , , , , , , . - , ? , , . , , , , . . , , , , , - , . - , . , , . . - 82 - "I have heard the sunset song of the birches A white melody in the silence I have seen a quarrel of the pines. At nightfall The little grasses have rushed by me With the wind men. These things have I lived," quoth the maniac, "Possessing only eyes and ears. But, you- You don green spectacles before you look at roses." - , , ; , ; , , - . , , - , - ... , . - 83 - Fast rode the knight With spurs, hot and reeking Ever waving an eager sword. "To save my lady!" Fast rode the khight And leaped from saddle to war. Men of steel flickered and gleamed Like riot of silver lights And the gold of the knight's good banner Still waved on a castle wall. A horse Blowing, staggering, bloody thing Forgotten at foot of castle wall. A horse Dead at foot of castle wall. , , , . - ! , , , . , . . , , , , . . . - 84 - Forth went the candid man And spoke freely to the wind- When he looked about him he was in far strange country. Forth went the candid man And spoke freely to the stars- Yellow light tore sight from his eyes. "My good fool," said a learned bystander, "Your operations are mad." "You are too candid," cried the candid man And when his stick left the head of the learned bystander It was two sticks. , - , . , - . - , - , - . - ! - , , , . . - 85 - You tell me this is God? I tell you this is a printed list, A burning candle and an ass. , ? , , . . - 86 - On the desert A silence from the moon's deepest valley. Fire-rays fall athwart the robes Of hooded men, squat and dumb. Before them, a woman Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles And distant-thunder of drums While slow things, sinuous, dull with terrible color Sleepily fondle her body Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand. The snakes whisper softly; The whispering, whispering snakes Dreaming and swaying and staring But always whispering, softly whispering. The wind streams from the lone reaches Of Arabia, solemn with night, And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood Over the robes of the hooded men Squat and dumb. Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow Circle the throat and the arms of her And over the sands serpents move warily Slow, menacing and submissive, Swinging to the whistles and drums, The whispering, whispering snake, Dreaming and swaying and staring But always whispering, softly whispering. The dignity of the accursed; The glory of slavery, despair, death Is in the dance of the whispering snakes. . , , . , , ; , , . ; , , , , , , . , ; , , . - , , - ; ,