? , ; , , , ! . - 108 - And yet I have seen thee happy with me. I am no fool To pole stupidly into iron. I have heard your quick breaths And seen your arms writhe toward me; At those times -God help us- I was impelled to be a grand knight And swagger and snap my fingers, And explain my mind finely. Oh, lost sweetheart, I would that I had not been a grand knight, I said: "Sweetheart." Thou said'st: "Sweetheart." And we preserved an admirable mimicry Without heeding the drip of the blood From my heart. . , . , , ... - , - , , , . , , . : - ! : - ! - , , . . - 109 - I heard thee laugh, And in this merriment I defined the measure of my pain; I knew that I was alone, Alone with love, Poor shivering love, And he, little sprite, Came to watch with me, And at midnight We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire. , , . , , , ; , . , . . - 110 - I wonder if sometimes in the dusk, When the brave lights that gild thy evenings Have not yet been touched with flame, I wonder if sometimes in the dusk Thou rememberest a time, A time when thou loved me And our love was to thee all? Is the memory rubbish now? An old gown Worn in an age of other fashions? Woe is me, oh, lost one, For that love is now to me A supernal dream, White, white, white with many suns. , , , , , , , . - ? , ? , ! - , , , , ! . - 111 - Love met me at noonday, - Reckless imp, To leave his shaded nights And brave the glare,- And I saw him then plainly For a bungler, A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler, Breaking the hearts of brave people As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl, And I cursed him, Cursed him to and fro, back and forth, Into all the silly mazes of his mind, But in the end He laughed and pointed to my breast, Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved. - , , - , - , , , , , ; , . , , . . - 112 - I have seen thy face aflame For love of me, Thy fair arms go mad, Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave. And-surely- This should leave a man content? Thou lovest not me now, But thou didst love me, And in loving me once Thou gavest me an eternal privilege, For I can think of thee. , , , , , -... - - ? , - . . - 113 - A man adrift on a slim spar A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle Tented waves rearing lashy dark points The near whine of froth in circles. God is cold. The incessant raise and swing of the sea And growl after growl of crest The sinkings, green, seething, endless The upheaval half-completed. God is cold. The seas are in the hollow of The Hand; Oceans may be turned to a spray Raining down through the stars Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe. Oceans may become grey ashes, Die with a long moan and a roar Amid the tumult of the fishes And the cries of the ships, Because The Hand beckons the mice. A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin's cap, Inky, surging tumults A reeling, drunken sky and no sky A pale hand sliding from a polished spar. God is cold. The puff of a coat imprisoning air: A face kissing the water-death A weary slow sway of a lost hand And the sea, the moving sea, the sea. God is cold. , , , , , . . , , , - , , , . . - , . , , . , , - , , , , . . , , , , , , . . . - 114 - Chant you loud of punishments, Of the twisting of the heart's poor strings Of the crash of the lightning's fierce revenge. Then sing I of the supple-souled men And the strong strong gods That shall meet in times hereafter And the amaze of the gods At the strength of the men. -The strong, strong gods- -And the supple-souled men- , , , . , ; , - - . - , - - - . - 115 - A naked woman and a dead dwarf; Wealth and indifference. Poor dwarf! Reigning with foolish kings And dying mid bells and wine Ending with a desperate comic palaver While before thee and after thee Endures the eternal clown- -The eternal clown- A naked woman. ; . ! -, , , ; , , - - - . . - 116 - Little birds of the night Aye, they have much to tell Perching there in rows Blinking at me with their serious eyes Recounting of flowers they have seen and loved Of meadows and groves of the distance And pale sands at the foot of the sea And breezes that fly in the leaves They are vast in experience These little birds that come in the night. , , , , , , , , , . , , . . - 117 - Unwind my riddle. Cruel as hawks the hours fly; Wounded men seldom come home to die; The hard waves see an arm flung high; Scorn hits strong because of a lie; Yet there exists a mystic tie. Unwind my riddle. . - , , - ; - ; ; ; . . . - 118 - Ah, haggard purse, why ope thy mouth Like a greedy urchin I have naught wherewith to feed thee Thy wan checks have ne'er been puffed Thou knowest not the fill of pride Why then gape at me In fashion of a wronged one Thou do smilest wanly And reproaches! me with thine empty stomach Thou knowest I'd sell my steps to the grave If t'were but honestie Ha, leer not so, Name me no names of wrongs committed with thee No ghost can lay hand on thee and me We've been too thin to do sin What, liar? When thou was filled of gold, didst I riot? And give thee no time to eat? No, thou brown devil, thou art stuffed now with lies as with wealth, The one gone to let in the other. , , ? ! , , , ? , , , , , . , , - , - , . ? , , , ? ? , , , - . . - 119 - One came from the skies -They said- And with a band he bound them A man and a woman. Now to the man The band was gold And to another, iron And to the woman, iron. But this second man, He took his opinion and went away But, by heavens, He was none too wise. - - - . , , - ; . . , . . - 120 - A god came to a man And said to him thus: "I have an apple It is a glorious apple Aye, I swear by my ancestors Of the eternities before this eternity It is an apple that is from The inner thoughts of heaven's greatest. "And this I will hang here And then I will adjust thee here Thus-you may reach it. And you must stifle your nostrils And control your hands And your eyes And sit for sixty years But,-leave be the apple." The man answered in this wise: "Oh, most interesting God What folly is this? Behold, thou hast moulded my desires Even as thou hast moulded the apple. "How, then? Can I conquer my life Which is thou? My desires? Look you, fookish god If I thrust behind me Sixty white years I am a greater god than God And, then, complacent splendor, Thou wilt see that the golden angels That sing pink hymns Around thy throne-top Will be lower than my feet." : - . , , . , . , , . , , . : - ! ? , . ? , ? ? , , , , , , , , , , . . - 121 - There is a grey thing that lives in the tree-tops None know the horror of its sight Save those who meet death in the wilderness But one is enabled To see branches move at its passing To hear at times the wail of black laughter And to come often upon mystic places Places where the thing has just been. . , , , . - , , , , , - , . . - 122 - If you would seek a friend among men Remember: they are crying their wares. If you would ask of heaven of men Remember: they are crying their wares If you seek the welfare of men Remember: they are crying their wares If you would bestow a curse upon men Remember: they are crying their wares Crying their wares Crying their wares If you seek the attention of men Remember: Help them or hinder them as they cry their wares. , : . , : . , : . , : , , . , , . . : . : . , : . : . : . . - 123 - A lad and a maid at a curve in the stream And a shine of soft silken waters Where the moon-beams fall through a hemlock's boughs Oh, night dismal, night glorious. A lad and a maid at the rail of a bridge With two shadows adrift on the water And the wind sings low in the grass on the shore Oh, night dismal, night glorious. A lad and a maid, in a canoe, And a paddle making silver turmoil , . , ! , , , , , , ... , ! , ... . - 124 - A solder, young in years, young in ambitions Alive as no grey-beard is alive Laid his heart and his hopes before duty And went staunchly into the tempest of war. There did the bitter red winds of battle Swirl 'gainst his youth, beat upon his ambitions, Drink his cool clear blood of manhood Until at coming forth time He was alive merely as the greybeard is alive. And for this- The nation rendered to him a flower A little thing-a flower Aye, but yet not so little For this flower grew in the nation's heart A wet, soft blossom From tears of her who loved her son Even when the black battle rages Made his face the face of furious urchin, And this she cherished And finally laid it upon the breast of him. A little thing-this flower? No-it was the flower of duty That inhales black smoke-clouds And fastens it's roots in bloody sod And yet comes forth so fair, so fragrant- It's birth is sunlight in grimest, darkest place. , , , , , . , , , , , . , . , - , , , , , ; . - ? , , , , . - . . - 125 - A row of thick pillars Consciously bracing for the weight Of a vanished roof The bronze light of sunset strikes through them, And over a floor made for slow rites. There is no sound of singing But, aloft, a great and terrible bird Is watching a cur, beaten and cut, That crawls to the cool shadows of the pillars To die. , ; , . ; , , , . . - 126 - Oh, a rare old wine ye brewed for me Flagons of bespair A deep deep drink of this wine of life Flagons of despair. Dream of riot and blood and screams The rolling white eyes of dying men The terrible heedless courage of babes , . - . - , , , , , . . - 127 - There exists the eternal fact of conflict And-next-a mere sense of locality Afterward we derive sustenance from the winds. Afterward we grip upon this sense of locality. Afterward, we become patriots. The godly vice of patriotism makes us slaves, And-let us surrender to this falsity Let us be patriots Then welcome us the practical men Thrumming on a thousand drums The practical men, God help us. They cry aloud to be led to war Ah- They have been poltroons on a thousand fields And the sacked sad city of New York is their record Furious to face the Spaniard, these people, and crawling worms before their task They name serfs and send charity in bulk to better men They play at being free, these people of New York Who are too well-dressed to protest against infamy . , , . , , . , . , , . . , , -, , . , - - . *, , , , . , . , -, , . . {* (. ) - } - 128 - On the brown trail We hear the grind of your carts To our villages, Laden with food Laden with food We know you are come to our help But- Why do you impress upon is Your foreign happiness? We know it not. (Hark! Carts laden with food Laden with food) We weep because we dont understand But your gifts form into a yoke The food turns into a yoke (Hark! Carts laden with food Laden with food) It is our mission to vanish Grateful because of full mouths Destiny-Darkness Time understands And ye-ye bigoted men of a moment- - Wait - Await your turn. , , , , , . , . , , ? . (? , ! !) , , , . (? , ! !) , , . . , , , , , - - . . - 129 - All-feeling God, hear in the war-night The rolling voices of a nation; Through dusky billows of darkness See the flash, the under-light, of bared swords - -Whirling gleams like wee shells Deep in the streams of the universe- Bend and see a people, 0, God, A people rebuked, accursed, By him of the many lungs And by him of the bruised weary war-drum (The chanting disintegrate and the two-faced eagle) Bend and mark our steps, O, God. Mark well, mark well, Father of the Never-Ending Circles And if the path, the new path, lead awry Then in the forest of the lost standards Suffer us to grope and bleed apace For the wisdom is thine. Bend and see a people, 0, God, A people applauded, acclaimed, By him of the raw red shoulders The manacle-marked, the thin victim (He lies white amid the smoking cane) [NO STANZA BREAK] - And if the path, the path, leads straight - Then - 0, God - then bare the great bronze arm; Swing high the blaze of the chained stars And let look and heed (The chanting disintegrate and the two-faced eagle) For we go, we go in a lunge of a long blue corps And - to Thee we commit our lifeless sons, The convulsed and furious dead. (They shall be white amid the smoking cane) For, the seas shall not bar us; The capped mountains shall not hold us back We shall sweep and swarm through jungle and pool, Then let the savage one bend his high chin To see on his breast, the sullen glow of the death-medals For we know and we say our gift. His prize is death, deep doom. (He shall be white amid smoking cane) , ; , , , . , , , , , ( ). , , , , . , , , , - . , , , , , ( ). , , - , , , ( ). - , , , , ( ). , . , , , , - . - , ( ). . - 130 - A grey and boiling street Alive with rickety noise. Suddenly, a hearse, Trailed by black carriages Takes a deliberate way Through this chasm of commerce; And children look eagerly To find the misery behind the shades. Hired men, impatient, drive with a longing To reach quickly the grave-side, the end of solemnity. Yes, let us have it over. Drive, man, drive. Flog your sleek-hided beasts, Gallop - gallop - gallop. Let us finish i