Rain after a Vaudeville Show

The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white

Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light

Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out

The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout

And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother".

Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother;

Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush,

Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.

I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still

Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will.

Cleanness and rapture -- excellence made plain --

The storming, thrashing arrows of the rain!

Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods,

Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods,

Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky,

Crashing on thirsty panes, on gutters dry,

Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair

The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air, --

Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing,

It smote the soul with a most iron clashing! . . .

Like dragons' eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed,

Yellow and round and dim-low globes of flame.

And, scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed.

Out of the petty wars, the daily shame,

Beauty strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered. . . .

I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered.

Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced,

By splendor and by striving and swift haste --

Spring coming in with thunderings and strife --

I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life!

The City Revisited

The grey gulls drift across the bay

Softly and still as flakes of snow

Against the thinning fog. All day

I sat and watched them come and go;

And now at last the sun was set,

Filling the waves with colored fire

Till each seemed like a jewelled spire

Thrust up from some drowned city. Soon

From peak and cliff and minaret

The city's lights began to wink,

Each like a friendly word. The moon

Began to broaden out her shield,

Spurting with silver. Straight before

The brown hills lay like quiet beasts

Stretched out beside a well-loved door,

And filling earth and sky and field

With the calm heaving of their breasts.

Nothing was gone, nothing was changed,

The smallest wave was unestranged

By all the long ache of the years

Since last I saw them, blind with tears.

Their welcome like the hills stood fast:

And I, I had come home at last.

So I laughed out with them aloud

To think that now the sun was broad,

And climbing up the iron sky,

Where the raw streets stretched sullenly

About another room I knew,

In a mean house -- and soon there, too,

The smith would burst the flimsy door

And find me lying on the floor.

Just where I fell the other night,

After that breaking wave of pain. --

How they will storm and rage and fight,

Servants and mistress, one and all,

"No money for the funeral!"

I broke my life there. Let it stand

At that.

          The waters are a plain,

Heaving and bright on either hand,

A tremulous and lustral peace

Which shall endure though all things cease,

Filling my heart as water fills

A cup. There stand the quiet hills.

So, waiting for my wings to grow,

I watch the gulls sail to and fro,

Rising and falling, soft and swift,

Drifting along as bubbles drift.

And, though I see the face of God

Hereafter -- this day have I trod

Nearer to Him than I shall tread

Ever again. The night is dead.

And there's the dawn, poured out like wine

Along the dim horizon-line.

And from the city comes the chimes --

We have our heaven on earth -- sometimes!

Going Back to School

The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past

And all the grey waves flamed to red again

At the dead sun's last glimmer. Far and vast

The Sausalito lights burned suddenly

In little dots and clumps, as if a pen

Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills;

The sky was like a cup some rare wine fills,

And stars came as he watched

                           -- and he was free

One splendid instant -- back in the great room,

Curled in a chair with all of them beside

And the whole world a rush of happy voices,

With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . .

Saw once again the heat of harvest fume

Up to the empty sky in threads like glass,

And ran, and was a part of what rejoices

In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass

Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze

Of tiny stems into a new green world;

Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze

With clear, dry heat on the brown, rolling fields;

Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in bed

Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . .

The ship slowed, jarred and stopped. There, straight ahead,

Were dock and fellows. Stumbling, he was whirled

Out and away to meet them -- and his back

Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack;

A big boy's arm went round him -- and a twist

Sent shattering pain along his tortured wrist,

As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat,

"Why it's Miss Nancy! Come along, you rat!"

Nos Immortales

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun,

Into the free companionship of air;

Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done,

All's one to me -- I do not greatly care;

So long as there are brown hills -- and a tree

Like a mad prophet in a land of dearth --

And I can lie and hear eternally

The vast monotonous breathing of the earth.

I have known hours, slow and golden-glowing,

Lovely with laughter and suffused with light,

O Lord, in such a time appoint my going,

When the hands clench, and the cold face grows white,

And the spark dies within the feeble brain,

Spilling its star-dust back to dust again.

Young Blood

"But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!" The Canon shook his head indulgently. "Young blood, Cousin," he boomed. "Young blood! Youth will be served!"

-- D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.

He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth

And lay there heavily, while dancing motes

Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams,

And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes

So that they could not open fully. Yet

After some time his blurred mind stumbled back

To its last ragged memory -- a room;

Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling crowd

Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink

Out to the street; a crazy rout of cabs;

The steady mutter of his neighbor's voice,

Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote;

And then . . . well, they had brought him home it seemed,

Since he awoke in bed -- oh, damn the business!

He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes,

"One last, great night of freedom ere you're married!"

"You'll get no fun then!" "H-ssh, don't tell that story!

He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down

To drink till you were sodden! . . .

                              Like great light

She came into his thoughts. That was the worst.

To wallow in the mud like this because

His friends were fools. . . . He was not fit to touch,

To see, oh far, far off, that silver place

Where God stood manifest to man in her. . . .

Fouling himself. . . . One thing he brought to her,

At least. He had been clean; had taken it

A kind of point of honor from the first . . .

Others might do it . . . but he didn't care

For those things. . . .

                  Suddenly his vision cleared.

And something seemed to grow within his mind. . . .

Something was wrong -- the color of the wall --

The queer shape of the bedposts -- everything

Was changed, somehow . . . his room. Was this his room?

. . . He turned his head -- and saw beside him there

The sagging body's slope, the paint-smeared face,

And the loose, open mouth, lax and awry,

The breasts, the bleached and brittle hair . . . these things.

. . . As if all Hell were crushed to one bright line

Of lightning for a moment. Then he sank,

Prone beneath an intolerable weight.

And bitter loathing crept up all his limbs.

The Quality of Courage

Black trees against an orange sky,

Trees that the wind shook terribly,

Like a harsh spume along the road,

Quavering up like withered arms,

Writhing like streams, like twisted charms

Of hot lead flung in snow. Below

The iron ice stung like a goad,

Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,

And all the air was bitter sleet.

And all the land was cramped with snow,

Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan,

Like pale plains of obsidian.

-- And yet I strove -- and I was fire

And ice -- and fire and ice were one

In one vast hunger of desire.

A dim desire, of pleasant places,

And lush fields in the summer sun,

And logs aflame, and walls, and faces,

-- And wine, and old ambrosial talk,

A golden ball in fountains dancing,

And unforgotten hands. (Ah, God,

I trod them down where I have trod,

And they remain, and they remain,

Etched in unutterable pain,

Loved lips and faces now apart,

That once were closer than my heart --

In agony, in agony,

And horribly a part of me. . . .

For Lethe is for no man set,

And in Hell may no man forget.)

And there were flowers, and jugs, bright-glancing,

And old Italian swords -- and looks,

A moment's glance of fire, of fire,

Spiring, leaping, flaming higher,

Into the intense, the cloudless blue,

Until two souls were one, and flame,

And very flesh, and yet the same!

As if all springs were crushed anew

Into one globed drop of dew!

But for the most I thought of heat,

Desiring greatly. . . . Hot white sand

The lazy body lies at rest in,

Or sun-dried, scented grass to nest in,

And fires, innumerable fires,

Great fagots hurling golden gyres

Of sparks far up, and the red heart

In sea-coals, crashing as they part

To tiny flares, and kindling snapping,

Bunched sticks that burst their string and wrapping

And fall like jackstraws; green and blue

The evil flames of driftwood too,

And heavy, sullen lumps of coke

With still, fierce heat and ugly smoke. . . .

. . . And then the vision of his face,

And theirs, all theirs, came like a sword,

Thrice, to the heart -- and as I fell

I thought I saw a light before.

I woke. My hands were blue and sore,

Torn on the ice. I scarcely felt

The frozen sleet begin to melt

Upon my face as I breathed deeper,

But lay there warmly, like a sleeper

Who shifts his arm once, and moans low,

And then sinks back to night. Slow, slow,

And still as Death, came Sleep and Death

And looked at me with quiet breath.

Unbending figures, black and stark

Against the intense deeps of the dark.

Tall and like trees. Like sweet and fire

Rest crept and crept along my veins,

Gently. And there were no more pains. . . .

Was it not better so to lie?

The fight was done. Even gods tire

Of fighting. . . . My way was the wrong.

Now I should drift and drift along

To endless quiet, golden peace . . .

And let the tortured body cease.

And then a light winked like an eye.

. . . And very many miles away

A girl stood at a warm, lit door,

Holding a lamp. Ray upon ray

It cloaked the snow with perfect light.

And where she was there was no night

Nor could be, ever. God is sure,

And in his hands are things secure.

It is not given me to trace

The lovely laughter of that face,

Like a clear brook most full of light,

Or olives swaying on a height,

So silver they have wings, almost;

Like a great word once known and lost

And meaning all things. Nor her voice

A happy sound where larks rejoice,

Her body, that great loveliness,

The tender fashion of her dress,

I may not paint them.

                       These I see,

Blazing through all eternity,

A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!

She stood there, and at once I knew

The bitter thing that I must do.

There could be no surrender now;

Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.

My way was wrong. So. Would it mend

If I shrank back before the end?

And sank to death and cowardice?

No, the last lees must be drained up,

Base wine from an ignoble cup;

(Yet not so base as sleek content

When I had shrunk from punishment)

The wretched body strain anew!

Life was a storm to wander through.

I took the wrong way. Good and well,

At least my feet sought out not Hell!

Though night were one consuming flame

I must go on for my base aim,

And so, perhaps, make evil grow

To something clean by agony . . .

And reach that light upon the snow . . .

And touch her dress at last . . .

                              So, so,

I crawled. I could not speak or see

Save dimly. The ice glared like fire,

A long bright Hell of choking cold,

And each vein was a tautened wire,

Throbbing with torture -- and I crawled.

My hands were wounds.

So I attained

The second Hell. The snow was stained

I thought, and shook my head at it

How red it was! Black tree-roots clutched

And tore -- and soon the snow was smutched

Anew; and I lurched babbling on,

And then fell down to rest a bit,

And came upon another Hell . . .

Loose stones that ice made terrible,

That rolled and gashed men as they fell.

I stumbled, slipped . . . and all was gone

That I had gained. Once more I lay

Before the long bright Hell of ice.

And still the light was far away.

There was red mist before my eyes

Or I could tell you how I went

Across the swaying firmament,

A glittering torture of cold stars,

And how I fought in Titan wars . . .

And died . . . and lived again upon

The rack . . . and how the horses strain

When their red task is nearly done. . . .

I only know that there was Pain,

Infinite and eternal Pain.

And that I fell -- and rose again.

So she was walking in the road.

And I stood upright like a man,

Once, and fell blind, and heard her cry . . .

And then there came long agony.

There was no pain when I awoke,

No pain at all. Rest, like a goad,

Spurred my eyes open -- and light broke

Upon them like a million swords:

And she was there. There are no words.

Heaven is for a moment's span.

And ever.

            So I spoke and said,

"My honor stands up unbetrayed,

And I have seen you. Dear . . ."

                              Sharp pain

Closed like a cloak. . . .

                        I moaned and died.

Here, even here, these things remain.

I shall draw nearer to her side.

Oh dear and laughing, lost to me,

Hidden in grey Eternity,

I shall attain, with burning feet,

To you and to the mercy-seat!

The ages crumble down like dust,

Dark roses, deviously thrust

And scattered in sweet wine -- but I,

I shall lift up to you my cry,

And kiss your wet lips presently

Beneath the ever-living Tree.

This in my heart I keep for goad!

Somewhere, in Heaven she walks that road.

Somewhere . . . in Heaven . . . she walks . . . that . . . road. . . .

Campus Sonnets:

1. Before an Examination

The little letters dance across the page,

Flaunt and retire, and trick the tired eyes;

Sick of the strain, the glaring light, I rise

Yawning and stretching, full of empty rage

At the dull maunderings of a long dead sage,

Fling up the windows, fling aside his lies;

Choosing to breathe, not stifle and be wise,

And let the air pour in upon my cage.

The breeze blows cool and there are stars and stars

Beyond the dark, soft masses of the elms

That whisper things in windy tones and light.

They seem to wheel for dim, celestial wars;

And I -- I hear the clash of silver helms

Ring icy-clear from the far deeps of night.

2. Talk

Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling

From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,

Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,

As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets

Cornell will win the relay in a walk,

While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;

Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",

John gives large views about the last few dances.

And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,

A few chance phrases; yet I see behind

The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,

Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,

Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --

Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.

3. May Morning

I lie stretched out upon the window-seat

And doze, and read a page or two, and doze,

And feel the air like water on me close,

Great waves of sunny air that lip and beat

With a small noise, monotonous and sweet,

Against the window -- and the scent of cool,

Frail flowers by some brown and dew-drenched pool

Possesses me from drowsy head to feet.

This is the time of all-sufficing laughter

At idiotic things some one has done,

And there is neither past nor vague hereafter.

And all your body stretches in the sun

And drinks the light in like a liquid thing;

Filled with the divine languor of late spring.

4. Return -- 1917

"The College will reopen Sept. --."

`Catalogue'.

I was just aiming at the jagged hole

Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,

When something threw me sideways with a wrench,

And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll

And disappear . . . and propped against the bole

Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds

Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,

And I was clean again, and young, and whole.

Lord, what a dream that was! And what a doze

Waiting for Bill to come along to class!

I've cut it now -- and he -- Oh, hello, Fred!

Why, what's the matter? -- here -- don't be an ass,

Sit down and tell me! -- What do you suppose?

I dreamed I . . . am I . . . wounded? "You are dead."

Alexander VI Dines with the Cardinal of Capua

Next, then, the peacock, gilt

With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes

Flow in the eyes!

And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt

Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest

Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!

A strange fowl! But most fit

For feasts like this, whereby I honor one

Pure as the sun!

Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!

Some wine? Your goblet's empty? Let it foam!

It is not often that you come to Rome!

You like the Venice glass?

Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,

Neck like a girl's,

Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?

You start -- 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!

Ave Maria stella! -- ah, it broke!

'Tis said they break alone

When poison writhes within. A foolish tale!

What, you look pale?

Caraffa, fetch a silver cup! . . . You own

A Birth of Venus, now -- or so I've heard,

Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.

Also a Dancing Faun,

Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;

Globed pearls to please

A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn --

How happy I could be with but a tithe

Of your possessions, fortunate one! Don't writhe

But take these cushions here!

Now for the fruit! Great peaches, satin-skinned,

Rough tamarind,

Pomegranates red as lips -- oh they come dear!

But men like you we feast at any price --

A plum perhaps? They're looking rather nice!

I'll cut the thing in half.

There's yours! Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife

One might snuff life

And leave one's friend with -- "fool" for epitaph!

An old trick? Truth! But when one has the itch

For pretty things and isn't very rich. . . .

There, eat it all or I'll

Be angry! You feel giddy? Well, it's hot!

This bergamot

Take home and smell -- it purges blood of bile!

And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,

Think of the poor Pope in his misery!

Now you may kiss my ring!

Ho there, the Cardinal's litter! -- You must dine

When the new wine

Is in, again with me -- hear Bice sing,

Even admire my frescoes -- though they're nought

Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!

Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!

And take a weak man's blessing! Help him there

To the cool air! . . .

Lucrezia here? You're ready for the ball?

-- He'll die within ten hours, I suppose --

Mhm! Kiss your poor old father, little rose!

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