THE ANSWER
Lo! the God of purple pleasure
Heard and hearkened to his prayer,
Reft the swathed bands that bound him,
From his cloak of Self unwound him,
Filled him with supernal seizure
That his humor’s jewelled treasure
Leaped and sparkled in the air—
Till the night was bright around him.
Never such a jestful fit
Dreamt he in his wildest wishes!
Never from the pool of wit
Had he drawn such shining fishes!
Humid flame glowed in each eye
And his face had changed its vesture,
And his arms moved with strange gesture
Apt in every mimicry.
With the spell of Fire and Dew
He pierced his fellows thru and thru.
Surely Dithyrambus pressed him!
Surely the Great God possessed him!
And the mystic sisters too,
Oeno, Spermo, and Elais,
(Who knoweth what their way is?)
Surely they caressed him!
He whose tongue of old was frozen—
As he quaffs, with this potation
Deep and deeper inspiration
Seems to grow a Prophet—chosen,
For he speaks by divination!
Never were such fancies woven
From the carded thoughts of mortal.
Some are mazed, and some deride him,
“Lo, his wits have gone astray,
What a fool he is!” they say.
Others whisper (those beside him)
“He hath crossed another portal—
He is one whose foot is cloven.
Do ye hear wild creatures beat
Lifted hoof and naked feet
On the quiet woodland sod?
Do ye mark what mood that strain is?
Hints it not the Shepherd God
With his pipings shrill and sweet—
Snubnose, Sweetwine, old Silenus,
All his creatures shy and fleet?”
Deeper, deeper, Fire and Dew
Drains he of the Wine-God’s brew
Craving furthest essence—thus
Heareth now another voice
Terrible and new,
Luring—appalling,
“Iachus! Iachus! Iachus!
Wine! Wine! Wine! Rejoice!”
Thru the forest calling.
And the sky is red and golden
And the red, red stars are falling,
Falling to the earth in showers.
And the fresh blood-scents embolden
Gold and sable leopards, sleeping,
To come crawling, writhing, leaping,
Over gold and purple flowers.
And the autumn sun is swollen
With the sweetness he has stolen
From the wine, and he is wine, wine-red.
Come ye now with wreathed head,
Come ye now
With ivy bound on your white brow,
And forgotten, forgotten be the hours!
Forgotten and forgotten! Ah the night has fled away,
And the wine is spilt, and the stars are gray,
For the old cold dawn abashes
All the torches turned to ashes,
But the feasters—where are they?
Fled, the sound of pipes at last;
Fled, the panting, goat-shank’d clan,
And the maenad rout have passed,
And the echoes caught and cast
Died where they began.
Never, never, never
A more sombre river
From such springs of laughter ran!
And the lucid pool of wit—
What a scum has clouded it!
Past each stately Parian column
Day comes, gaunt and pale and shrunken
And her step is very solemn.
On the veined marble sunken,
Reft of breath of Deity,
Prone there, lies the Priest—the Chosen,
Huddled, bestial, bleared and drunken—
Like a body that is frozen
(That such things should be!)
Shape of shapeless mockery
He had tasted all one can;
He had heard the pipes of Pan;
He had followed in thy van
Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele—
Satyr?—not a satyr he—a man!
THE TRAIL BY NIGHT
No human foot-print here before my own!
And it is strange to come so far—alone—
So far into this frozen forest world
Of moonlight and of shadow and deep snow,
And things I do not know,
That strike the civil vestments from my soul—
As if all law-born years were backward hurled
Toward some dim and other pole—
Some brute primordial reign
Whose voice was terror and whose life was pain.
On—up the trail I go;
Beneath my feet cold streams of moonlight glow,
And in the silver-sifted dark strange, naked fancies grow,
While the vast pines in vista, round by round,
Move with an unearthly sound,
And every tree with its white hair is crowned.
On—up—I go,
And as thru ancient Gothic arches seen
I glimpse the valley far below
That glistens with a fine fantastic sheen.
On—up—I pass,
Nor reck the night-wrought spells about me thrown,
Heedless—sucked dry of thought or will
Save to peer curious into this magician’s glass,
And see the forest dreams thru forest moonlight blown.
On—up I plunge—until
Bending, discern before me, with a thrill
The signs where some wild beast has gone.
Who knows but that within the silence here
The cedar shadows gloom about a deer,
That stands with body lithe and slim
Struck to a statue by surprise?
Who knows but that, upon some snowy limb
A lynx, lean-bellied, pricks his tufted ear
And watches me with evil, amber eyes?
* * *
Surely beyond the stars my man-world lies—
For close to me unhallowed mountains rise
And fill my heart with fear!
SONG IN WINTER
Burning stars in a frosty sky,
Thread-bare winds from the hollow west,
“Give us a garment of beauty!” they cry,
“For the waters of truth our throats are dry,
And phantoms of chaos uncover the bones of our breast,
Leaving us little rest.”
Bitter stars in a frozen sky,
Tattered winds from the lonely west,
Haggard beggars of hours that die—
(Begging the gift of a golden lie!)
Is it with you as with us, no rest, no rest—
Is it with you no rest?
The lacy chequer of aerial boughs
That winter weaves with delicate wizardry.
* * *
Far away—who knows how far?—
Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,
I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,
Sounding across the hills.
* * *
Locomotive, locomotive,
Over the hills at night,
Running on your far-away groove
With the husky pant of things that move
And cannot turn to left or right,
Of things that toil and things that pass
In the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,
Serf of the monstrous city,
What pity—oh what pity
For the dearth of your delight,
Locomotive, locomotive,
Over the hills at night!
CLOUDS
Whence do you come, oh silken shapes,
Across the silver sky?
We come from where the wind blows
And the young stars die.
Why do you move so fast, so fast
Across the white moon’s breast?
The cruel wind is at our heels
And we may not rest.
Are you not weary, fleeing shapes,
That never cease to flee?
The forkéd trees’ chained shadows are
Less weary than we.
Whither do you go, O shadow-shapes
Across the ghastly sky?
We go to where the wind blows
And the old stars die.
My head is circl’d with fire—
And I think of the failing of one’s desire—
And I hear outside the pitiful dropping of rain;
Which is the greater pain?
I yearn for the birth of the brain—
Be it child of blood and pain,
(I pray to endure the pain)—
My heart—lo! my heart is afire
With hue as of purple or Tyre—
With hope of Promethean fire—
And oh God! God! God! the desire
For what only the Gods attain!
In the white moonlight stand
With every finger on a star, and feel
Infinity as an engulfing wave.
JOY
The cañons are covered with snow,
But the sky doth over them lean
With eyes that are warm and keen
As if he could never know
The gray despair of the snow;
And snow and sky join hands together
To dance a dance of wonderful weather!
A VOICE
A woman spoke to me in the street—
I do not remember how or why—
But a breath blew over the winter sky
And spring came in with silver feet!