I walk among them with my azure bowl,
To fete and market-place and to the threshing;
Today there is no feast, there is no soul
But craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing,
And yet in vain I raise my flashing beaker
And pledge my toast—to Truth and the Truth Seeker!
TO ABRAM QUARY
(The Last Indian on Nantucket)
When the long shadows fell across the wind,
And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,
How was it with you, Island Amerind,
Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?
Did tides that curved the ripples to that shore
Remind you that somewhere the Source must be
That sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—
Bewildered son of hidden continent?
Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowed
In untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,
Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowd
Of young red men embarking on the sea?
Or up great rivers in some land of rain,
In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,
Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?
All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks sign
To hand the tale from father down to son?
What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?
What old taboo in crest and trophy won?
What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting bout
Or what dark Sachem fathered all the swarms
Of circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?
Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with stars
That shone of old in ancient weather book;
Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,
Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shook
A mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayed
To welcome thee, when stern and unafraid
Thy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trails
That Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
3 A. M.
He came and sat with me, that One
Whom we so fear. And as I looked
Closer upon him, lo! I felt
Myself unfearing. “Death,” I asked,
“Why is it that no man hath read,
Nor understood thee?” Then he gazed
With that dark glory of his eyes,
Answering: “If men could know
How I yearn toward them; if they saw
The things that I would show them; Yea,
Could trust, accept, come to me kind,
Like little children! It were well!
’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.
“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
ON THE JETTY.
Still the old rage, O Sea?
Blue lightnings buried under snowy shock
Of white foam-bodies dying on the rock;
Such sobbing passion to be still more free—
Still the old yearning ... Sea?