POEMS
BY
WITTER BYNNER
APOLLO TROUBADOUR
Could any playmate on our planet, Hid in a house of earth's own granite, Be so devoid of primal fire That a wind from this wild crated lyre Should find no spark and fan it? Would any lady half in tears, Whose fashion, on a recent day Over the sea, had been to pay Vociferous gondoliers, Beg that the din be sent away And ask a gentleman, gravely treading As down the aisle at his own wedding, To toss the foreigner a quarter Bribing him to leave the street; That motor-horns and servants' feet Familiar might resume, and sweet To her offended ears, The money-music of her peers!
Apollo listened, took the quarter With his hat off to the buyer, Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy, Led away his hurdy-gurdy Street by street, then turned at last Toward a likelier piece of earth Where a stream of chatter passed, Yesterday at noon; By a school he stopped and played Suddenly a tune.... What a melody he made! Made in all those eager faces, Feet and hands and fingers! How they gathered, how they stayed With smiles and quick grimaces, Little man and little maid!— How they took their places, Hopping, skipping, unafraid, Darting, rioting about, Squealing, laughing, shouting out! How, beyond a single doubt, In my own feet sprang the ardour (Even now the motion lingers) To be joining in their paces! Round and round the handle went,— Round their hearts went harder;— Apollo urged the happy rout And beamed, ten times as well content With every son and daughter As though their little hands had lent The gentleman his quarter.— (You would not guess—nor I deny— That that same gentleman was I!) No gentleman may watch a god With proper happiness therefrom; So street by street again I trod The way that we had come. He had not seen me following And yet I think he knew; For still, the less I heard of it, The more his music grew: As if he made a bird of it To sing the distance through.... And, O Apollo, how I thrilled, You liquid-eyed rapscallion, With every twig and twist of Spring, Because your music rose and filled Each leafy vein with dew,— With melody of olden sleigh-bells, Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells, And the heart of an Italian, And the tinkling cup and spoon,— Such a melody as star-fish, And all fish that really are fish, In a gay remote battalion Play at midnight to the moon!
ONE OF THE CROWD
Oh I longed, when I went in the woods today, To see the fauns come out and play, To see a satyr try to seize A dryad's waist—and bark his knees, To see a river-nymph waylay And shock him with a dash of spray!— And I teased, like a child, by brooks and trees: "Come back again! We need you! Please! Come back and teach us how to play!" But nowhere in the woods were they.
I found, when I went in the town today, A thousand people on their way To offices and factories— And never a single soul at ease; And how could I help but sigh and say: "What can it profit them, how can it pay To strain the eye with rivalries Until the dark is all it sees?— Or to manage, more than others may, To store the wasted gain away?"