No More Learning

Underneath the spreading cedar,
In an arbour newly built,
Found Hasan his ancient person,
Put him underneath the quilt,
Mounted then his long-maned pony
With the basket on his arm,
Carrying it very firmly
Lest his father might take harm.
Galloped thro' the crowded highway,
Passing by the Street of Taverns,
Fourteen leagues across the desert
Till he came unto the Caverns.

Fastened then his long-maned pony
To a ring-post at the mouth
(Scores and scores of ring-posts were there
Where the Caverns faced the South)
Plunged within the long wide gallery
Tunnelled 'neath the rocky roof,
With a lantern light exploring
All the dark which lay aloof,
Treading swiftly, treading surely,
With the basket on his arm,
Carrying it very firmly
Lest his father might take harm.

Till he came a byway unto
Fashioned from another way,
And a niche seen at the summit
Of a guiding lantern ray.
Lifted then the basket gently,
Poised, and placed it in the niche,
Saying "Farewell, ancient father,
'Tis the custom" . . . after which
Bowed his head before his father
Thrice, and swiftly turned to go,
Knowing that it was the custom,
Thinking it was better so.

Suddenly he heard a droning,
Like a gnat's small plaintive lay,
Somewhere in the dark behind him
Where the "Ancient Persons" lay,
Heard a little ghostly twitter
Like a voice addressing him,
Turned and saw his father staring
Just above the basket rim,
Staring at Hasan, his strong son,
With his filmy red-rimmed eyes,
"What's ado, Oh! ancient father? "
Cried Hasan in great surprise.

"Son," replied the ancient person,
"Tho' a miser is disgraced,
Even in a wealthy household
Monstrous is the crime of waste,
Strong and shapely is the basket
Much hath held and more will take;
If you leave it in the Caverns
Won't it be a great mistake?
So, for once, let custom perish. . . .
Son, 'tis I, your father, ask it,
Lift me out and lay me gently
On the rock and . . . take our basket. "

Oh! the young lord's wild amazement
As he heard that tiny hum;
Turned the lantern light behind him
Stricken with amazement dumb.
Oh! the young lord's vast confusion
As its meaning gave a flicker--
Oh! the mild iconoclastic
Staring o'er the edge of wicker.
Staring--staring--simply staring
With his filmy red-rimmed eyes--
Down Hasan his father lifted
Silent still in strange surmise.

Never faster had prince ridden
From the place of Persian devils,
Where its huge and inky bastions
Frowned across the golden levels;
Nor before had faster travelled
Scion of the equine brood
Than that day, that day of portent,
Galloped she the silver-shoed.
Saw Hasan the meaning clearly
And a prophet (so they said)
After sunset thro' the taverns
Loud proclaimed the custom dead.

This a legend of old Persia
Of an earlier happier day
Of a happy happy people--
How they ended none can say.




The Enchanted Gipsy.


"Gilda, Gilda, my ragged child,
Where have you been,
In the lane, the green lane, or the heather,
My little queen? "

"Honey mother, sweet little mother,
Oh! my old grey mummy,
It's the blood of berries on my skirt
Makes me look rummy. "

"There is no juice on your coral lips,
Your amber eyes are wild,
And why do you dance like an angry jay,
My fairy child? "

"I can tell, I can tell,
Oh! my delicate mam,
I dance to the tune of a blue-bell,
Which told me what I am. "

"Gilda, Gilda, my lovely child,
Say how it spoke,
There is nothing well in a flower's spell
On one of our folk. "

"Oh! my pet, my beautiful heart,
Oh! my cunning mummy,
My cousin the sun and the wind have begun,
That's why I look rummy. "

"I have known one since I have begun,
I have known a dozen,
But never I knew a girl was true
Who called _them_ cousin. "

"Oh! my mam, my delicate mam,
Do not scold your daughter,
I only went to the Witch's pool
And looked in the water. "

"Oh! my dove, my beautiful elf,
Was the water clear as heaven,
Did you weave a crown of flowers for yourself,
In the magic of even? "

"Oh! my mother, my honey mother,
The water was heaven-clear,
I wove a crown of marigolds. . . .
But why do you look so queer? "

"Oh! my girl, my pitiful girl,
Good-bye to your happy hours,
The Curse of the Pool is on you. . . .
Your ways are not ours. "




The Roof of the World.


"Ere the first blush of morning's rose
Had reddened the eternal snows,
I plunged the pines among,
And came down thro' the forest sons
In their deep-ranked battalions
With practised steps and strong.

"Then heard I from the plateau rock
A lowing cow and a crowing cock--
Thin sounds in upper air.
And far below at the valley's end
I saw the morning smoke ascend
That showed me men were there.

"Ho! you lads, arouse, arouse!
He is descended to your house
Of whom wild legend ran.
On the roof of the world I dwelt five year,
Go, tell your master I am here
To be his serving-man.

"Ho! all you folk, I climbed above
The boundaries of hate and love.
Ho! such an one was I--
The wind it whistled to my bone.
I was alone, alone, alone
With the mountains and the sky.

"It is a timeless land and still;
The heavens slowly like a wheel
Revolve themselves around;
There are two rulers in that place;
Eternity sits throned by space;
Their law is without sound.

"Ho! you folk, such feats I did
On the world's roof the snow amid,
Ho! such an one as I--
I matched the wild goat in my race,
And underneath the long wise face
I pulled the beard awry.

"Five years I sported undismayed,
But suddenly I was afraid,
Yea, fearfully amazed.
I saw the eye of a dying hare;
Infinity was mirrored there
Ere it was wholly glazed.

"And this shall be my daily good,
To draw your water, hew your wood,
And lighten all your need;
To do your sowing and your tilling;
But to be bright and always willing,
And have no other creed. "

All bronzed and bearded was his face;
He had a rapture and a grace
From living in the wild;
As he stared around and strangely spoke
He looked not like other folk,
But as an eager child.




The Poet and the Lily.


A poet was born in a modern time,
'Neath Saturn and his Rings,
He was a child of the world's prime,
Knew all beautiful things.
He was a child of morning and mirth,
Laughing for joy of the sun,
His nostrils drank the scent of earth
When rain is over and done.

A lily came from the winter's womb
And grew in its own sweet pride,
But the ruthless steel passed over its bloom,
And low in the dust it died.
And the poet's heart was filled with pain
That a delicate thing and rare
Should be reft of the beauty of which it was fain
And killed by the cruel share.

So he sang of the meadows white with lambs,
And life all young again,
Of the colts which gallop to their dams,
Knowing not any rein.
He sang of the spring upon the sea,
Hedges all white with may,
The year in its sweet infancy,
This our great world at play.

Of shepherds piping to their flocks
Across the fields of thyme,
Of sunlit fields above the rocks,
Where the small waves lap in rhyme.
Of glancing maids and youths their peers,
For ever young and free,
With faces fair, and in their ears
Great music of the sea.

He sang the amber moon a-sail
In an even of misty blue,
The stars which burn, the stars which pale,
The might which holds them true;
The comets in another sky
Which sweep to an unknown morn.
He sang of some vast agony
Or ever a world was born.

He sang a song like a twanging bow,
His head was full of sound
As a dark night when winds are low
And a swell comes from the ground.
He sang a song like a joyous bird
In wooded places and hilly,
While in the hearts of those that heard
Pity grew like a lily.




The Tramp.


Forth from the ill-lit tavern door
Where he had snoozed and boozed before
Stumbled his shambling feet.
A candle gave a guttering light,
And some one growled a hoarse good-night. . . .
The Tramp was in the street.

His boots were blistered, burst and patched,
He had a mildewed hat, which matched
His green, unlovely coat.
Once, too, he caught his foot and swore,
And, tho' the night was warm, he wore
A muffler at his throat.

And as he went his two lips moved
As if he muttered songs he loved
To an old, unquiet tune;
And as he went his eyes were glazed,
Twice, too, he paused like some one dazed
And hiccoughed at the moon.

Thus thro' the empty ways he passed
Until he reached the road at last
With fields at either hand,
And in the heavens bare and bright
The moon stood high and shed her light
Upon the silent land.

And lo! hard by, a lofty rick,
No chance was there of stab or prick,
It makes a pleasant bed.
And so, within, he burrowed deep,
And then upon a fragrant heap
He laid his unclean head.

The moon was swallowed by a cloud,
A nightingale sang sweet and loud
From the middle of a wood;
From its small body swelled a strain
Which flooded all the listening plain.
It trembled as it stood.

Upon his hay the Tramp awoke,
The golden fountain never broke,
The lovely sobbing strain.
The melody of that brown bird
Awoke a delicate, prisoned chord
Within his sodden brain.

The brain of him who lived remote
And dreamed strange things he never wrote
But hoarded in his mind.
He would not kill the dreams he loved
For sake of little things that moved
The passions of mankind.

Let the red torches toss and flare,
And all the long-stemmed trumpets blare,
Let brass beat loud on brass.
Let the Kings ride in victory,
Low comes the thought amidst the cry,
"These visions shall but pass. "

For, like reflections in a mirror,
Or empty bubbles on a river,
The striving world passed by.
What seemed to others worth the winning
Thro' strong desire or hate of sinning
Brought him no energy.

The thunder muttering on the hills,
The song of birds, the babbling rills,
The painted flowers and stars,
This pageantry of earth did seem
The parcel of a timeless dream.
He lived beyond the bars.

It was to him a vague mirage
Or memory of a storied page
With only that appeal;
But oftentimes a sound or sight
Would bring to him his own delight
More subtle than the real.

And with his sense of entity
Half lost, he raised a vacant eye
Into the empyrean.
And as he lay upon his back
The pealing centuries rolled back. . . .
He saw the blue AEgean.

And thus he dreamt: "My palace home
With minaret and marble dome
Upon the sapphire strait.
My garden full of nightingales,
One singing as the other fails
While evening groweth late.

"And from my watch-tower I behold
Beneath a sky of molten gold
My argosies return.
A homeward wind is in their sails,
Freighted are they with costly bales,
Vast fires behind them burn.

"I have a room with shining floors
And lofty roof and polished doors,
Wherein I love to dine
With two good friends at left and right,
Whose converse is my soul's delight
And glads my heart like wine.

"Or in my marble portico
We sit and watch the summer glow
And talk of love and death;
And when the amber twilight fails
We listen to the nightingales,
And evening holds her breath.

"Oh! Charicles and Charmides,
Much have I dreamt of hours like these,
My friends I never knew--
Whose voices and whose grave, sweet words
Were lovelier than the songs of birds,
And fresher than the dew.

"For Charicles has love and youth,
And all his words are sweet with truth,
Like a garden with the rain;
And Charmides is mild and wise,
But with his tear-washed, violet eyes
Yet can he smile again.

"Perhaps I knew you, ancient lords
Of nobler wit and finer chords--
But this I cannot tell;
For ever lovely things I sought
In some strange borderland of thought,
Content therein to dwell.

"For who could blame or who could praise
If one should choose to pass his days
In a phantasy of dreams,
And, finding thus his own ideal
In things dissevered from the real,
Be happier than he seems?

"Ah! who could praise or who could blame,
Tho' glimmers all my way the same,
Like a dyke-road thro' a fen.
Far on, far on--a ruddy spark--
The toll-light glows adown the dark,
And I, like other men,

"Must pay my toll and pass beyond,--
I made no vow, I signed no bond,
Nor lose my self-esteem,
But pass, unknown, unloved, unlost,
The man who knew and weighed the cost,
The man who dared to dream.

"For what is Fame and what's a Name,
Your cries of sorrow, wrath, and shame,
Your Hamlets and King Lears,
The night must cover them again
Did they last a thousand lives of men,
A thousand thousand years.

"The world may say that I have missed;
Ah! no--I am an egoist
Of subtle, fixed design.
My dreams a garden are to me
To which no other holds the key,
I wish to keep them mine.

"All mine--those tender, half-thought things,
Which flutter gossamer rainbow wings
And hover near, near, near.
Why should I catch and pin them down
And lose their beauty for a crown
Would chafe my brows to wear.

"And thus, a baser alchemist
In some perverted plan persist
To turn my gold to dross.
If I turned my gold their soul were sold
Tho' I wore a crown and cloth of gold,
Their soul were then the loss.

"If I sat high, a crowned king,
With lofty brows in a royal ring,
A lustrous diadem,
If I wore the titles 'High, Strong, and Wise,'
And garments stained with purple dyes,
All jewelled at the hem

"With emeralds, rubies and jacinth stones,
Such as great kings wear on their golden thrones,
And a royal mantle of vair,
And held a sceptre in my hand,
Which showed me ruler of all the land,
In my palace, where none might dare

"To cross my word, but all must bow
As the courtly throng are bending now,
And give the King his meed,
And slaves waved forests of peacock fans
And a cry went up like a single man's,
'This is the King indeed. '

"For I could be King and Overlord
In the wondrous realm of the written word,
Am King there . . . in my dreams.
So, loving dreams, this life I choose--
The tramp's with tattered coat and shoes,
Yet happier than it seems.

"Thus, oh! my dreams, you grow not old,
No process dims you, leaves you cold,
Immortal, bright, you come,
And if you come not, I am wise,
I have my trusted old allies,
Tobacco, beer, and rum. "

His chin sank down upon his breast,
And suddenly the brown bird ceased
To pour her strain abroad.
A sound less sweet to mortal ear
Uprose (had one been there to hear). . . .
It was the tramp who snored.




The Black Dwarf.


Certain it is that of those qualities
We are enamoured which we most do lack.
So he, fantastic out of human guise,
Bent, broken, bowed, small, apish, humped of back,
Marred in the mint, perfection's contrary,
To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall,
And--the great artist without jealousy--
Knew beauty more than all.

Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness,
But if they pined thro' blight or thirsty want,
Or spiteful wind had made his blossoms less,
Or mouse or mole had gnawed some tender plant,
Then seemed the edge of life all dull and blunt,
And passion thwarted tore his twisted frame,
And, 'neath the penthouse of the shaggy front,
The yellow eyes flashed flame.

But most he joyed whenever country maid,
Prizing his taste, or damsel highly born
To judgment came, and anxiously displayed
For him submission as for others scorn.
Then, peering keenly from his peat-roofed home,
Calm in his power he scanned her as he chose,
And, if she pleased, the swart and twisted gnome
Gave her a white, white rose.




To an Elephant.


Lord of the trunk and fan-like ears,
Wisest and mightiest next to man,
I see thee hence a million years
Ruling the earth with milder plan.
Dwellers above, beneath the ground,
Shall live contented in that time;
No subtle growths shall e'er confound
Their natural joy and instinct prime.

Not such as those who planned to nought
And groped (wise fools! ) beyond their ken
Scarce knowing what they loved or sought--
Those subtle growths, those weary men--
Shall dwell earth's inexperienced brood
In natural joy and instinct prime;
But without evil, without good,
Be each new moment, not all time.

Jungles shall grow where cities stood,
The mighty rivers roar unbridged
The hungry tiger seek his food,
Save for thy bidding, privileged,
Where (weary subtle growths) we bore
Our burden of humanity;
For conscious mind shall work no more
And man himself have ceased to be.




SONGS.




The Palmer's Song.


I will fling ambition away
Like a vain and glittering toy;
With tristful weeping will I pray
And wash my sin's alloy.
I will wear the palmer's weed
And walk in the sandal shoon.
I will walk in the sun by day
And sleep beneath the moon.
I will set forth as the bells toll
And travel to the East,
Because of a sin upon my soul
And the chiding of a priest.




The Song of the Old Men.


We are the old, old men,
Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics,
But now we are three score and ten
Or upwards--mere relics
Of the fine strong pageant of youth,
Which time in his spite and unruth
Has taken.
We are dim and palsied and shaken,
Ah! me--forsaken.

Where are the fair white maids
With flower faces and carriage
Straight as new-smithied blades,
Ripe, ready for marriage?
Now all are withered and grey,
Their beauty has passed away,
Ah! madness--
They are bent like hoops with sadness
And the world's badness.

Our voices are hoarse and drear,
As we sit and mumble together,
We have no good tidings to hear
We had sooner have never
(So we grumble together) been born,
That are so sick and forlorn;
Just shadows--
But once bright fishers of shallows,
Swift hunters of meadows.

We are the old, old men,
We have seen and endured much trouble;
It has turned us children again,
And bent us double.
Now we sit like a circle of stones,
And hear in each others' moans
Ill token.
For our sweetest thoughts were broken
Or else unspoken.




The Song of Snorro.


"Oh! who can drink at the world's brink,
Or reach the twilight star?
It's a long sail where the winds wail,
And the great waters are.

"Or who can say at the parting day
That he will see once more
His children's faces in happy places,
His true wife at the door? "

Snorro the Viking, his thigh striking,
Laughed in his big red beard.
"Some are bound by sight and sound.
While some have wished and feared.

"Their days dream as a droning stream
Or moonlight in a wood.
Now who can sate his love or hate,
And the tumult of his blood?

"Then cast the die for the open sky
When the great sun beats abroad,
For the foam-fleck and the narrow deck,
The life of oar and sword.
"Life and limb for the wind's hymn,
And all the fears that be,
The ghost-races with ghastly faces,
The phantoms of the sea.

"Mine is the morrow," shouted Snorro,
"I longed and have not feared. "
And his great laughter followed after
And rumbled in his beard.




The Island.


Once (was it long ago, dear?
Oh! hark to the sighing seas. )
We sailed to a wonderful Island
In the golden Antipodes,
Where the waves wore an azure mantle,
The winds were ever at rest,
For we'd left the Old World behind us
A thousand leagues to the West.

We came to that wonderful Island;
Girt by a ring of foam
It lay in the sea like a jewel
Under an azure dome.
The cliffs were all gold in the sunlight,
The strand was a floor of gold,
So we knew we'd come to the Island
We'd read of in tales of old.

Was it long we stayed in our Island?
(Dear, I can never say)
I know we walked on the mountains
Which looked far over the bay.
I know that we laughed for pleasure
(Were we wise or a couple of fools? )
As we gazed at the painted fishes
Which swam in the shallow pools.

And night drew over our Island
The purple pall of the skies,
The air was heavy with fragrance
And soft with the breath of sighs,
And voices out of the forest,
Voices out of the sea,
Told the eternal secret. . . .
Told it to you and me.

And the stars came down from the heavens,
And the magical tropic moon,
To dance a measure together
Over the still lagoon;
And the whisper of distant forests,
The noise of the surf in our ears,
Seemed like the song of the ages
Sung by the passing years.

But we said "farewell" to our Island
Which we had discovered alone. . . .
The sand . . . and the palms . . . and the headland. . . .
The westering wind . . . and the sun.
We said "farewell" to our Island
(Oh! hark to the sullen rain! )
. . . And I knew as it fell behind us
We should not see it again.

For only a few may go there
And they but once may go,
With glamour of stars above them
And the swinging seas below.
But I still hear its forests whisper,
The noise of the surf on the shore,
In that far-off wonderful Island
Which I shall see no more.




Fair Filamelle.


Fair Filamelle is my distress
With all her cruel backwardness.
She will not listen to my pain,
But turneth from me in disdain.
That fair Filamelle,
Her disdain is now my hell.
She hath bewitched me with her eyes,
As Circe did the sailor wise,
Or Egypt did the Roman Prince,
Two thousand years agone.
I've little else but weeping since,
My heart is like a stone.

If you like laughter's silver sound
Why have you dealt me such a wound,
If youth and beauty look askance
At glum and heavy countenance,
Why is it coy and cruel,
Adding to my fire more fuel?
Alas! Alas! it has no care,
Free as the birds which flit in air,
Nor heedfulness has any,
Else were its kindness not so rare,
Its victims then so many.

Ah! fair Filamelle, have pity on my moan,
Else must I die alone,
My heart is like a stone.




The Song of Kisses.


I have no skill in Love's soft war,
Nor am I bold to woo
In the same sort that conquerors are
When they are lovers too.
Tho' passion thunders in my brain
Like ocean on a beach,
My tongue is bounden with a chain
And manacled my speech.
Yet, could I let one word go free
To touch your chords with fire,
Become the wind upon the sea
The plectrum of the lyre,
Then, my Althea, should we be
Two lovers without shame,
All things in their epitome,
The Universe our name.
Then should we bow to Love's command
As the waves kiss the shore
And the rain falls upon the land
That it may thirst no more.
Then should we kiss, with time at bay
As in the Ajalon valley,
A score--two score--two hundred--nay
We would not keep the tally--
A hundred thousand in one bout,
Ten myriads ere we slumbered,
And the stars winked and all went out
To find themselves out-numbered.




The Song of Odysseus.


Out of the dark I return--
The abode of the shades;
The words which they said
Were the strengthless words of the Dead,
Meaningless, nothing importing.

Out of the dark I return
And the House of the Dead;
The endless regions of gloom
Deep sepulchred in the womb
Of Earth, the mother of all things.

Out of the dark I return,
From the stream of the Dead;
I slew a goat on the brink
And they pressed around me to drink
Their shadowy twittering legions.

Out of the dark I return,
From the speech of the Dead;
I asked them for counsel and word,
They twittered like bats when they heard
And wailed for the warm blood flowing.

Out of the dark I return;
(Ye are baffled, Oh! Dead);
Lost hopes, lost hearts, lost loves,
Hollow-eyed, hollow-cheeked are your droves,
I drew my sword and ye vanished.

Out of the dark I return
And the dust of desire;
My ears are still filled with the shrieks
Of the pitiful Dead and my cheeks
Still pale with the paleness of Hades.

Out of the dark I return
For the day, for the deed;
And now to Apollo, the slayer,
I stand and utter a prayer
Humbly, first making obeisance.




STORIES IN VERSE.




Adeimantus.


The dream of Adeimantus
Who carved for a Grecian Prince
Statues of perfect marble,
Fairer than all things since,
Wonderful, white, and gracious
Like lotus flowers on a mere,
Or phantoms born of the moonbeam,
Beyond all praise but a tear.
The dream of Adeimantus
(As he lay upon his bed),
Wonderful, white, and gracious,
And this was the word it said.
"Arise! oh! Adeimantus,
The breath of the dawn blows chill,
The stars begin to fade
Ere the first ray strikes the sill.
Arise! oh! Adeimantus
For here is work to your hand,
If the fingers fashion the dream
As the soul can understand. "
He rose from his troubled bed
Ere the dream had faded away,
And he said, "I will fashion the dream
As the potter fashions the clay. "
He said in his great heart's vanity,
"I will fashion a wondrous thing
To stand in a palace of onyx
And blind the eyes of a king. "
He said in the pride of his soul
As the birds began to sing,
"I will surely take no rest
Till I fashion this wondrous thing.
I will swear an oath to eschew
The white wine and the red,
To eat no delicate meats
Nor break the fair, white bread.
I will not walk in the city
But labour here alone
In the dew and the dusk and the flush
Till the vision smiles from the stone. "
Six days he wrought at the marble,
But cunning had left his hand,
And his fingers would not fashion
What his soul could understand.
Six days he fasted and travailed,
Hard was the watch to keep,
So the chisel fell from his fingers
And he sank with a sob to sleep.
But a vision came to his slumber
Beautiful as before,
Floating in with the moonbeam
Gliding over the floor.
It floated in with the moonbeam
And stood beside his bed,
Wonderful, white, and gracious,
And this was the word it said.
"Courage, oh! Adeimantus,
I am the perfect thing
To stand in a shrine of jasper
And blind the eyes of a king.
I am the strange desire,
The glory beyond the dream,
The passion above the song,
The spirit-light of the gleam.
I come to my best beloved,
Not actual, from afar,
Fairer than hope or thought,
More beautiful than a star.
Courage, oh! Adeimantus,
Lay strength and strength to your soul.
You shall fashion surely a part
Tho' you may not grasp the whole. "




Pygmalion.


Once . . . I seem to remember. . . .
Crept in the noonday heat
A boy with a crooked shadow
Which capered along the street.
A boy whose shadow was mocked at
By the children passing along,
Straight and tall and beautiful,
Happy with laughter and song.
So, he envied their beauty. . . .
He who was crooked and brown. . . .
The strong youths of the mountain,
The white girls of the town,
Envied their happy meetings
And the tender words they spoke
In the shadow of the temples,
Under the groves of oak.
And his lonely heart was stricken
That never his lot might be
To walk with a maid who loved him. . . .
So quaint and crooked was he.


II

Thus was my heart once stricken
And I repined for a while,
I but a boy in years,
Who longed for a maiden's smile.
Till once on a day in summer
My soul was touched with a gleam,
And I woke from my morbid fancies
Like one from an evil dream,
And knew that the gods in their wisdom
Had made and set me apart.
Lean, misshapen, and ugly. . . .
No toy for a maiden's heart.
And I felt with a heart awakened
That leapt in a riot of joy,
The heart of a wise man and proud
Not the heart of a moody boy.
Viewing the old things anew
With an inner wonder in each:
The cloud ships driven thro' heaven,
The sea rolling into the beach,
The magic heart of the woodland,
The loves of nymph and faun,
The splendour of starlight nights,
The calm inviolate dawn.


III

Thus was my spirit quickened,
And once on a lucky day
I drew a bird on plaster,
And modelled a horse in clay;
Kneeling under a wall
Where a shadow fell on the street,
Eyes and mind intent
In the midst of the noonday heat.
Eyes and mind intent. . . .
And a stranger passed my way,
. . . The shadow grew and lengthened
As he stopped to watch my play.
He looked at the little horse,
He looked at the winging bird;
And ere I noticed his presence
He touched me and spoke a word:
"Hast thou the mind and will
As thou hast hand and sight. . . ?
Follow me if thou hast
And climb . . . oh! climb to the height. "


IV

So I followed him to his workshop
And stayed there a year and a year
Working under a master
Who praised me and held me dear,
Till at last a day arose
When, taking my hand in his own,
"You have my knowledge," he said,
"And now you must stand alone. "
And tho' I sorrowed to leave him
My heart was ready to sing,
So first in praise of the gods
I made for an offering
(Even as does a shepherd
His rustic altar of sods)
Bright forms larger than human
As mortals dream of the gods.
Then, in my strange world-worship,
The Tritons, Lords of the Sea,
The creatures which haunt the woodland,
Happy and shy and free,
Nymphs and satyrs and fauns
Who worship the great god Pan,
And lastly the mighty heroes
Who fashion the mind of man.


V

Thus thought I and thus wrought I,
And my power grew greater still.
I rose to the heights of passion
And sounded the depths of will,
Reaching out to the farthest
Winnowing down to the last,
Gazing into the future
And diving into the past.
Higher and ever higher
Like an eagle soared my art
And I praised the most high gods
Who made and set me apart.
And Prince and poet and painter
Travelled to touch my hand,
The minds which had toiled and suffered,
The minds which could understand,
Marvelling in my workshop
At the shining forms they saw. . . .
The children of my spirit
Born of a higher law.


VI

But last on a day in summer
(An evil day it seems)
I thought, "I will fashion a woman
As I have seen in dreams.
I, who never loved woman
That breathed and spoke and moved,
Will fashion a noble statue
To show what I could have loved;
A glorious naked figure
Untouched by time or fate,
A symbol of all that might be
And she shall be my mate.
Not mate of my crooked body,
Lean, misshapen and brown,
(No longer I feared my shadow
But walked a prince in the town)
But mate for my glorious spirit
Winging thro' shimmering heights,
On the viewless pinions of fancy
Where none can follow its flights. "
Thus was I moved in spirit
And wrought, a happy slave,
Striving to make the best
Of the gifts the high gods gave,
Fashioning out of the marble,
--And I knew my work was good--
The arms and the breasts and the thighs
And the glory of womanhood.


VII

Lo! the statue is finished.
Look how it stands serene
A woman with tender smile
And proud eyes of a queen!
Lo! the statue is perfect. . . .
Flower and crown of my life. . . .
I who never loved woman
Could take this woman for wife. . . .
Her, my Galatea,
My wonderful milk-white friend,
Work of my hand and brain
Linked to this noble end.


VIII

The statue stands above me,
Flower and crown of my art. . . .
But would that the gods had made me
As others, not set me apart.
For what, in the measure of life,
Is work on a lower plane?
And this the finest, brightest--
Further I cannot attain.
Shall I grind its beauty to fragments
Or shatter its symmetry? --
For I have made it in secret
And none has seen it but me.
My hand would falter and fail--
Oh! . . . I could not forget.
I still should see it in dreams
With a passion of regret.
Or . . . Shall I wait till morning
White-winged over the land,
Ere the fishermen tramp the beach
And drag their boats to the sand;
And find at last .