Goblins and Pagodas Part 12

Over the ink-black cauldron of the sea, Heavily, on wings of leaden cloud, Howling the sunset Races out to a.s.sail me.

Long have I voyaged, Night after night the grey rains swept the sea: The heaving breakers Hissed and quivered but held no light.

Now my voyage is ending, White storm winds have swept bare my soul; With their harsh laughter, Their maddening mockery, Their bayonet-thrusts of despair.

Over the keen, clean-swept zenith Roll crus.h.i.+ngly, huge ma.s.ses of cloud: Dull, ponderous, sagging with the burden Of creaking snow.

They drop flat on the sea, They hang menacing over me, They festoon the sun With swags of crimson light.

They stripe the horizon, They bar every way with their iron tongues; They loom weltering over my effort, They steadfastly close me in.

Meanwhile the sun With dying force Wrenches one little crack In the midst of the sagging ma.s.ses, And I steer on to it.

Like a crimson lake The light overflows and touches the bulging surfaces With carmine, with scarlet, With orange, with vermillion, With brick red, with bluish purple, With maroon, with rose, with russet, With savage green, with snowy blue, With grey, with ebony, with gold.

It is the storm of the evening That races out shrieking To a.s.sail me, And I hail it.

II

The sky's vast emptiness Is crowded with fragments colliding, Ragged, splintered ma.s.ses Swirling away to the night.

The volcano of the sun Has burst and split its crater: Black slag is hurled to the zenith Above the red lava-sea.

Black shrivelled, charred fragments Fall into the scarlet torrent: Huge tresses of darkness sweep over my face, Leaving me choking.

The sea is one crimson steaming fire; Each fanged wavelet Flickers and dances about the one behind it, Hungrily licking at the s.h.i.+p.

Fierce whirling swords, Tossed spear-heads lancelike Spit and stab, then suddenly fall Leaving me there On a rolling summit of flame, facing a gulf of despair.

The s.h.i.+p Lurches With ice-crusted prow into the wave-trough; And rises, rapidly dripping liquid lire, Long twisted necklaces, that burn out to green frozen chrysolite.

III

Over my head a bell beats: it is midnight.

Perhaps I will live to the dawn.

About me are the mouths of yawning furnaces And from these scarlet mouths the heat outpours, And darts and licks its dry tongues at my brain Till it, too, seems a black sh.e.l.l almost bursting With the force of flame in it.

Still, wearily, I swing my shovel, Spattering the black coal over the palates Of the snoring mouths which rapidly swallow.

There is nothing else to do.

My legs seem melting away in sweat beneath me: In my body my lungs and heart are fighting for air, My eyes are seared by the appalling scarlet, Of the furnaces about me--I scarcely-see them--My shovelfuls fall short with every swing.

Without I hear the battering of the tempest, The s.h.i.+p is pounded sideways by black immeasurable wave-thrusts, And rising dizzily again, like a half-senseless fighter, Is again sent downwards, by those unseen fists.

My shovel rises to the s.h.i.+p's slow recovery, My shovel shoots out at the smash of toppling ma.s.ses, Sometimes I pause and pant for an endless instant, While the s.h.i.+p crouches, quivering.

Over my head a bell beats: it is morning.

Wearily I drop the shovel, And drag myself to the deck.

IV

Afar There is something that seems a sh.o.r.e; The sky has been blown clean of clouds except to westward, And these stare hard at me, like huge sardonyx towers.

I cling to a half-shattered rail that reels and dances, Soused by the choking water, My face a streaming ma.s.s of blood and salt and grime, I wait and dizzily I try to remember.

What is this city that out there awaits me?

Am I its conqueror?

Will scarlet flags hang fluttering in the streets To greet my coming?

Will crimson lanterns Jingle and toss in festival to-night?

Has the fire burned the s.h.i.+p and is the water But stinging icy fire, That whips and sears my face?

Down there the furnaces go out, for the water Sloshes about the floor; And steaming acrid fumes arise, No living soul could stay in such a place.

Out here the decks are shattered, The boats are shorn away, And far on the horizon, The city glares with its sardonyx towers.

Now the red bells, The black-red bells, The storm bells, Break loose from the horizon, Leaping upon the eastern sea, And breaking it in their teeth.

The towers Infuriate, enkindle From base to summit, In layers, and orange terraces, Against the blue snow haze that drifts down on them from the east.

The s.h.i.+p of my soul Is rolling to port at last, With one clang from its heaving boilers, One sigh from its shaking funnels, One rattle from its loosened chains.

I will lash myself to the masthead And wait Empty-eyed and open-mouthed, Till the city that is all one scarlet flame of death Takes me to itself at last.

VIOLET SYMPHONY

I

But yesterday Moonsails were raking high the harbour of my dreams.

Dull night of trees, Dark sorrows drooping, Glittering raindrops gleam on you In recollection Of my despair.