The Air Trust Part 19

"Of course I do! Please let me hear something you've written!"

He pondered a moment, then in his well-modulated, deep-toned voice began:

_HESPERIDES_.

I.

My feet, used to pine-needles, moss and turf, And the gray boulders at the lip o' the sea, Where the cold brine jets up its creamy surf, Now tread once more these city ways, unloved by me, Hateful and hot, gross with iniquity.

And so I grieve, Grieve when I wake, or at high blinding noon Or when the moon Mocks this sad Ninevah where the throngs weave Their jostling ways by day, their paths by night; Where darkness is not--where the streets burn bright With hectic fevers, eloquent of death!

I gasp for breath....

Visions have I, visions! So sweet they seem That from this welter of men and things I turn, to dream Of the dim Wood-world, calling out to me.

Where forest-virgins I half glimpse, half see With cool mysterious fingers beckoning!

Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn, Or Dryads dance their mystic rounds and sing, Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard; And every wood-note bids me burst asunder The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird.

I quaff thee, O Nepenthe! Ah, the wonder Grows, that there be who buy their wealth, their ease By d.a.m.ning serfs to cities, hot and blurred, Far from thy golden quest, Hesperides!...

II.

I see this August sun again Sheer up high heaven wheel his angry way; And hordes of men Bleared with unrestful sleep rise up another day, Their bodies racked with aftermaths of toil.

Over the city, in each gasping street, Shudders a haze of heat, Reverberant from pillar, span and plinth.

Once more, cribbed in this monstrous labyrinth Sacrificed to the Minotaur of Greed Men bear the turmoil, glare, sweat, brute inharmonies; Denial of each simplest human need, Loss of life's meaning as day lags on day; And my rebellious spirit rises, flies In dreams to the green quiet wood away, Away! Away!

III.

And now, and now...I feel the forest-moss...

Come! On these moss-beds let me lie with Pan, Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrill'd curls, And I will hold all gold, that hampers man, Only the ashes of base, barren dross!

On with the love-dance of the pagan girls!

The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red, With b.r.e.a.s.t.s upgirt and foreheads garlanded, With fair white foreheads n.o.bly garlanded!

With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring!

Now...let them sing, And I will pipe a tune that all may hear, To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme; To warn profaning feet lest they draw near.

Away! Away! Beware these mystic trees!

Who dares to quest you now, Hesperides?

IV.

Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows?

Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold?

Sing ye the hills, adown whose sides blue shadows Creep when the westering day is growing old?

Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows The small fish dart and gleam?

Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows That stoop to kiss the stream?

Or sing ye burning streets, foul with the breath Of sweatshop, tenement, where endlessly Sp.a.w.ned swarms of folk serve tyrant masters twain-- Profit, and his twin-brother, grinning Death?

Where millions toil, hedged off from aught save pain?

Far from thee ever, O mine Arcady?...

His voice ceased and silence fell between the man and woman in the old sugar-house. Gabriel sat there by the dying fire, which cast its ruddy light over his strongly virile face, and gazed into the coals. The girl, lying on the rude bed, her face eager, her slim strong hands tightly clasped, had almost forgotten to breathe.

At last she spoke.

"That--that is wonderful!" she cried, a tremor of enthusiasm in her voice.

He shook his head.

"No compliments, please," said he.

"I'm not complimenting you! I think it _is_ wonderful. You're a true poet!"

"I wish I were--so I might use it all for Socialism!"

"You could make a fortune, if you'd work for some paper or magazine--some regular one, I mean, not Socialist."

He shook his head.

"Dead sea fruit," he answered. "Fairy gold, fading in the clutch, worthless through and through. No, if my work has any merit, it's all for Socialism, now and ever!"

Silence again. Neither now found a word to say, but their eyes met and read each other; and a kind of solemn hush seemed to lie over their hearts.

Then, as they sat there, looking each at each--for now the girl had raised herself on the crude bed and was supporting herself with one hand--a sudden sound of a motor, on the road, awakened them from their musing.

Came the raucous wail of a siren. Then the engine-exhaust ceased; and a voice, raised in some annoyance, hailed loudly through the maple-grove:

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo? What's wrong here?"

Gabriel stepped to the sugar-house door:

"Here! Come here!" he shouted in a ringing voice that echoed wildly from between his hollowed palms.

As the motorist still sat there, uncomprehending, Gabriel made his way toward the road.

"Accident here," said he. "Girl in here, injured. Can you take her to the nearest town, at once? She needs a doctor."

Instantly the man was out of his car, and hastening toward Gabriel.

"Eh? What?" he asked. "Anything serious?"

In a few words, Gabriel told him the outlines of the tale.

"The quicker you get the girl to a town, and let her have a doctor and communication with her family, the better," he concluded.

"Right! I'll do all in my power," said the other, a rather stout, well-to-do, vulgar-looking man.

"Good! This way, then!"

The man followed Gabriel to the sugar-house. They found the girl already on her feet, standing there a bit unsteadily, but with determination to be game, in every feature.