The Singing Man Part 1

The Singing Man.

by Josephine Preston Peabody.

NOTE

Thanks are especially due to the editors of The American Magazine, Scribner's, The Atlantic Monthly, and to Messrs. Harper and Brothers, for their courteous permission to reprint certain of the poems included in this volume.

FOREWORD

We make our songs as we must, from fragments of the joy and sorrow of living. What Life itself may be, we cannot know till all men share the chance to know.

Until the day of some more equal portion, there is no human brightness unhaunted by this black shadow: the thought of those unnumbered who pay all the heavier cost of life, to live and die without knowledge that there is any Joy of Living.

No song could face such blackness, but for the will to share, and for hope of the day of sharing.

Upon that hope and that mindfulness, the poems in this book are linked together.

J.P.M.

4 October, 1911.

THE SINGING MAN

I

He sang above the vineyards of the world.

And after him the vines with woven hands Clambered and clung, and everywhere unfurled Triumphing green above the barren lands; Till high as gardens grow, he climbed, he stood, Sun-crowned with life and strength, and singing toil, And looked upon his work; and it was good: The corn, the wine, the oil.

He sang above the noon. The topmost cleft That grudged him footing on the mountain scars He planted and despaired not; till he left His vines soft breathing to the host of stars.

He wrought, he tilled; and even as he sang, The creatures of his planting laughed to scorn The ancient threat of deserts where there sprang The wine, the oil, the corn!

He sang not for abundance.--Over-lords Took of his tilth. Yet was there still to reap, The portion of his labor; dear rewards Of sunlit day, and bread, and human sleep.

He sang for strength; for glory of the light.

He dreamed above the furrows, 'They are mine!'

When all he wrought stood fair before his sight With corn, and oil, and wine.

_Truly, the light is sweet Yea, and a pleasant thing It is to see the Sun.

And that a man should eat His bread that he hath won;-- (So is it sung and said), That he should take and keep, After his laboring, The portion of his labor in his bread, His bread that he hath won; Yea, and in quiet sleep, When all is done._

He sang; above the burden and the heat, Above all seasons with their fitful grace; Above the chance and change that led his feet To this last ambush of the Market-place.

'Enough for him,' they said--and still they say-- 'A crust, with air to breathe, and sun to s.h.i.+ne; He asks no more!'--Before they took away The corn, the oil, the wine.

He sang. No more he sings now, anywhere.

Light was enough, before he was undone.

They knew it well, who took away the air, --Who took away the sun; Who took, to serve their soul-devouring greed, Himself, his breath, his bread--the goad of toil;-- Who have and hold, before the eyes of Need, The corn, the wine,--the oil!

_Truly, one thing is sweet Of things beneath the Sun; This, that a man should earn his bread and eat, Rejoicing in his work which he hath done.

What shall be sung or said Of desolate deceit.

When others take his bread; His and his children's bread?-- And the laborer hath none.

This, for his portion now, of all that he hath done.

He earns; and others eat.

He starves;--they sit at meat Who have taken away the Sun._

II

Seek him now, that singing Man.

Look for him, Look for him In the mills, In the mines; Where the very daylight pines,-- He, who once did walk the hills!

You shall find him, if you scan Shapes all unbefitting Man, Bodies warped, and faces dim.

In the mines; in the mills Where the ceaseless thunder fills s.p.a.ces of the human brain Till all thought is turned to pain.

Where the skirl of wheel on wheel, Grinding him who is their tool, Makes the shattered senses reel To the numbness of the fool.

Perisht thought, and halting tongue (Once it spoke;--once it sung!) Live to hunger, dead to song.

Only heart-beats loud with wrong Hammer on,--_How long_?

... _How long_?--_How long_?

Search for him; Search for him; Where the crazy atoms swim Up the fiery furnace-blast.

You shall find him, at the last,-- He whose forehead braved the sun,-- Wreckt and tortured and undone.

Where no breath across the heat Whispers him that life was sweet; But the sparkles mock and flare, Scattering up the crooked air.

(Blackened with that bitter mirk,-- Would G.o.d know His handiwork?)

Thought is not for such as he; Naught but strength, and misery; Since, for just the bite and sup, Life must needs be swallowed up.

Only, reeling up the sky, Hurtling flames that hurry by, Gasp and flare, with _Why_--_Why_, ... _Why_?...

Why the human mind of him Shrinks, and falters and is dim When he tries to make it out: What the torture is about.-- Why he breathes, a fugitive Whom the World forbids to live.

Why he earned for his abode, Habitation of the toad!

Why his fevered day by day Will not serve to drive away Horror that must always haunt:-- ... _Want_ ... _Want_!

Nightmare shot with waking pangs;-- Tightening coil, and certain fangs, Close and closer, always nigh ...

... _Why_?... _Why_?

Why he labors under ban That denies him for a man.

Why his utmost drop of blood Buys for him no human good; Why his utmost urge of strength Only lets Them starve at length;-- Will not let him starve alone; He must watch, and see his own Fade and fail, and starve, and die.

... _Why_?... _Why_?

Heart-beats, in a hammering song, Heavy as an ox may plod, Goaded--goaded--faint with wrong, Cry unto some ghost of G.o.d ... _How long_?... _How long_?

.......... _How long_?