Dreams and Dust Part 7

The clamor of tongues and the clangor of trades in the peevish packed street, The arrogant, jangling Nothings, with iterant, dissonant beat, The clattering, senseless endeavor with dross of mere gold for its goal, These have sickened the senses and wearied the brain and straitened the soul.

"Come forth and be cleansed of the folly of strife for things worthless of strife, Come forth and gain life and grasp G.o.d by foregoing gains worthless of life"--

It was thus spake the wizard wildwood, low-voiced to the hearkening heart, It was thus sang the jovial hills, and the harper sun bore part.

O woman, whose blood as my blood with the fire of the Spring is aflame, We did well, when the red roads called, that we heeded the call and came-- Came forth to the sweet wise silence where soul may speak sooth unto soul, Vine-wreathed and vagabond Love, with the goal of Nowhere for our goal!

What planet-crowned Dusk that wanders the steeps of our firmament there Hath gems that may match with the dew-opals meshed in thine opulent hair?

What wind-witch that skims the curled billows with feet they are fain to caress Hath sandals so wing'd as thine art with a G.o.d-like carelessness?

And dare we not dream this is heaven?--to wander thus on, ever on.

Through the hush-heavy valleys of s.p.a.ce, up the flus.h.i.+ng red slopes of the dawn?-- For none that seeks rest shall find rest till he ceaseth his striving for rest, And the gain of the quest is the joy of the road that allures to the quest.

THE LAND OF YESTERDAY

AND I would seek the country town Amid green meadows nestled down If I could only find the way Back to the Land of Yesterday!

How I would thrust the miles aside, Rush up the quiet lane, and then, Just where her roses laughed in pride, Find her among the flowers again.

I'd slip in silently and wait Until she saw me by the gate, And then ... read through a blur of tears Quick pardon for the selfish years.

This time, this time, I would not wait For that brief wire that said, _Too late!_-- If I could only find the way Into the Land of Yesterday.

I wonder if her roses yet Lift up their heads and laugh with pride, And if her phlox and mignonette Have heart to blossom by their side; I wonder if the dear old lane Still chirps with robins after rain, And if the birds and banded bees Still rob her early cherry-trees....

I wonder, if I went there now, How everything would seem, and how-- But no! not now; there is no way Back to the Land of Yesterday.

OCTOBER

CEASE to call him sad and sober, Merriest of months, October!

Patron of the bursting bins, Reveler in wayside inns, I can nowhere find a trace Of the pensive in his face; There is mingled wit and folly, But the madcap lacks the grace Of a thoughtful melancholy.

Spendthrift of the seasons' gold, How he flings and scatters out Treasure filched from summer-time!-- Never ruffling squire of old Better loved a tavern bout When Prince Hal was in his prime.

Doublet slashed with gold and green; Cloak of crimson; changeful sheen, Of the dews that gem his breast; Frosty lace about his throat;

Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float Backward in a gay unrest-- Where's another gallant drest With such tricksy gaiety, Such unlessoned vanity?

With his amber afternoons And his pendant poets' moons-- With his twilights dashed with rose From the red-lipped afterglows-- With his vocal airs at dawn Breathing hints of Helicon-- Baccha.n.a.lian bees that sip Where his cider-presses drip-- With the winding of the horn Where his huntsmen meet the morn-- With his every piping breeze Shaking from familiar trees Apples of Hesperides-- With the chuckle, chirp, and trill Of his jolly brooks that spill Mirth in tangled madrigals Down pebble-dappled waterfalls-- (Brooks that laugh and make escape Through wild arbors where the grape

Purples with a promise of Racy vintage rare as love)-- With his merry, wanton air, Mirth and vanity and folly Why should he be made to bear Burden of some melancholy Song that swoons and sinks with care?

Cease to call him sad or sober,-- He's a jolly dog, October!

CHANT OF THE CHANGING HOURS

THE Hours pa.s.sed by, a fleet, confused crowd; With wafture of blown garments bright as fire, Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed, And where they trod the jonquil and the briar Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells;-- They danced! they danced! to piping such as flings The garnered music of a million Springs Into one single, keener ecstasy;-- One paused and shouted to my questionings: "Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours pa.s.sed by; they paced, great lords and proud, Crowned on with sunlight, robed in rich attire; Before their conquering word the brute deed bowed, And Ariel fancies served their large desire;

They spake, and roused the mused soul that dwells In dust, or, smiling, shaped new heavens and h.e.l.ls, Dethroned old G.o.ds and made blind beggars kings: "And what art thou," I cried to one, "that brings His mistress, for a brooch, the Galaxy?"-- "I am the plumed Thought that soars and sings: Lo, I am Song; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours pa.s.sed by, with veiled eyes endowed Of dream, and parted lips that scarce suspire, To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight vowed, South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring lyre;-- Swaying they moved, as drows'd of wizard spells Or tranc'd with sight of recent miracles, And yet they trembled, down their folded wings Quivered the hint of sweet withholden things, Ah, bitter-sweet in their intensity!

One paused and said unto my wonderings: "Lo, I am Love; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours pa.s.sed by, through huddled cities loud With witless hate and stale with stinking mire:

So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud Down streets plague-spotted toward some cleansing pyre;-- Yet, lo! strange lilies bloomed in lightless cells, And pa.s.sionate spirits burst their clayey sh.e.l.ls And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and clings: Earth's bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings, And joy still struggled through the threnody!

One stern Hour said unto my marvelings: "Lo, I am Life; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours pa.s.sed by, the stumbling hours and cowed, Uncertain, p.r.o.ne to tears and childish ire,-- The wavering hours that drift like any cloud At whim of winds or fortunate or dire,-- The feeble shapes that any chance expells; Their wisdom useless, lacking the blood that swells The tensed vein: the hot, swift tide that stings With life. Ah, wise! but naked to the slings Of fate, and plagued of youthful memory!

A cracked voice broke upon my pityings: "Lo, I am Age; I bid thee follow me!"

Ah, Youth! we dallied by the babbling wells Where April all her lyric secret tells;-- Ah, Song! we sped our bold imaginings As far as yon red planet's triple rings;-- O Life! O Love! I followed, followed thee!

There waits one word to end my journeyings: "Lo, I am Death; I bid thee follow me!"

DREAMS AND DUST

SELVES

_My dust in ruined Babylon Is blown along the level plain, And songs of mine at dawn have soared Above the blue Sicilian main._

We are ourselves, and not ourselves ...

For ever thwarting pride and will Some forebear's pa.s.sion leaps from death To claim a vital license still.

Ancestral l.u.s.ts that slew and died, Resurgent, swell each living vein; Old doubts and faiths, new panoplied, Dispute the mastery of the brain.

The love of liberty that flames From written rune and stricken reed Shook the hot hearts of swordsmen sires At Marathon and Runnymede.

_What are these things we call our "selves"? ...

Have I not shouted, sobbed, and died In the bright surf of spears that broke Where Greece rolled back the Persian tide?_

Are we who breathe more quick than they Whose bones are dust within the tomb?

Nay, as I write, what gray old ghosts Murmur and mock me from the gloom....

They call ... across strange seas they call, Strange seas, and haunted coasts of time....

They startle me with wordless songs To which the Sphinx hath known the rhyme.

Our hearts swell big with dead men's hates, Our eyes sting hot with dead men's tears; We are ourselves, but not ourselves, Born heirs, but serfs, to all the years!

_I rode with Nimrod ... strove at Troy ...

A slave I stood in Crowning Tyre, A queen looked on me and I loved And died to compa.s.s my desire._