The House of Dust; a symphony Part 11

Hooves had trampled and torn this place, And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones.

Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . .

Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . .

I will lie on this gra.s.s as a lover lies And reach to the north and reach to the south And seek in the darkness for her mouth.

Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind Shatter pale foam among great trees, Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, I run to find you, I run and cry, Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I.

It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there.

Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . .

Is this you? Is this you?

Bats in this air go whirring. . . .

And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, Is this the soft mouth I knew?

Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; And the patter of dew.

Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!

Dance till the brain is red with speed!

Dance till you fall! Lift your torches!

Kiss your lovers until they bleed!

Backward I draw your anguished hair Until your eyes are stretched with pain; Backward I press you until you cry, Your lips grow white, I kiss you again, I will take a torch and set you afire, I will break your body and fling it away. . . .

Look, you are trembling. . . . Lie still, beloved!

Lock your hands in my hair, and say Darling! darling! darling! darling!

All night long till the break of day.

Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . .

Or the far tolling of that tower?

The voices are still that cried around us. . . .

The woods grow still for the sacred hour.

Rise, white lover! the day draws near.

The grey trees lean to the east in fear.

'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .'

Beloved, whose voice was this that cried?

'By the clear waters that reach the sun By the clear waves that starward run. . . .

I found love's body and lost his soul, And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . .

How shall I ever again be whole, By what dark waters shall I be healed?'

Silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, Fall. Far off, the maenads run.

Silence. Beneath my naked feet The veins of the red earth swell and beat.

The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . .

Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon.

The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon.

The great bell cracks and falls at last.

The moon whirls out. The sky grows still.

Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars And suddenly drops behind the hill!

Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, We sit in the room by candle-light.

We peer in each other's veins and see No sign of the things we saw this night.

Only, a song is in your ears, A song you have heard, you think, in dream: The song which only the demon hears, In the dark forest where maenads scream . . .

'By the clear waters where once I died . . .

In the calm evening bright with stars . . . '

What do the strange words mean? you say,-- And touch my hand, and turn away.

XIII.

The half-shut doors through which we heard that music Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence.

The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.

Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain.

In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.

Where have we been? What savage chaos of music Whirls in our dreams?--We suddenly rise in darkness, Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.

We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming A warm white moonlit sh.o.r.e;

Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, Or a singing sound of rain . . .

We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, And enter our dreams again.

PART IV.

I. CLAIRVOYANT

'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son--or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?-- The soul flies far, and we can only call it By things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, Ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . '

. . . Wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, Over the low roofs white with snow; Wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, One by one they melt and flow,--

Streaming one by one over trees and towers, Coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; Wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows Flow under them one by one . . .

' . . . A spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit Which in the flesh you called your son . . . A spirit Young and strong and beautiful . . .

He says that he is happy, is much honored; Forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind Do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . .

The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken And laid aside . . . '

'Ask him why he did the thing he did!'

'He is unhappy. This thing, he says, transcends you: Dust cannot hold what s.h.i.+nes beyond the dust . . .

What seems calamity is less than a sigh; What seems disgrace is nothing.'

'Ask him if the one he hurt is there, And if she loves him still!'

'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,-- Not as she did, but as all spirits love . . .

A cloud of spirits has gathered about him.