The House of Dust; a symphony Part 5

Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all.

What was her name? Where had she walked that morning?

Through what dark forest came her feet?

Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street?

Backward he dreamed along a chain of days, He saw her go her strange and secret ways, Waking and sleeping, noon and night.

She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair.

She read a story by candlelight.

Her shadow ran before her along the street, She walked with rhythmic feet, Turned a corner, descended a stair.

She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, And drew deep breaths of air.

Days pa.s.sed, bright clouds of days. Nights pa.s.sed. And music Murmured within the walls of lighted windows.

She lifted her face to the light and danced.

The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, Cl.u.s.tered, receded, streamed, advanced.

Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid Opened its golden heart on her breast . . .

She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, Leaned on her partner's arm to rest.

The violins were weaving a weft of silver, The horns were weaving a l.u.s.trous brede of gold, And time was caught in a glistening pattern, Time, too elusive to hold . . .

Shadows of leaves fell over her face,--and sunlight: She turned her face away.

Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness With every step and day.

Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, At a great distance, across the night, Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly From purple light to light.

Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, 'I am the murderer, death.

I am the lover who keeps his appointment At the doors of breath!'

She rose and stared at her own reflection, Half dreading there to find The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, Or reaching from behind To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . .

Or was this in her mind? . . .

She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered Along the tossing strands.

Was there a stillness in this hair,-- A quiet in these hands?

Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes, Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust.

She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever.

Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . .

And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins pa.s.sed, And music ebbed with the ebbing hours.

And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers.

XI.

Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares With purple lights in the canyoned street.

The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .

The trodden gra.s.s in the park is covered with white, The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . .

The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night.

And one, from his high bright window looking down Over the enchanted whiteness of the town, Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, Desires like this to forget what will not pa.s.s, The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished gra.s.s, Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours.

Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, Slurred bells of grief and pain, Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places.

He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow.

He desires to forget a million faces . . .

In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger.

The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it.

In one room fade grey violets in a vase.

Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window.

In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales.

His hands are trembling, his short breath fails.

In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, And thinks the air is fire.

The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings With the sudden hand of desire.

And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; And one lies staring, and thinks of death.

And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, And holds her breath . . .

Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, Coil and revolve and dream, Vanish or gleam?

Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire.

Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream.

And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, And walls flung down . . .

And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, And whiteness hushes the town.

PART III

I

As evening falls, And the yellow lights leap one by one Along high walls; And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, The muted city seems Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . .

Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, Flash, are extinguished, flash again, To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain And die away . . .

As evening falls, A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,-- A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . .

The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, The watchman climbs the stair . . .

The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, And runs among them, and is beaten down; The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; The tired clown Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, Motionless in their places, Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . .

The dancer smooths her hair, Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door To dance once more, Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes.

As darkness falls The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, Moving like music, secret and rich and warm.

How shall we live tonight? Where shall we turn?

To what new light or darkness yearn?

A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; And one by one in myriads we descend By lamplit flowered walls, long bal.u.s.trades, Through half-lit halls which reach no end.

II. THE SCREEN MAIDEN

You read--what is it, then that you are reading?

What music moves so silently in your mind?

Your bright hand turns the page.