The Earth Turns South

Front matter

THE EARTH TURNS SOUTH

THE EARTH TURNS SOUTH

BY

The Radiant

I. RESTLESS YEARS

THE RADIANT

When this body drifts in dust Lightly on the nervous air, Vagabonding everywhere In this restless planet's crust,

Wet by foam of every sea, Dancing up the thinning sky To its terrible and high Journey through infinity,—

When it softly voyages Past the outermost lone star, On to what dim wonders are In the spaceless distances,

It shall never lose the zest That is mine by night and day, As I push my groping way On life's fogged and clouded quest;

It shall never waste or lose The illogical delight That is mine by day and night, As I steer my chartless cruise;

Or the love that fires me through, Or the hope that lifts my eyes Higher than the present skies, Toward the goal I struggle to.

When this spirit makes its way Scatteringly further still, It shall bear the deathless will That I build—and bear—today!

I See America Marching

I SEE AMERICA MARCHING

<>I. I see America marching: Over the perilous waves her khakied thousands flood; Over the bloodied Atlantic the steady drive of her fleets, And through the swirling air the whirr of her clouds of bird-men.

<>II. I see America marching: Wheat from the stubborn soil of the North, cotton snow from the South, Iron and steel from the Lakes and the glinting miles of mountains, Sugar and meat, timber and coal, powder and steel-wrought rails, The army at home, with lengthening arm, smashing unending blows.

<>III. I see America marching: This is no war of armies, nor even of nations.

Behold—a continent—America!—hurls itself over the seaway To crush the hateful tyranny of the squat Teutonic land. For following the khakied line and the driving fleets Katahdin lifts an awakened head, and summons his brothers to follow— An army of mountains marching to battle! Mount Washington comes, Mount Mitchell wakes, Bald Head and Round Top answer the call, Pike's Peak and Massive Mountain trumpet over the plain, Rainier and Whitney, Shasta and Hood advance to the onslaught, And Mount McKinley leads frozen Alaska to the charge.

How the squat Hunnish summits cower! Zugspitze and Schneekoppe flatten, Altvater and Arber flee, Brocken and Vogelsberg scream horribly as the Adirondacks and Rockies surge upon them.

The rivers wind upon the foe— The mighty Father of Waters drowns the puny Rhine, Yukon and Colorado, Rio Grande and the Hudson, flood over the fleeing Elbe and Danube. The Great Lakes rage over the lowlands, And the mighty land, three millions of mighty miles, Plunges upon the desperate Deutschland's two hundred thousand, Until it yields to the continent singing of liberty, And the people's rule buds and blossoms over the blood-drenched earth.

<>IV. I see America marching: Mountain and river, lake and prairie, marching under the white stars of blue heaven, Through a continent's red-barred agony, To win the white goal, the peace of the peoples' vision!

The Battle Line

THE BATTLE LINE

Like gray ghosts on a sea of gray The great gray fleet at anchor rides, Proud conqueror of the nervous tides, Whose broken rollers slosh away, Defeated, from its sides.

There in the doubtful mists they wait, Tense for the vision they may see Of grim and ghostly foes—when, free, They may at last unloose their great Red voice of victory!

Seedtime

SEEDTIME

Not too deep we plant the grain, So that it can rise again To re-green the naked field, Minting all its golden yield.

But these slaughtered men should sleep Planted deep, planted deep. They have had their share of pain, And they would not rise again.

Harvest

HARVEST

Out of the blood-washed trenches, Leaving their bodies there, The souls of the dead young soldiers Float up the friendless air.

They do not seek the masters Who herded them to this fate, With hearts all hot for vengeance,— They are too dead to hate.

But each one finds the maiden He trembled for in life— She who was yet his sweetheart, She who was his young wife.

And she feels on her hungry bosom The ghost of a dead caress, As the soul of her lover scatters Into gray nothingness.

To an Enemy Nation

TO AN ENEMY NATION

You have grown fat,— Too fat and gross To leap and dance Like a slim maiden In the doubtful Spring.

Your voice is hoarse With hawking your body, Hoarse and cracked— You who once sang Like leaves in the wind.

And that slinking glance,— Can you never forget The red midnight When you sold your soul, Liberty?

Comrade Judas

COMRADE JUDAS

(Years of the Great War)

Man has no credit for the twisted ways Truth comes to him; to us, as unto you, Somehow, out of these struggling, groping days, Some vision of the future blurred into view. And we clung to it, as a precious thing Worth dying for, and, more than that, worth living; While all this priceless visioning you fling Coldly away—the sin beyond forgiving. No, not by us; we bid you go your way, Knowing that we are stronger with you gone,— Stronger, because the heart that could betray Down its own furtive course has wandered on. But you will slowly see the things you miss, And you cannot forgive yourself for this.

Immortality

IMMORTALITY

For Crystal Eastman and Walter G. Fuller

Come, War! Come, mad destruction, come! Thump with your glum and thundering drum, Let all shrill-piercing bugles peal, Waken the angry snarl of steel, Till men come tumbling at your heel, Welcoming out of the sky the hell Of withering bomb and bursting shell, And the slow-rolling deaths that creep, Impalpable, along the ground, Stifling the cannon's sullen sound, Bringing the final quivering sleep On blackened land and ruined town And desolate, deserted sea. The years' slow progress crumbles down, As war makes sure his sovereignty.

Come, War, best comrade! Swiftly come! For as you pass, our lips are dumb, Our bodies stiffen, and grow numb… And then, and imperceptibly, What was mankind with all its chatter, Its thus and so, its futile clatter, Begins to tremble restlessly,

Begins to melt away, and scatter, Speeding in changing ways; it lifts Where lilacs bud in purple drifts, It mounts the greenly glowing trees, It seeps into the parent earth, And joins the cool and liquid mirth Of brooks that bubble to the seas; It lends its agile ordered strength To cattle, and to ants that crawl; It writhes within the serpent's length, It peals the thrush's whistling call. Men and women and children die,— Seeds plowed under by bomb and shell,— Scatter, and recombine, and swell A lovely harvest toward the sky.

As men, we were not worthy; we Were weighed, found wanting, and set free From suicidal liberty. For lilac bush and slender larch Are fixed too firm to "Forward, March!" And laughing water cannot wet With what drips from a bayonet; And snake and cattle do not loose

Their honor to a hateful use, Nor do the thrushes of the sky Prepare a wholesale way to die. Man jars the skyey harmony; So War, best savior, comes, to friend Him to his red and sudden end, Setting his prisoned substance free For kindlier immortality!

Alien

ALIEN

I saw a negro in the snow— His vast face dark and pondering, Shoulders whitened, and head hunched low.

What vagabonding lust could bring You from the cotton-field's soft glow, The white magnolia drifts of Spring?

The thin sun here will whiten your face, The lean, long winters ruthlessly Wither your slouching jungle grace.

Our nights grow longer; better flee This callous and transforming place… Or would you grow no more than we?

Nigger Hebb'n

NIGGER HEBB'N

Nigger Hebb'n! Nigger Hebb'n! I'm gonter go, I'm gonter go, I'll leave dis world of woe, Pack an' trabbel, pack an' trabbel, To de kingdom of my Lawd; Howdy sebb'n! Come elebb'n! I'm goin' there, I'm goin' there, I'll climb de golden stair, Leave de debbil, an' his rabble, Fer to claim my soul's reward.

Dar dey'll wash me white as snow, In Jerusalem land. Dar dose honey ribbers flow, In Jerusalem land. I go, you go, all of us go, To de Lawd's baptizin', I know— Wash me white as de dribb'n snow, In Jerusalem land.

No, not all of you—only de sheep, Gwineter come home ter Jesus. Hell fer de goats—an' hell am deep; Debbil's gang don't nebber sleep;

What I'se sowed, I'se gwineter reap, Gwineter come home ter Jesus.

Dar dey'll gib me raiment new, In Jerusalem land. Turkey red, an' calico blue, In Jerusalem land. Feed on possum 'n' 'taters too, Drink dose draps of hebb'nly dew, Lots fer me—an' some fer you In Jerusalem land.

Nigger Hebb'n! Nigger Hebb'n! I'm flyin' high, I'm flyin' high, de top seat in de sky, Risin' through yer, risin' through yer, To receive my soul's reward. Howdy sebb'n! Come elebb'n! O come erlong, O come erlong, an' jine de serrubs' song— Dey'll howdy-do yer, Halleluyah! In de kingdom of my Lawd!

Debbil Foot

DEBBIL-FOOT

Ole Nigger John! Debbil-foot John! Steal' ev'ything dat his han's got on! Straw hats an' han'-saws an' things tuh eat, Cow-feed an' hoss-feed an' shoes fuh his feet, Grubbin'-hoes, suits er clo'es, an' all fuh fun— Lock' 'um in his shack, whar he kep' his gun! Folks come huntin' fuh de things dey miss'— John he holler an' he shake his fis', Shoot in de air er shoot in de groun'— Scare all de niggers fuh miles erroun'!

Ole Nigger John wuz a voodoo coon— Debbil he come in de dark uh de moon, Come out er John's big swollen foot, Whar John 'lowed dat he kep' him put. Dar dey 'ud sit an' dey make er spell, Wrassle an' holler, an' pray an' yell. Nex' day John he scream an' he cuss— Debbil-foot it get wuss an' wuss.

White doctor say dat de leg mus' go. John he scream an' he take on so Dey gin him sumpin ter make him sleep, An' saw off de leg… Ole Nigger John creep

Back tuh his wu'k, wid a "Thank 'ee, ma'am," "Mawnin', boss," an" "Howde-do!" "Yes, suh," "Naw, suh," meck as a lamb… Dey bury dat leg, an' de debbil too— Dey bury dem deep in grave-yahd groun', Fifty foot down, fifty foot down!

De Glory Road

DE GLORY ROAD

For Lieutenant Leighton Wood, U. S. N.

O de Glory Road! O de Glory Road! I'm gwine ter drap mah load upon de Glory Road.

I lay on mah bed untell one crelock, An' de Lawd come callin' all His faithful flock. An' He call "Whoo-ce!", an' He call "Whoo-ee!" An' I knowed dat de Sabior wuz ercallin' me. An' He call "Whoo-ee!", an' He call "Whoo-ee!", An' I cry, "Massa Jesus, is you callin' me?" An' He call "Whoo-ee!", an' He call "Whoo-ee!", An' I riz up f'um mah pallet, an' I cry, "Hyahs me!"

De Lawd sez, "Niggah, ain' I call yer thrice Ter ride erlong behin' me up ter Paradise, On de Glory Road, on de Glory Road?" An' I clime up ter de saddle, an' I jined de load!

De hawse he wuz longer dan a thousan' mile'; His tail went lashin', an' his hoofs wuz wil'; His mane wuz flamin', an' his eyes wuz moons, An' his mouth kep' singin' Halleluyah tunes!

De Lawd sez, "Niggah, why 'n' cher look erroun'?" An' dar we wuz flyin' over risin' groun', Powerful hills, an' mountains too, An' de earth an' de people wuz drapt f'um view. An' I hyahd all 'roun me how de sperits sang, An' de Lawd sang louder dan de whole shebang!

De Lawd sez, "Niggah, why 'n' cher look ergin?" An' dar wuz de Debbil, on de back uv Sin, A-bangin' on de critter wid his whip an' goad, An' boun' he gwine ter kotch us, on de Glory Road! "O Lawdy, it's de Debbil, comin' straight f'um Hell! I kin tell him by his roarin', an' de brimstone smell!" But de Lawd sez, "Niggah, he ain' kotch us yit!" An' He lashed an' He hustled, an' He loosed de bit. Den de Debbil crep' closuh, an' I hyahd him yell, "I'm gwine ter kotch a niggah, fur ter roas' in Hell!" An' I cried, "Lawd, sabe me!" An' de Lawd cry, "Sho!" An' hyah it was Hebben, an' we shet de do'.

O Glory, Glory, how de angels sang! O Glory, Glory, how de rafters rang! An' Moses 'n' Aaron, an' Methusalum, Dey shout an' dey holler, an' dey beat de drum. King Solomon kissed me, an' his thousan' wives, Jes' like dey'd knowed me, durin' all dey lives; An' de Lawd sez, "Niggah, take a gran'-stan' seat. But I 'specks youse hongry; have a bite ter eat?" An' de ravens fed me, an' Elijah prayed, An' de Sabed Ones gathered, while de organ played, An' dey cry, "O sinnah, come an' lose yuh load On de Glory Road, on de Glory Road. An' come an' dwell in de Lawd's abode, Glory, Glory, on de Glory Road!"

Sez de Lawd, "No, sinnah, you mus' trabbel back Ter he'p po' niggahs up de Glory Track; Ter he'p old mo'ners an' de scoffin' coons, By shoutin' loud Halleluyah tunes."

O come, mah breddren, won' you drap yuh load, An' ride ter Hebben up de Glory Road?

Ash-Blossom

ASH-BLOSSOM

Muck and mire climb jauntily Through roots, stems, and calyxes, Until they laugh forth as blossoms.

I love blossoms; I love to pack the moist brown tobacco into my pipe And puff its twinkling glow to the end, When a fair ash-blossom laughs forth.

Feathery whirls of grayness, Delicately and intricately fashioned,— I knock you eagerly into the wind, To summon again your fellow Out of the moist brown tobacco.

The Antique

THE ANTIQUE

"Martha," she called across the hedge, "Come over and see the antique I got yesterday— A dressing table—simply a gem!"

So we went over, Martha and I, And there, against the living-room wall, Tangled in a maze of cluttering furniture, China closets bulging with miscellanies, Desks, book-cases, sofas, chairs, tables, With endless repetitions of lamps on them, Stood the antique.

It was a beauty, she explained, With spiraling curly-maple legs, A body of solid mahogany, And drawer and top of exquisitely feathered maple.

She gloated over every detail of it and its purchase; It had been owned by a cousin of ex-Governor So-and-so, Which added incalculably to its value;

She had recognized it through the over-paint of dirty brown, And so on and on.

Then she fluttered to the china closets, On fire to show the stranger each treasure: The inkstand Daniel Webster had owned, John Adams' queerly curving lamp, The Lafayette pitcher, the blueglass lamp and box, The red and black English ware found in a German hamlet, The Dutch molasses jugs, the Bavarian peasant crockery, Spanish pitcher, Chinese bowl, Bennington tiles, The self-righteous samplers on the wall, The upright clock, the fourposters, climbing to the low ceiling, That had been her grandmother's, Aunt Sophie's chest of drawers, the colonial sideboard, All the while keeping up her excited chatter, Giving reiterated details of every piece, And so back to the antique Where we had started.

Oh, yes, it took all her time; She was going tomorrow to look at a cedar chest In a farmhouse miles away …

I could have turned to her And shown her an antique she overlooked, With bloodless, gnarled old legs, With a flattened O-Gee swell toward the head, And a soul twisted with lust for acquiring; Reverencing as priceless relics The discarded shells of man's habitations, Like a fussy and energetic tumble-bug Gathering the leavings of the past; Happily nesting herself in musty fragments Of a life that was young and lusty and forward-marching. What a queer, stagnant back-water Of the stream of life!

Her flowing chatter aroused me. "I saw such a queer sign in that shop," she said; The Trash of the Past is the Treasure of the Future.' Such a queer sign."

For a moment she mused, staring off through the walls To I know not what flash of self-revelation. Then, turning quickly, "Oh, did I show you this pewter jug? Or these bronze candlesticks from——"

Exit Salvatore

EXIT SALVATORE

Salvatore's dead—a gap Where he worked in the ditch-edge, shoveling mud; Slanting brow; a head mayhap Rather small, like a bullet; hot Southern blood; Surly now, now riotous With the flow of his joy; and his hovel bare, As his whole life is to us— A stone in his belly the whole of his share.

Body starved—but the soul secure, Masses to save it from Purgatory, And to dwell with the Son and the Virgin pure— Lucky Salvatore!

Salvatore's glad—for, see! On the hearse and the coffin, purple and black, Tassels, ribbons, broidery, Fit for the priest's or the Pope's own back. Flowers costly, waxen, gay, And the mates from the ditch-edge, pair after pair; Dirging band, and the priest to pray, And the soul of the dead one pleasuring there.

Body starved—and the mind as well. Peace—let him rot in his costly glory, Cheated no more with a heaven or hell. Exit Salvatore.

The Smithy of God

THE SMITHY OF GOD

<>I. (A bold, masculine chant.) I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men— Here at a smithy God wrought, and flung Earthward, down to this rolling shore, God's mighty hammer I have swung, With crushing blows that thunder and roar, And delicate taps, whose echoes have rung Softly to heaven and back again; Here I labor, forging men. Out of my smithy's smoldering hole, As I forge a body and mold a soul, The jangling clangors ripplewise roll.

(The voice suggests the noises of the city.) Clang, as a hundred thousand feet Tap-tap-tap down the morning street, And into the mills and factories pour, Like a narrowed river's breathing roar.

Clang, as two thousand whistles scream Their seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam,

Brass-throated sirens, calling folk To the perilous breakers of din and smoke.

Clang, as ten thousand vast machines. Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines, Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat, The tiny humans lost at their feet.

Clang, and the whistle and whirr of trains, Rattle of ships unleashed of their chains, Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars, Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars…

(A softer strain.) Clang, and a softer shiver of noise As school-bells summon the girls and boys; And a mellower tone, as the churches ring A people's reverent worshiping.

(Still more softly and drowsily, the last line whispered.) Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang, Till a hundred thousand tired feet. Drag-drag-drag down the evening street, And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang;

The far night-noises dwindle and hush, The city quiets its homing rush; The stars glow forth with a silent sweep, As hammer and hammered drowse asleep … Softly I sing to heaven again, I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men.

<>II. (Antichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes of wailing and sorrow.) You are Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men… You take God's children, and forge a race Unhuman, exhibiting hardly a trace Of Him and His loveliness in their face… Counterfeiting His gold with brass, Blanching the roses, scorching the grass, Filling with hatred and greed the whole,— Shriveling the body, withering the soul.

What have you done with the lift of youth, As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill? Where have you hidden beauty and truth, As they bend in the mill?

Where is the spirit seeking the sky, As they stumble and fall, stumble and fall? What is life, if the spirit die, As they stumble and fall?

(With bitter resignation.) Clang, and the strokes of your hammer grind Body and spirit, courage and mind; Smith of the devil, well may you be Proud of your ghastly forgery. Dare you to speak to heaven again, Newark, Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men?

<>III. (Beginning quietly, gathering certainty.) I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men. Well I know that the metal must glow With a scorching, searing heat; Well I know that blood must flow, And floods of sweat, and rivers of woe; That underneath the beat Of the hammer, the metal will writhe and toss; That there will be much and much of loss

That has to be sacrificed, Before I can forge body and soul That can stand erect and perfect and whole In the sight of Christ.

(Sadly and somberly.) My hammer is numb to sorrows and aches, My hammer is blind to the ruin it makes, My hammer is deaf to shriek and cry That ring till they startle water and sky.

And sometimes with me the vision dims At the sight of bent backs and writhing limbs; And sometimes I blindly err, and mistake The perfect glory I must make.

(Rising to a song of exultant triumph.) But still I labor and bend and toil, Shaping anew the stuff I spoil; And out of the smothering din and grime I forge a city for all time: A city beautiful and clean, With wide sweet avenues of green, With gracious homes and houses of trade, Where souls as well as things are made.

I forge a people fit to dwell Unscathed in the hottest heart of hell, And fit to shine, erect and straight, When we shall see His kingdom come On earth, over all of Christendom,— And I stand up, shining and great, Lord of an unforeseen estate. Then I will cry, and clearly then, I am Newark, forger of men.

Awakening

II. AS A MAN THINKETH—

AWAKENING

(After a Song by Ou-Yang Hsiu)

The chilled air shivers, Dim ice-blooded, thin-souled crones Hug haughtily indifferent fires. The beaded icicles poise Over specked patches of snow.

But they cannot fool me— I know it is Spring; For I saw a laughing girl Slip furtively homeward Through the dark.

Her Room

HER ROOM

She is away, but everywhere I look Her traces linger; The casual piling there of book on book, With careful finger;

The marshaled flower-pots that blurred and changed The view of the alley; The picture righted, cushions disarranged Artistically;

My careless pipes and ash-trays whipped into line, Painfully dusted; A handkerchief—its scent sways me like wine; A hat-pin rusted,

A dozen vagrant hair-pins, and a veil Sprinkling the table; A crumpled ribbon, eager to tell its tale— Would it were able!

And always a vague something in the air, A keen reminder Of her dear intimate self, that everywhere Bids me go find her…

She is away, but her room throbs and teems In incompleteness, Flooding me with intense, imperative dreams Of her full sweetness.

I Pass a Lighted Window

I PASS A LIGHTED WINDOW

For Sara Teasdale

I pass a lighted window And a closed door— And I am not troubled Any more.

Though the road is murky, I am not afraid, For a shadow passes On the lighted shade.

Once I knew the sesame To the closed door; Now I shall not enter Any more;

ArtofKissingp31Nor will people passing By the lit place See our shadows marry In a gray embrace.

Strange a passing shadow Has a long spell! What can matter, knowing She does well?

How can life annoy me Any more? Life: a lighted window And a closed door.

When I Love You

WHEN I LOVE YOU

When I love you Let not my love pour fouled and thinned, Like close air in a stuffy room; Let my desire enfold you Like sunlight drenching flowers.

Let me not woo you With doubtful chatter and sinuous hint, Sibilant and cautious; I would sweep through you Like a swelling rain-wind through a thirsty forest.

I would lie on your lips Like moon shimmer on quiet water, One with you As day and night are one, As life and death are one.

Narcissi

NARCISSI

(For My Mother)

<>I. They read: A youth in higher Thessaly, Hot with the chase, came to a lost pool, lying Under great jutting rocks and a vast tree That hid it from the sun's hot curious spying, Still and ice-cool, and ringed with quiet grass That pressed to curve its blades into the pool, As rippleless and clear as burnished brass. He slouched, relieved, to a low shaley stool And leaned to drink, when in the glass below A face leaned up to meet him, flushed and laughing, Gay-eyed, with thirsty lips that formed a bow As if from his own beauty to be quaffing. He paused, torn with amazement and faint fear, At sight of the fair naiad mounting near.

<>II. The careless hair, he saw, was in a tousle, The brow was olive-pale, the cheeks were red As fresh-clipped roses flung in mad carousal;

The bended neck sloped downward from the head Like some arched flower's stem, into a cloak Of mellow white, just of his peplum's hue. He leaned to kiss the nymph,—the image broke, A shivering thing that rippled out of view. He drew away—again the face returned, The loveliest features that he yet had seen; He panted for the naiad, his arms burned To clasp the cager love, who seemed to lean With wide, taut arms and all-inviting face As if to drag him down to the embrace.

<>III. He gazed around—no spiers. Then he flung His creamy peplum on a low-grown limb, Stripped down his sandals, and slipped off and hung His chiton where it made a screen for him. He poised, a supple javelin, above The grassy margin,—and he saw the nymph Poise in the pool below, beckoning his love Into the pleasant depths of the still lymph. A leap, and he was one with pool and lover;

One rather with the pool; the naiad fled, Fled to some dank bed he could not discover. He climbed without, pressing his dripping head With hands that could not stifle vain love's sorrow, Bound he would track his tempter on the morrow.

<>IV. "You fool!" companions jeered, "And is your face So strange to you, Narcissus, you can throw Yourself into cach woodland watering place, Mad to embrace your shadow-self below?" He would not heed, he sought unceasingly The treacherous sprite, who answered smile with smile, Gesture with gesture, pain with misery, Yet would not yield its body any while. He sickened and died beside the pool, and not A seeker found his body; in its stead A sweet strange flower bloomed upon the spot, Drooping to its reflection its fair head, Whose purple heart and creamy petals' hem Hold still his name and grief embroidering them.

<>V. "A foolish tale," they said, and closed the book, And parted to their tasks. The poet went And sought his couch, while the world softly took Away its noisy ache and merriment, And he, brooding above his spirit pool, Admiring his own rhymes, his singing gift, Plunged himself headlong down into the cool Depths where the hidden inner waters drift, Then rose, and then again adventured far, Until life ended, and where he had been His flower of song shone like a new-spun star, Lighting the tuneless darkness men were in, Purple with his heart's cry, and mellow white With his insistent summons to delight.

<>VI. So the musician plumbed his spirit's well, Whose brooding bosom rippled into song, Which blossomed after he had gone, to tell His joy and sorrow to the cowed, dumb throng. The sculptor sought into his own loved dreaming The way to wake dead marble into breath,

And now his quiet and frozen flowers are gleaming Where he was, who lies quiet enough in death. The actor, singer, each leaves living flowers. Within the minds and on the lips of men, Which now we own, and when no longer ours In other minds and lips will bloom again, Blossoms on whose live beauty all men look.— "A foolish tale," they said, and closed the book.

If the Seas Dry

IF THE SEAS DRY—

If the seas dry and the lands burn And the day goes blind, If the round earth grows a dead thing, Why should I mind?

If the stars freeze and the skies freeze, I could turn to you; But if your love grows a dead thing, I die too.

The Silver Way

THE SILVER WAY

<>I. You think to shut me out of your life, You smile upon me frostily, Cloaking the red flame of your love In black cloths of space and silence. You click the key in the reluctant lock, And pass softly to your single couch, Locking me out of your thoughts.

<>II. As long as you are anything, I shall find you … touch you. If you were shriveled to nothing, I would be the something cuddling it.

<>III. The wan wind of dawn Tugs fitfully at your window, Thins into tiny openings, Swells laughingly throughout your morning chamber, And smoothes your rose-blown body As you yawn, happily,

Your welcome to day… I am the wind.

<>IV. The loud golden sunlight Touches your hand in the shadowed gloom, Wakes it to rosy splendor… It draws you slowly to the open window, And makes your lips a scented flame… I am the sunlight.

<>V. The dew-dusted rose Powders its living perfume on you; You yield yourself to its clasp… I am the rose.

<>VI. At the blank midnight, Under the restless seas of heaven, Where dim flotillas pitch, With golden-lanterned prows And crimson stars at their sterns, A quiet moonbeam presses its silvery way To where you breathe and sleep… I am the moonbeam.

<>VII. Silent you sleep— The black womb of the sky Aches to push forth its silver child.

I am the thin sickle-edge of light, Cleaving the darkness to you.

I am the round silver eye, Rapt with your helpless beauty.

I am the golden arms stretched down From the late low moon, Lifting you.

It is the darkness… And we are one.

Aphrodite Enoikia

APHRODITE ENOIKIA

Out of the russet sea, over the crackling sands, Scarved with a shimmering veiling of foam, the sea-sired goddess stands. Lo, at her back the waves gnash with their whitened teeth, And all is a desolate anguish above, a deep drowned grief beneath. But here where her footfall pauses, and here where her blue eyes stay, The soil is awake with a blossoming madness, a rapture of flowery spray: Poppy, hydrangea and odorous violet, and the red flame of the rose, Carpet the glad and fortunate path where her sweet self goes. So came love to the land, out of the earliest sea; So came love to the land—as love has come to me.