--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [26 / 26 - 140 / 140] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   24 Jorge Luis Borges
   1 Sri Ramana Maharshi
   1 H P Lovecraft

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   25 Jorge Luis Borges
   7 Jorge Luis Borges

   5 Conrad Potter Aiken

   3 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   3 Neal Stephenson

   3 J K Rowling

   3 H P Lovecraft

   2 Umberto Eco

   2 Romain Gary

   2 Roberto Bola o

   2 Rebecca Solnit

   2 Poetical Works of John Keats
   2 Mark Z Danielewski

   2 Kristin Cashore

   2 Catherynne M Valente

   2 Abraham Cowley

1:My undertaking is not difficult, essentially. ... I should only have to be immortal to carry it out. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths ,

2:All men who repeat a line from Shakespeare are William Shakespeare ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

3:There is no need to build a labyrinth when the entire universe is one. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

4:Historical truth, for him, is not what has happened; it is what we judge to have happened. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

5:In death we shall rediscover all the instants of our life and we shall freely combine them as in dreams. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

6:With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

7:I cannot lament the loss of a love or a friendship without meditating that one loses only what one really never had. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

8:I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

9:I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden Of Forking Paths ,

10:Fortunate is the man who does not lose himself in the labyrinths of philosophy, but goes straight to the Source from which they all rise. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, Guru Ramana: Memories and Notes Sulman Samuel Cohen,

11:The author of an atrocious undertaking ought to imagine that he has already accomplished it, ought to impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

12:The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Funes the Memorious,

13:Like all those possessing a library, Aurelian was aware that he was guilty of not knowing his in its entirety; this controversy enabled him to fulfill his obligations with many books which seemed to reproach him for his neglect. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths The Theologians,

14:If honor and wisdom and happiness are not for me, let them be for others. Let heaven exist, though my place be in hell. Let me be outraged and annihilated, but for one instant, in one being, let Your enormous Library be justified. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

15:God made Himself totally a man but a man to the point of infamy, a man to the point of reprobation and the abyss. To save us, He could have chosen *any* of the destinies which make up the complex web of history; He could have been Alexander or Pythagoras or Rurik or Jesus; He chose the vilest destiny of all: He was Judas. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

16:This has happened and will happen again,' said Euphorbus. 'You are not lighting a pyre, you are lighting a labyrinth of flames. If all the fires I have seen were gathered together here, they would not fit on earth and the angels would be blinded. I have said this many times.' Then he cried out, because the flames had reached him. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

17:All the objects-organic and inorganic alike-were totally beyond description or even comprehension. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic masses to prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate Arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. ~ H P Lovecraft,

18:Whoever has seen the universe, whoever has beheld the fiery designs of the universe, cannot think in terms of one man, of that man's trivial fortunes or misfortunes, though he be that very man. That man has been he and now matters no more to him. What is the life of that other to him, the nation of that other to him, if he, now, is no one? This is why I do not pronounce the formula, why, lying here in the darkness, I let the days obliterate me. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

19:Tennyson said that if we could understand a single flower we would know who we are and what the world is. Perhaps he meant that there is no deed, however so humble, which does not implicate universal history and the infinite concatenation of causes and effects. Perhaps he meant that the visible world is implicit, in its entirety, in each manifestation, just as, in the same way, will, according to Schopenhauer, is implicit, in its entirety, in each individual. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

20:And yet, and yet... Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny ... is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

21:The end of this story can only be related in metaphors since it takes place in the kingdom of heaven, where there is no time. Perhaps it would be correct to say that Aurelian spoke with God and that He was so little interested in religious differences that He took him for John of Pannonia. This, however, would imply a confusion in the divine mind. It is more correct to say that in Paradise, Aurelian learned that, for the unfathomable divinity, he and John of Pannonia (the orthodox believer and the heretic, the abhorrer and the abhorred, the accuser and the accused) formed one single person. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths The Theologians,

22:At first cautiously, later indifferently, at last desperately, I wandered up the stairs and along the pavement of the inextricable palace. (Afterwards I learned that the width and height of the steps were not constant, a fact which made me understand the singular fatigue they produced). 'This palace is a fabrication of the gods,' I thought at the beginning. I explored the uninhabited interiors and corrected myself: ' The gods who built it have died.' I noted its peculiarities and said: 'The gods who built it were mad.' I said it, I know, with an incomprehensible reprobation which was almost remorse, with more intellectual horror than palpable fear... ...'This City' (I thought) 'is so horrible that its mere existence and perdurance, though in the midst of a secret desert, contaminates the past and the future and in some way even jeopardizes the stars. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

23:He told me that in 1886 he had invented an original system of numbering and that in a very few days he had gone beyond the twenty-four-thousand mark. He had not written it down, since anything he thought of once would never be lost to him. His first stimulus was, I think, his discomfort at the fact that the famous thirty-three gauchos of Uruguayan history should require two signs and two words, in place of a single word and a single sign. He then applied this absurd principle to the other numbers. In place of seven thousand thirteen he would say (for example) Maximo Pérez; in place of seven thousand fourteen, The Railroad; other numbers were Luis Melian Lafinur, Olimar, sulphur, the reins, the whale, the gas, the caldron, Napoleon, Agustin de Vedia. In place of five hundred, he would say nine. Each word had a particular sign, a kind of mark; the last in the series were very complicated... ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

24:Gradually, the concrete enigma I labored at disturbed me less than the generic enigma of a sentence written by a god. What type of sentence (I asked myself) will an absolute mind construct? I considered that even in the human languages there is no proposition that does not imply the entire universe: to say "the tiger" is to say the tigers that begot it, the deer and turtles devoured by it, the grass on which the deer fed, the earth that was mother to the grass, the heaven that gave birth to the earth. I considered that in the language of a god every word would enunciate that infinite concatenation of facts, and not in an implicit but in an explicit manner, and not progressively but instantaneously. In time, the notion of a divine sentence seemed puerile or blasphemous. A god, I reflected, ought to utter only a single word and in that word absolute fullness. No word uttered by him can be inferior to the universe or less than the sum total of time. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

25:The PalaceThe Palace is not infinite.The walls, the ramparts, the gardens, the labyrinths, the staircases, the terraces, the parapets, the doors, the galleries, the circular or rectangular patios, the cloisters, the intersections, the cisterns, the anterooms, the chambers, the alcoves, the libraries, the attics, the dungeons, the sealed cells and the vaults, are not less in quantity than the grains of sand in the Ganges, but their number has a limit. From the roofs, towards sunset, many people can make out the forges, the workshops, the stables, the boatyards and the huts of the slaves.It is granted to no one to traverse more than an infinitesimal part of the palace. Some know only the cellars. We can take in some faces, some voices, some words, but what we perceive is of the feeblest. Feeble and precious at the same time. The date which the chisel engraves in the tablet, and which is recorded in the parochial registers, is later than our own death; we are already dead when nothing touches us, neither a word nor a yearning nor a memory. I know that I am not dead. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Sand ,

26:He had no document but his memory; the training he had acquired with each added hexameter gave him a discipline unsuspected by those who set down and forget temporary, incomplete paragraphs. He was not working for posterity or even for God, whose literary tastes were unknown to him. Meticulously, motionlessly, secretly, he wrought in time his lofty, invisible labyrinth. He worked the third act over twice. He eliminated certain symbols as over-obvious, such as the repeated striking of the clock, the music. Nothing hurried him. He omitted, he condensed, he amplified. In certain instances he came back to the original version. He came to feel affection for the courtyard, the barracks; one of the faces before him modified his conception of Roemerstadt's character. He discovered that the wearying cacophonies that bothered Flaubert so much are mere visual superstitions, weakness and limitation of the written word, not the spoken...He concluded his drama. He had only the problem of a single phrase. He found it. The drop of water slid down his cheek. He opened his mouth in a maddened cry, moved his face, dropped under the quadruple blast. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths Selected Stories and Other Writings,

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1:God and chance belonged to art, eternity and labyrinths to science. ~ Roberto Bola o

2:The more elaborate his labyrinths, the further from the Sun his face. ~ Mikhail Naimy

3:Old Cairo is itself a story-book and a dream--labyrinths of narrow alleys redolent of aromatic secrets; ~ H P Lovecraft

4:Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again. ~ Bernhard Schlink

5:Labyrinths were old sorcery, and subtle: good for recharging one’s magical resources when they were running low. ~ Lev Grossman

6:For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths. ~ Roberto Bolano

7:For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths… ~ Roberto Bola o

8:My undertaking is not difficult, essentially. ... I should only have to be immortal to carry it out.    ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths,

9:All men who repeat a line from Shakespeare are William Shakespeare ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

10:There is no need to build a labyrinth when the entire universe is one. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

11:This is one of the two great labyrinths into which human minds are drawn: the question of free will versus predestination. ~ Neal Stephenson

12:What idiocy, to racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak. ~ Ian McEwan

13:What idiocy, to racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak. ~ Ian Mcewan

14:Show not what has been done, but what can be. How beautiful the world would be if there were a procedure for moving through labyrinths. ~ Umberto Eco

15:I mean, public libraries like this one were always short of money, so building even the tiniest of labyrinths had to be beyond their means. ~ Haruki Murakami

16:Historical truth, for him, is not what has happened; it is what we judge to have happened.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

17:Answers? Ha, he would say that. More like riddles, mazes, labyrinths. If there's some power trying to show me the way, it should give better directions. ~ Megan Chance

18:Fortunate is the man who does not lose himself in the labyrinths of philosophy, but goes straight to the Source from which they all rise. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, Guru Ramana,

19:In death we shall rediscover all the instants of our life and we shall freely combine them as in dreams.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

20:I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

21:I know nothing of the land beyond the seven kingdoms, except for tall tales the eastern people tell about rainbow-colored monsters and underground labyrinths. ~ Kristin Cashore

22:With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

23:I cannot lament the loss of a love or a friendship without meditating that one loses only what one really never had.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

24:I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

25:I imagined a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars.” –Jorge Luis Borges ~ Peter Morville

26:What doubts, what hypotheses, what labyrinths of amusement, what fields of disputation, what an ocean of false learning, may be avoided by that single notion of immaterialism! ~ George Berkeley

27:Where do all the labyrinths of error in the world come from [the objector will continue], if not from the fact that when men follow their own minds they land in vanity and lies? So ~ John Calvin

28:You mentioned . . . one of the two great labyrinths into which the mind is drawn. What . . . is the other?" "The other is the composition of the continuum, or: what is space? ~ Neal Stephenson

29:How beautiful the world is, and how ugly labyrinths are,' I said, relieved. 'How beautiful the world would be if there was a procedure for moving through labyrinths,' my master replied. ~ Umberto Eco

30:I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars.~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden Of Forking Paths,

31:In these years we are witnessing the gigantic spectacle of innumerable human lives wandering about lost in their own labyrinths, through not having anything to which to give themselves. ~ Jose Ortega y Gasset

32:If we learn to love the earth, we will find labyrinths, gardens, fountains and precious jewels! A whole new world will open itself to us. We will discover what it means to be truly alive. ~ Saint Teresa of Avila

33:You cannot see the Grand Canyon in one view, as if it were a changeless spectacle from which a curtain might be lifted, but to see it you have to toil from month to month through its labyrinths. ~ John Wesley Powell

34:And why wander in these labyrinths? Once more, for aesthetic reasons; because this present infinity, these "vertiginous symmetries," have their tragic beauty. The form is more important than the content. ~ Andr Maurois

35:Jungles and grasslands are the logical destinations, and towns and farmland the labyrinths that people have imposed between them sometime in the past. I cherish the green enclaves accidentally left behind. ~ E O Wilson

36:The lobbies of the new hotels and the Pan American Building exhale a chill as from the unopened Pharaonic tombs... And in their marble labyrinths there is an evil presence that hates warmth and sunlight. ~ Russell Baker

37:Jungles and grasslands are the logical destinations, and towns and farmland the labyrinths that people have imposed between them sometime in the past. I cherish the green enclaves accidentally left behind. ~ Edward O Wilson

38:The author of an atrocious undertaking ought to imagine that he has already accomplished it, ought to impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

39:I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future . . . I felt myself to be, for an unknown period of time, an abstract perceiver of the world. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

40:He became lost in misty byways, in times reserved for oblivion, in labyrinths of disappointment. He crossed a yellow plain where the echo repeated one's thoughts and where anxiety brought on premonitory mirages. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez

41:Out of abysses of Illiteracy, Through labyrinths of Lies, Across wastelands of Disease . . . We advance Out of dead-ends of Poverty, Through wilderness of Superstition, Across barricades of Jim Crowism . . . We advance. ~ Melvin B Tolson

42:The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.    ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Funes the Memorious,

43:That sand into which we bury ourselves in order not to see, is formed of words…and it is true that words, their labyrinths, the exhausting immensity of their “possibles”, in short their treachery, have something of quicksand about them. ~ Georges Bataille

44:Disease Carrying thoughts swarm and multiply in the dark and twisted labyrinths of our minds, and all that is needed is a mob and a good political slogan for the epidemic to be spread once again, with a burst of automatic weapons or a mushroom cloud. ~ Romain Gary

45:Disease-carrying thoughts swarm and multiply in the dark and twisted labyrinths of our minds, and all that is needed is a mob and a good political slogan for the epidemic to be spread once again, with a burst of automatic weapons or a mushroom cloud. ~ Romain Gary

46:Like all those possessing a library, Aurelian was aware that he was guilty of not knowing his in its entirety; this controversy enabled him to fulfill his obligations with many books which seemed to reproach him for his neglect.    ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, The Theologians,

47:If honor and wisdom and happiness are not for me, let them be for others. Let heaven exist, though my place be in hell. Let me be outraged and annihilated, but for one instant, in one being, let Your enormous Library be justified.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

48:If she lived, doubtless we must have been sometimes in search of each other, at the very same moment, through the mighty labyrinths of London; perhaps, even within a few feet of each other - a barrier no wider in a London street, often amounting in the end to a separation for eternity! ~ Thomas de Quincey

49:The Florida peninsula is, in fact, an emerging plateau, honeycombed with voids and vents, caves and underground waterways. Travelers on Interstate Highway I-75 have no idea that, beneath them, are cave labyrinths still being mapped by speleologists - 'cavers,' they prefer to be called. ~ Randy Wayne White

50:An hour later they were being escorted down a long corridor at the Pentagon. In fact, every corridor at the Pentagon was long. It was a labyrinth beyond all labyrinths. Indeed, it was rumored that employees from the 1960s were somewhere in the bowels of the place still looking for an exit. ~ David Baldacci

51:I suppose every poet has his own private mythology. Maybe he's unaware of it. People tell me that I have evolved a private mythology of tigers, of blades, of labyrinths, and I"m unaware of the fact this is so. My readers are finding it all the time. But I think perhaps that is the duty of poet. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

52:Thoroughly to unfold the labyrinths of the human mind is an arduous task.... In order to dive into those recesses and lay them open to the reader in a striking and intelligible manner, 'tis necessary to assume a certain freedom in writing, not strictly perhaps within the limits prescribed by rules. ~ Sarah Fielding

53:Art for art's sake? I should think so, and more so than ever at the present time. It is the one orderly product which our middling race has produced. It is the cry of a thousand sentinels, the echo from a thousand labyrinths, it is the lighthouse which cannot be hidden. It is the best evidence we can have of our dignity. ~ E M Forster

54:He wanted to journey through dark labyrinths and wrestle with the strangeness that lurked within; he wanted to crack open piety and expose hypocrisy; he wanted to break taboos and squeeze wisdom from their bloody hearts; he wanted to achieve a state of amoral grace, and be baptized backwards into ignorance and simplicity. ~ J K Rowling

55:Who hasn’t succumbed to a hopeless feeling more powerful than all the strength one might possibly muster, wondering how many first steps will have to be taken, how many actions performed and words spoken, how many labyrinths will have to be negotiated in order, finally, to reach the moment at which reality begins to happen. ~ C sar Aira

56:The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night: and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamp-lighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave her screaming. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

57:Private courts, Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike The very shrillest of all London cries, May then entangle our impatient steps; Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, To privileged regions and inviolate, Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. ~ William Wordsworth

58:In the city, human beings celebrated and enjoyed material conditions and comforts, but were caught in the labyrinths and knots of spiritual shallowness and psychological confusion. In the city human beings wrestled with the demands of survival and profit but fled from life’s imperatives of honesty and moderation. In the city man was afraid to confront his own face. ~ Isa Kamari

59:We disliked the rigours of existence, the unfulfilled longings, the enshrined injustices of the world, the labyrinths of love, the ignorance of parents, the fact of dying, and the amazing indifference of the Living in the midst of the simple beauties of the universe. We feared the heartlessness of human beings, all of whom are born blind, few of whom ever learn to see. ~ Ben Okri

60:There are still times when he and I fall into our respective labyrinths. I no longer believe that anyone but ourselves can lead us out. The Minotaurs we need to rescue are never our half brothers. They are always those monstrous parts of ourselves. We can never even know for certain that we are free. The best we can offer each other, and ourselves, is a few honest words. ~ Melissa Febos

61:There are two famous labyrinths where our reason very often goes astray. One concerns the great question of the free and the necessary, above all in the production and the origin of Evil. The other consists in the discussion of continuity, and of the indivisibles which appear to be the elements thereof, and where the consideration of the infinite must enter in. ~ Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz

62:God made Himself totally a man but a man to the point of infamy, a man to the point of reprobation and the abyss. To save us, He could have chosen *any* of the destinies which make up the complex web of history; He could have been Alexander or Pythagoras or Rurik or Jesus; He chose the vilest destiny of all: He was Judas.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

63:This has happened and will happen again,' said Euphorbus. 'You are not lighting a pyre, you are lighting a labyrinth of flames. If all the fires I have seen were gathered together here, they would not fit on earth and the angels would be blinded. I have said this many times.' Then he cried out, because the flames had reached him.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

64:And then his true courtship of her had its beginning; and to the worship of his body, he joined the fairest garlands from the treasure-house of his mind, and made a bower for her. Adored; caressed into delight; conducted by delicate paths into ravishing labyrinths where pleasure, like carillons on glass, played upon pleasure, she leaned on his voice, and sometimes answered it. ~ Dorothy Dunnett

65:Twelve mothers and twelve fathers were stacked into the long, thin house, each with four children, drawing the old cobalt-and-silver curtains down the center of rooms to make labyrinths of twelve dining rooms, twelve stting rooms, twelve bedrooms. It could be said, and was, that Marya Morevna had twelve mothers and twelve fathers, and so did all the children of that long, thin house. ~ Catherynne M Valente

66:All the objects—organic and inorganic alike—were totally beyond description or even comprehension. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic masses to prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate Arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. ~ H P Lovecraft

67:All the objects-organic and inorganic alike-were totally beyond description or even comprehension. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic masses to prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate Arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. ~ H P Lovecraft,

68:With films—as with novels, which I devoured with the regularity of a metronome—I gave myself no limits: I fell into every trap the author or director set for me, lost myself with relish in the labyrinths of a fictitious world. I think of that friend of Mary Poppins, the chimney sweep, and the amazing chalk pictures he drew: you could jump into them and become reincarnated. I dreamed of meeting him. ~ Jean Philippe Blondel

69:List of Artists Who Created Fantasy Worlds to Try and Cure Bouts of Sadness 1. Italo Calvino 2. Gabriel Garcia Marquez 3. Jim Henson and Jorge Luis Borges - Labyrinths 4. The creator of MySpace 5. Richard Brautigan 6. J.K. Rowling 7. The inventor of the children's toy Lite-Brite 8. Ann Sexton 9. David Foster Wallace 10. Gaugin and the Caribbean 11. Charles Schulz 12. Liam Rector ~ Shane Jones

70:Fats was starting to think that if you flipped every bit of received wisdom on its head you would have the truth. He wanted to journey through dark labyrinths and wrestle with the strangeness that lurked within; he wanted to crack open piety and expose hypocrisy; he wanted to break taboos and squeeze wisdom from their bloody hearts; he wanted to achieve a state of amoral grace, and be baptised backwards into ignorance and simplicity. ~ J K Rowling

71:It was hard for a man and a woman to be fiends with no under thought or glimpsed prospect of sex. They wanted to be friends. It was almost a matter of principle. She was as intelligent as any Fellow of King's - though he thought she did not know it - he was in love with her mind as it followed clues through labyrinths. Love is, among many other things, a response to energy, and Griselda's mind was precise and energetic. He wanted to make love to her too. ~ A S Byatt

72:And that is why, after four days of bleeding, stumbling, and starving, after four days of Immiker reminding him repeatedly that he was well enough to keep walking, Larch and Immiker stepped out of the tunnel not into the light of the Monsean foothills, but into that of a strange land on the other side of the Monsean peaks. An eastern land neither of them had heard of except for foolish tales told over Monsean dinners—tales of rainbow-colored monsters and underground labyrinths. ~ Kristin Cashore

73:My coming to New York had been a mistake; for whereas I had looked for poignant wonder and inspiration in the teeming labyrinths of ancient streets that twist endlessly from forgotten courts and squares and waterfronts to courts and squares and waterfronts equally forgotten, and in the Cyclopean modern towers and pinnacles that rise blackly Babylonian under waning moons, I had found instead only a sense of horror and oppression which threatened to master, paralyse, and annihilate me. ~ H P Lovecraft

74:A man craves ultimate truths. Every mortal mind, I think, is that way. But what is ultimate truth? It's the end of the road, where there is no more mystery, no more hope. And no more questions to ask, since all the answers have been given. But there is no such place. The Universe is a labyrinth made of labyrinths. Each leads to another. And wherever we cannot go ourselves, we reach with mathematics. Out of mathematics we build wagons to carry us into the nonhuman realms of the world. ~ Stanis aw Lem

75:She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation. In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin? ~ Margaret Atwood

76:Indisputably we live in a shaped reality, an artificialism. Most people who grasp this are thinking only at a consumer-level, of the "things" they like and need and feel impelled to acquire. But our societal and political arrangements are just as much manipulations of game-pieces and rules as is any Atari or Sega product. The subliminal psychology that drives people to become addicted to games, not to be able to see over the edges of their labyrinths, is transferable to any field whatsoever. ~ Kenny Smith

77:Not to find one's way around a city does not mean much. But to lose one's way in a city, as one loses one's way in a forest, requires some schooling. Street names must speak to the urban wanderer like the snapping of dry twigs, and little streets in the heart of the city must reflect the times of day, for him, as clearly as a mountain valley. This art I acquired rather late in life; it fulfilled a dream, of which the first traces were labyrinths on the blotting papers in my school notebooks. ~ Walter Benjamin

78:Whoever has seen the universe, whoever has beheld the fiery designs of the universe, cannot think in terms of one man, of that man's trivial fortunes or misfortunes, though he be that very man. That man has been he and now matters no more to him. What is the life of that other to him, the nation of that other to him, if he, now, is no one? This is why I do not pronounce the formula, why, lying here in the darkness, I let the days obliterate me.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

79:When I use a name or place, I want to leave the reader open to the waterfall of determinacy that it may provoke. And I don't know, but I must mention the name Borges. I try to mention it in every one of my works. It's a mark, a stamp, a sort of homage to Argentinidad. But it's an homage that works through pat phrases, those stock images that populate his work: the night, labyrinths, libraries. That is, I don't want simply to pay homage to Borges, but rather the contrary: to recall his commonplaces. ~ Sergio Chejfec

80:Tennyson said that if we could understand a single flower we would know who we are and what the world is. Perhaps he meant that there is no deed, however so humble, which does not implicate universal history and the infinite concatenation of causes and effects. Perhaps he meant that the visible world is implicit, in its entirety, in each manifestation, just as, in the same way, will, according to Schopenhauer, is implicit, in its entirety, in each individual.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

81:Leibniz raised his eyebrows and spent a few moments staring at the clutter of pots and cups on the table. “This is one of the two great labyrinths into which human minds are drawn: the question of free will versus predestination. You were raised to believe in the latter. You have rejected it—which must have been a great spiritual struggle—and become a thinker. You have adopted a modern, mechanical philosophy. But that very philosophy now seems to be leading you back towards predestination. It is most difficult. ~ Neal Stephenson

82:I imagined a labyrinth of labyrinths, a maze of mazes, a twisting, turning, ever-widening labyrinth that contained both past and future and somehow implied the stars. Absorbed in those illusory imaginings, I forgot that I was a pursued man; I felt myself, for an indefinite while, the abstract perceiver of the world. The vague, living countryside, the moon, the remains of the day did their work in me; so did the gently downward road, which forestalled all possibility of weariness. The evening was near, yet infinite. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

83:And yet, and yet... Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny ... is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

84:what did you think you were doing, then, when you went up through one door and down through another, turning this way and that, through the pages of a book and a deep mine and an entire ocean and the hideout of a wise old woman? My dear, labyrinths ensnare and entangle; they draw one inexorably inward-but it wouldn't be much of a labyrinth if you waited in line with a ticket to get it and the door was clearly marked, like some country-harvest hay maze. All underworlds are labyrinths, in the end. Perhaps all the sunlit lands, too. A labyrinth, when it is big enough, is just the world. ~ Catherynne M Valente

85:The end of this story can only be related in metaphors since it takes place in the kingdom of heaven, where there is no time. Perhaps it would be correct to say that Aurelian spoke with God and that He was so little interested in religious differences that He took him for John of Pannonia. This, however, would imply a confusion in the divine mind. It is more correct to say that in Paradise, Aurelian learned that, for the unfathomable divinity, he and John of Pannonia (the orthodox believer and the heretic, the abhorrer and the abhorred, the accuser and the accused) formed one single person. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, The Theologians,

86:Hades allowed himself the faintest smile, but there was nothing cruel in his eyes. ‘I can entertain the possibility that you acted for multiple reasons. My point is this: you and I rose to the aid of Olympus because you convinced me to let go of my anger. I would encourage you to do likewise. My children are so rarely happy. I … I would like to see you be an exception.’ Nico stared at his father. He didn’t know what to do with that statement. He could accept many unreal things – hordes of ghosts, magical labyrinths, travel through shadows, chapels made of bones. But tender words from the Lord of the Underworld? No. That made no sense. ~ Rick Riordan

87:Alhambra Welcome, the water’s voice To one whom black sand overwhelmed, Welcome, to the curved hand The smooth column of the marble, Welcome, slender labyrinths of water Between the lemon trees, Welcome the melodious zéjel, Welcome is love, welcome the prayer Offered to a God who is One, Welcome the jasmine. Vain the scimitar Against the long lances of the host, Vain to be the best. Good to know, foreknow, grieving king, That your courtesies are farewells, That the key will be denied you, The infidels’ cross eclipse the moon, The afternoon you gaze on prove your last. Granada, 1976. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

88:After over six hundred hours of listening, John knew two more things: That the most profound truth lay in the labyrinths that coiled behind a green door in the interviewee's mind the very second that Alfred Kinsey said, "Tell me about your fantasies"; and, two, that with the proper information and the correct stimuli he could get carefully chosen people to break through those doors and act out their fantasies, past moral strictures and the boundaries of conscience, taking him past his already absolute knowledge of mankind's unutterable stupidity into a new night realm that he as yet was incapable of imagining. Because the night was there to be plundered; and only someone above its laws could exact its bounty and survive. ~ James Ellroy

89:What Fats wanted to recover was a kind of innocence, and the route he had chosen back to it was through all the things that were suppose to be bad for you, but which, paradoxically, seemed to Fats to be the one true way to authenticity; to a kind of purity. It was curious how often everything was back to front, the inverse of what they told you; Fats was starting to think that if you flipped every bit of received wisdom on its head you would have the truth. He wanted to journey through dark labyrinths and wrestle with the strangeness that lurked within; he wanted to crack open piety and expose hypocrisy; he wanted to break taboos and squeeze wisdom from their bloody hearts; he wanted to achieve a state of amoral grace, and be baptized backwards into ignorance and simplicity. ~ J K Rowling

90:He stands alone in hollow gloom, with the sound of his own breath whispering down unseen passages ahead and behind and to both sides, wondering how he stumbled into this blackest of all labyrinths. He entered by choice. We all do. Whether we are mapping the heavens or skulking the lanes of the underworld, whether we are hunting the imprisoned fiend or have ourselves become the monster, whether we are searching for what is lost or hiding what must never be found, we all round that first corner by choice - and by then, we are lost. You too. You must decide what is false and what is true, and what is true for me but not for you. We are wandering the mazes, all of us, and we cannot hope to escape until we learn to tell between what is real and what is real for someone else. There lies the madness, and the truth as well. ~ Troy Denning

91:To write the poem of the human conscience, were it only of a single man, were it only of the most infamous of men, would be to swallow up all epics in a superior and final epic. The conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts and of temptations, the furnace of dreams, the cave of the ideas which are our shame; it is the pandemonium of sophisms, the battlefield of the passions. At certain hours, penetrate within the livid face of a human being who reflects, and look at what lies behind; look into that soul, look into that obscurity. There, beneath the external silence, there are combats of giants as in Homer, mêlées of dragons and hydras, and clouds of phantoms as in Milton, ghostly labyrinths as in Dante. What a gloom enwraps that infinite which each man bears within himself, and by which he measures in despair the desires of his will, and the actions of his life! ~ Victor Hugo

92:It was under English trees that I meditated on that lost labyrinth: I pictured it perfect and inviolate on the secret summit of a mountain; I pictured its outlines blurred by rice paddies, or underwater; I pictured it as infinite—a labyrinth not of octagonal pavillions and paths that turn back upon themselves, but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms....I imagined a labyrinth of labyrinths, a maze of mazes, a twisting, turning, ever-widening labyrinth that contained both past and future and somehow implied the stars. Absorbed in those illusory imaginings, I forgot that I was a pursued man; I felt myself, for an indefinite while, the abstract perceiver of the world. The vague, living countryside, the moon, the remains of the day did their work in me; so did the gently downward road, which forestalled all possibility of weariness. The evening was near, yet infinite. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

93:At first cautiously, later indifferently, at last desperately, I wandered up the stairs and along the pavement of the inextricable palace. (Afterwards I learned that the width and height of the steps were not constant, a fact which made me understand the singular fatigue they produced). 'This palace is a fabrication of the gods,' I thought at the beginning. I explored the uninhabited interiors and corrected myself: ' The gods who built it have died.' I noted its peculiarities and said: 'The gods who built it were mad.' I said it, I know, with an incomprehensible reprobation which was almost remorse, with more intellectual horror than palpable fear...    ...'This City' (I thought) 'is so horrible that its mere existence and perdurance, though in the midst of a secret desert, contaminates the past and the future and in some way even jeopardizes the stars.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

94:Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance! In what diviner moments of the day Art thou most lovely? -- when gone far astray Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance, Or when serenely wandering in a trance Of sober thought? -- Or when starting away, With careless robe to meet the morning ray, Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance? Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best; I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 'The subject of this sonnet was Miss Georgiana Augusta Wylie, afterwards the wife of Keats's brother George, and now (1881) Mrs. Jeffrey. I should not have connected the sonnet positively with this lady had I not seen the manuscript in Keats's writing, headed "To Miss Wylie." ~ John Keats, Sonnet VI. To G. A. W.

95:He told me that in 1886 he had invented an original system of numbering and that in a very few days he had gone beyond the twenty-four-thousand mark. He had not written it down, since anything he thought of once would never be lost to him. His first stimulus was, I think, his discomfort at the fact that the famous thirty-three gauchos of Uruguayan history should require two signs and two words, in place of a single word and a single sign. He then applied this absurd principle to the other numbers. In place of seven thousand thirteen he would say (for example) Maximo Pérez; in place of seven thousand fourteen, The Railroad; other numbers were Luis Melian Lafinur, Olimar, sulphur, the reins, the whale, the gas, the caldron, Napoleon, Agustin de Vedia. In place of five hundred, he would say nine. Each word had a particular sign, a kind of mark; the last in the series were very complicated...~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

96:Dear God, master of the universe, compassionate and merciful: we who are steeped in sin, kneel in supplication before your throne and beseech you to recall from this world Saadat Hasan Manto, son of Ghulam Hasan Manto, who was a man of great piety. Take him away, Lord, for he runs away from fragrance and chases after filth. He hates the bright sun, preferring dark labyrinths. He has nothing but contempt for modesty but is fascinated by the naked and the shameless. He hates sweetness, but will give his life to taste bitter fruit. He will not so much as look at housewives but is in seventh heaven in the company of whores. He will not go near running waters, but loves to wade through filth. Where others weep, he laughs; and where others laugh, he weeps. Faces blackened by evil, he loves to wash with tender care to make visible their real features. He never thinks about you but follows Satan everywhere, the same fallen angel who once disobeyed you. ~ Saadat Hasan Manto

97:I have no aspiration here to reclaim mystery and paradox from whatever territory they might inhabit, for there is, indeed, often a killing in a kiss, a mercy in the slap that heats your face . . . There is, nevertheless, a particular poverty in those alloplasts who, addressing tragedy, seek to subdistinguish motives beyond those we have best, because nearest, at hand, and so it is with love and hate--emotions upon whose necks, whether wrung or wreathed, may be found the oldest fingerprints of man. A simple truth intrudes: the basic instincts of every man to every man are known. But who knows when or where or how? For the answers to such questions, summon Augurello, your personal jurisconsult and theological wiseacre, to teach you about primal reality and then to dispel those complexities and cabals you crouch behind in this sad, psychiatric century you call your own. It is the anti-labyrinths of the world that scare. Here is a story for you. Your chair. ~ Alexander Theroux

98:I was seized at once with a profound fascination, a burning thirst to learn, to immerse myself totally, to melt away, to become as one with this foreign universe. To know it as if I had been born and raised there, begun life there. I wanted to learn the language, I wanted to read the books, I wanted to penetrate every nook and cranny. It was a kind of malady, a dangerous weakness, because I also realized that these civilizations are so enormous, so rich, complex, and varied, that getting to know even a fragment of one of them, a mere scrap, would require devoting one's whole life to the enterprise. Cultures are edifices with countless rooms, corridors, balconies, and attics, all arranged, furthermore, into such twisting, turning labyrinths, that if you enter one of them, there is no exit, no retreat, no turning back. To become a Hindu scholar, a Sinologist, an Arabist, or a Hebraist is a lofty all-consuming pursuit, leaving no space or time for anything else. ~ Ryszard Kapu ci ski

99:Gradually, the concrete enigma I labored at disturbed me less than the generic enigma of a sentence written by a god. What type of sentence (I asked myself) will an absolute mind construct? I considered that even in the human languages there is no proposition that does not imply the entire universe: to say "the tiger" is to say the tigers that begot it, the deer and turtles devoured by it, the grass on which the deer fed, the earth that was mother to the grass, the heaven that gave birth to the earth. I considered that in the language of a god every word would enunciate that infinite concatenation of facts, and not in an implicit but in an explicit manner, and not progressively but instantaneously. In time, the notion of a divine sentence seemed puerile or blasphemous. A god, I reflected, ought to utter only a single word and in that word absolute fullness. No word uttered by him can be inferior to the universe or less than the sum total of time.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

100:We never even kissed or looked into each other's eyes. Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my only tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound. ~ Mark Z Danielewski

101:To cease, to sleep, to replace this intermittent consciousness with better, more melancholy things uttered in secret to a stranger! … To cease, to flow, fluid as a river, as the ebb and flow of a vast sea along coasts seen in a night in which one could really sleep! … To cease, to be unknown and external, the stirring of branches in remote avenues, the tenuous falling of leaves that one senses without hearing them fall, the subtle sea of distant fountains, and the whole indistinct world of gardens at night, lost in endless complexities, the natural labyrinths of the dark!… To cease, to end once and for all, but yet to survive in another form, as the page of a book, a loose lock of hair, a swaying creeper outside a half-open window, insignificant footsteps on the fine gravel on the curve of a path, the last twist of smoke high above a village as it falls asleep, the idle whip of the waggoner stopped by the road in the morning … Absurdity, confusion, extinction -anything but life … ~ Fernando Pessoa

102:Woman’s role in creation should be parallel to her role in life. I don’t mean the good earth. I mean the bad earth too, the demon, the instincts, the storms of nature. Tragedies, conflicts, mysteries are personal. Man fabricated a detachment which became fatal. Woman must not fabricate. She must descend into the real womb and expose its secrets and its labyrinths. She must describe it as the city of Fez, with its Arabian Nights gentleness, tranquility and mystery. She must describe the voracious moods, the desires, the worlds contained in each cell of it. For the womb has dreams. It is not as simple as the good earth. I believe at times that man created art out of fear of exploring woman. I believe woman stuttered about herself out of fear of what she had to say. She covered herself with taboos and veils. Man invented a woman to suit his needs. He disposed of her by identifying her with nature and then paraded his contemptuous domination of nature. But woman is not nature only. She is the mermaid with her fish-tail dipped in the unconscious. ~ Ana s Nin

103:Both Jew and Gentile enjoyed complexities, especially the Greeks with their philosophical systems. They loved mental gymnastics and intellectual labyrinths. They believed the truth was knowable, but only to those with elevated minds. This system later became known as gnosticism, a belief that certain people, by virtue of their enhanced reasoning powers, could move beyond the hoi polloi and ascend to the level of enlightenment. At the time of Paul, we can trace at least fifty different philosophies rattling around in the Roman and Greek world. And the gospel came along and said, “None of it matters. We’ll destroy it all. Take all the wisdom of the wise, get the best, get the elite, the most educated, the most capable, the smartest, the most clever, the best at rhetoric, oratory, logic; get all the wise, all the scribes, the legal experts, the great debaters, and they’re all going to be designated fools.” The gospel says they are all foolish. Paul’s quotation of Isaiah 29:14 in verse 19, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,” had to be an offensive statement to his audience. ~ John F MacArthur Jr

104:The Palace The Palace is not infinite. The walls, the ramparts, the gardens, the labyrinths, the staircases, the terraces, the parapets, the doors, the galleries, the circular or rectangular patios, the cloisters, the intersections, the cisterns, the anterooms, the chambers, the alcoves, the libraries, the attics, the dungeons, the sealed cells and the vaults, are not less in quantity than the grains of sand in the Ganges, but their number has a limit. From the roofs, towards sunset, many people can make out the forges, the workshops, the stables, the boatyards and the huts of the slaves. It is granted to no one to traverse more than an infinitesimal part of the palace. Some know only the cellars. We can take in some faces, some voices, some words, but what we perceive is of the feeblest. Feeble and precious at the same time. The date which the chisel engraves in the tablet, and which is recorded in the parochial registers, is later than our own death; we are already dead when nothing touches us, neither a word nor a yearning nor a memory. I know that I am not dead. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Sand,

105:Not to know yourself is dangerous, to that self and to others. Those who destroy, who cause great suffering, kill off some portion of themselves first, or hide from the knowledge of their acts and from their own emotion, and their internal landscape fills with partitions, caves, minefields, blank spots, pit traps, and more, a landscape turned against itself, a landscape that does not know itself, a landscape through which they may not travel. […] You see it too in the small acts of everyday life, of the person who feels perfectly justified, of the person who doesn’t know he’s just committed harm, of the person who says something whose motives are clear to everyone but her, of the person who comes up with intricate rationales or just remains oblivious, of the person we’ve all been at one time or another. Taken to an extreme, it’s the mind-set of murder; enlarged in scale it’s war. Elaborate are the means to hide from yourself, the dissociations, projections, deceptions, forgetting, justifications, and other tools to detour around the obstruction of unbearable reality, the labyrinths in which we hide the minotaurs who have our faces. ~ Rebecca Solnit

106:Not to know yourself is dangerous, to that self and to others. Those who destroy, who cause great suffering, kill off some portion of themselves first, or hide from the knowledge of their acts and from their own emotion, and their internal landscape fills with partitions, caves, minefields, blank spots, pit traps, and more, a landscape turned against itself, a landscape that does not know itself, a landscape through which they may not travel. […] You see it too in the small acts of everyday life, of the person who feels perfectly justified, of the person who doesn’t know he’s just committed harm, of the person who says something whose motives are clear to everyone but her, of the person who comes up with intricate rationales or just remains oblivious, of the person we’ve all been at one time or another. Taken to an extreme, it’s the mind-set of murder; enlarged in scale it’s war. Elaborate are the means to hide from yourself, the dissociations, projections, deceptions, forgettings, justifications, and other tools to detour around the obstruction of unbearable reality, the labyrinths in which we hide the minotaurs who have our faces. ~ Rebecca Solnit

107:He had no document but his memory; the training he had acquired with each added hexameter gave him a discipline unsuspected by those who set down and forget temporary, incomplete paragraphs. He was not working for posterity or even for God, whose literary tastes were unknown to him. Meticulously, motionlessly, secretly, he wrought in time his lofty, invisible labyrinth. He worked the third act over twice. He eliminated certain symbols as over-obvious, such as the repeated striking of the clock, the music. Nothing hurried him. He omitted, he condensed, he amplified. In certain instances he came back to the original version. He came to feel affection for the courtyard, the barracks; one of the faces before him modified his conception of Roemerstadt's character. He discovered that the wearying cacophonies that bothered Flaubert so much are mere visual superstitions, weakness and limitation of the written word, not the spoken...He concluded his drama. He had only the problem of a single phrase. He found it. The drop of water slid down his cheek. He opened his mouth in a maddened cry, moved his face, dropped under the quadruple blast.~ Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Selected Stories and Other Writings,

108:We find that at present the human race is divided into one wise man, nine knaves, and ninety fools out of every hundred. That is, by an optimistic observer. The nine knaves assemble themselves under the banner of the most knavish among them, and become 'politicians'; the wise man stands out, because he knows himself to be hopelessly outnumbered, and devotes himself to poetry, mathematics, or philosophy; while the ninety fools plod off under the banners of the nine villains, according to fancy, into the labyrinths of chicanery, malice and warfare. It is pleasant to have command, observes Sancho Panza, even over a flock of sheep, and that is why the politicians raise their banners. It is, moreover, the same thing for the sheep whatever the banner. If it is democracy, then the nine knaves will become members of parliament; if fascism, they will become party leaders; if communism, commissars. Nothing will be different, except the name. The fools will be still fools, the knaves still leaders, the results still exploitation. As for the wise man, his lot will be much the same under any ideology. Under democracy he will be encouraged to starve to death in a garret, under fascism he will be put in a concentration camp, under communism he will be liquidated. ~ T H White

109:This education startled even a man who had dabbled in fifty educations all over the world; for, if he were obliged to insist on a Universe, he seemed driven to the Church. Modern science guaranteed no unity. The student seemed to feel himself, like all his predecessors, caught, trapped, meshed in this eternal drag-net of religion. In practice the student escapes this dilemma in two ways: the first is that of ignoring it, as one escapes most dilemmas; the second is that the Church rejects pantheism as worse than atheism, and will have nothing to do with the pantheist at any price. In wandering through the forests of ignorance, one necessarily fell upon the famous old bear that scared children at play; but, even had the animal shown more logic than its victim, one had learned from Socrates to distrust, above all other traps, the trap of logic -- the mirror of the mind. Yet the search for a unit of force led into catacombs of thought where hundreds of thousands of educations had found their end. Generation after generation of painful and honest-minded scholars had been content to stay in these labyrinths forever, pursuing ignorance in silence, in company with the most famous teachers of all time. Not one of them had ever found a logical highroad of escape. ~ Henry Adams

110:This was the southern sea. The colors that fade when coral is drawn out of its element were garishly bright here, intricate and lovely labyrinths on the bottom. Among the coral, fish went darting; and overhead a sea-bat, a devil-fish, flapped slow wings past, its stingaree tail trailing. Morays coiled by, opening their incredible, wolfish mouths at him, and many-limbed crabs scuttled sidewise over the rocks and little sandy plateaus of the bottom. Groves of seaweed and great fans of colored sponges swung with hypnotic motion, and schools of tiny striped fish went flashing in and out among them, moving all together as if with a single mind. Pete swam down. From a cavern among the brown and purple rocks an octopus looked at him out of huge, alien eyes. Its tentacles hung and quivered. Pete swam away, hovering over an expanse of pale sand where the light from above shimmered and ran in rippling waves, his own shadow hanging spread-eagled below him. In and out of it many little creatures went scuttling busily on their underwater errands. Life here was painted in three dimensions, and there was no gravity. There was only beauty and strangeness and a hint of terror that sent pleasurable excitement thrilling through Pete's blood. ("Before I Wake") ~ Henry Kuttner

111:And all the spaces of our past moments of solitude, the spaces in which we have suffered from solitude, enjoyed, desired, and compromised solitude, remain indelible within us and precisely because the human being wants them to remain so. He knows instinctively that this space identified with his solitude is creative; that even when it is forever expunged from the present, when, henceforth, it is alien to all the promises of the future, even when we no longer have a garret, when the attic room is lost and gone, there remains the fact that we once loved a garret, once lived in an attic. We return to them in our night dreams. These retreats have the value of a shell. And when we reach the very end of the labyrinths of sleep, when we attain to the regions of deep slumber, we may perhaps experience a type of repose that is pre-human; pre-human, in this case, approaching the immemorial. But in the daydream itself, the recollection of moments of confined, simple, shut-in space are experiences of heartwarming space, of a space that does not seek to become extended, but would like above all still to be possessed. In the past, the attic may have seemed too small, it may have seemed cold in winter and hot in summer. Now, however, in memory recaptured through daydreams, it is hard to say through what syncretism the attic is at once small and large, warm and cool, always comforting. ~ Gaston Bachelard

112:In these red labyrinths of London I find that I have chosen the strangest of all callings, save that, in its way, any calling is strange. Like the alchemist who sought the philosopher's stone in quicksilver, I shall make everyday words the gambler's marked cards, the common coin give off the magic that was their when Thor was both the god and the din, the thunderclap and the prayer. In today's dialect I shall say, in my fashion, eternal things: I shall try to be worthy of the great echo of Byron. This dust that I am will be invulnerable. If a woman shares my love my verse will touch the tenth sphere of the concentric heavens; if a woman turns my love aside I will make of my sadness a music, a full river to resound through time. I shall live by forgetting myself. I shall be the face I glimpse and forget, I shall be Judas who takes on the divine mission of being a betrayer, I shall be Caliban in his bog, I shall be a mercenary who dies without fear and without faith, I shall be Polycrates, who looks in awe upon the seal returned by fate. I will be the friend who hates me. The persian will give me the nightingale, and Rome the sword. Masks, agonies, resurrections will weave and unweave my life, and in time I shall be Robert Browning. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, Browning Decides To Be A Poet

113:Matthew XV:30” The first bridge, Constitution Station. At my feet the shunting trains trace iron labyrinths. Steam hisses up and up into the night, which becomes at a stroke the night of the Last Judgment. From the unseen horizon and from the very center of my being, an infinite voice pronounced these things— things, not words. This is my feeble translation, time-bound, of what was a single limitless Word: “Stars, bread, libraries of East and West, playing-cards, chessboards, galleries, skylights, cellars, a human body to walk with on the earth, fingernails, growing at nighttime and in death, shadows for forgetting, mirrors busily multiplying, cascades in music, gentlest of all time's shapes. Borders of Brazil, Uruguay, horses and mornings, a bronze weight, a copy of the Grettir Saga, algebra and fire, the charge at Junín in your blood, days more crowded than Balzac, scent of the honeysuckle, love and the imminence of love and intolerable remembering, dreams like buried treasure, generous luck, and memory itself, where a glance can make men dizzy— all this was given to you, and with it the ancient nourishment of heroes— treachery, defeat, humiliation. In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes. You have used up the years and they have used up you, and still, and still, you have not written the poem. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

114:Get a move on, Perico, and go ask him for the battery charger," and the apprentice hurried out, but everything was like a dream and what was the point of any of it: battery chargers, wrenches, mechanics, and he felt sorry for the terrified little boy because, he thought, all of us are dreaming and why punish kids and why fix cars and have crushes on nice boys and then get married and have children who also dream that they're alive, who have to suffer, go off to war or fight or give up hope all on account of mere dreams. He was simply drifting along now, like a boat without a crew swept along by shifting currents, and moving mechanically like those invalids who have lost almost all will and consciousness and yet allow themselves to be moved by the nurses and obey the instructions they are given with the obscure remains of that will and that consciousness without knowing why. The 493, he thought, I go as far as Chacarita and then I take the subway to Florida and then I walk from there to the hotel. So he got on the 493 and mechanically asked for a ticket, and for half an hour continued to see ghosts dreaming of things that kept them very busy; at the Florida stop he went out the exit on the Calle San Martin, walked along the Corrientes to Reconquista and from there headed for the Warszawa rooming house, Accommodations for Gentlemen, went up dirty, dilapidated stairs to the fourth floor, and threw himself on the wretched bed as though he had been wandering through labyrinths for centuries. ~ Ernesto Sabato

115:Then Was My Neophyte Then was my neophyte, Child in white blood bent on its knees Under the bell of rocks, Ducked in the twelve, disciple seas The winder of the water-clocks Calls a green day and night. My sea hermaphrodite, Snail of man in His ship of fires That burn the bitten decks, Knew all His horrible desires The climber of the water sex Calls the green rock of light. Who in these labyrinths, This tidethread and the lane of scales, Twine in a moon-blown shell, Escapes to the flat cities' sails Furled on the fishes' house and hell, Nor falls to His green myths? Stretch the salt photographs, The landscape grief, love in His oils Mirror from man to whale That the green child see like a grail Through veil and fin and fire and coil Time on the canvas paths. He films my vanity. Shot in the wind, by tilted arcs, Over the water come Children from homes and children's parks Who speak on a finger and thumb, And the masked, headless boy. His reels and mystery The winder of the clockwise scene Wound like a ball of lakes Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen Love's image till my heartbone breaks By a dramatic sea. 150 Who kills my history? The year-hedged row is lame with flint, Blunt scythe and water blade. 'Who could snap off the shapeless print From your to-morrow-treading shade With oracle for eye?' Time kills me terribly. 'Time shall not murder you,' He said, 'Nor the green nought be hurt; Who could hack out your unsucked heart, O green and unborn and undead?' I saw time murder me. ~ Dylan Thomas

116:Ballade Of The Voyage To Cythera I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green. Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore: 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.' The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.' Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle!' ENVOY. Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. Ah, singing birds your happy music pour! Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: 47 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle!' ~ Andrew Lang

117:Haunted Chambers The lamp-lit page is turned, the dream forgotten; The music changes tone, you wake, remember Deep worlds you lived before, deep worlds hereafter Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. Helen was late, and Miriam came too soon; Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving; Elaine was married and soon to have a child. You dreamed last night of fiddler crabs with fiddles. They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. Tomorrow—what ? And what of yesterday ? Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, Through many doors to the one door of all. Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: Or see a skeleton fall. We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us ? We climbed the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. You say: 'This darkness, here, 'will slowly kill me— It creeps and weighs upon me .... is full of bells. 'This is the thing remembered I would forget: No matter where I go, how soft I tread, This windy gesture menaces me with death. 'Fatigue!' it says—and points its finger at me; Touches my throat and stops my breath. 'My fans, my jewels, the portrait of my husband, The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. They brush me, fade away—like drops of water. They signify no crime. 'Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you! Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you— No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. 48 Dreams—they are madness; staring eyes—illusion. Let us return, hear music, and forget.' ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

118:The House Of Dust: Part 03: 03: Haunted Chambers The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; The music changes tone, you wake, remember Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. Elaine was married and soon to have a child. You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday? Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, Through many doors to the one door of all. Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: Or see a skeleton fall . . . We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. This is the thing remembered I would forget— No matter where I go, how soft I tread, This windy gesture menaces me with death. Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; Touches my throat and stops my breath. My fans—my jewels—the portrait of my husband— The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. They signify no crime. Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. 250 Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion. Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

119:Against Hope HOPE, whose weak Being ruin'd is, Alike if it succeed, and if it miss ; Whom Good or Ill does equally confound, And both the Horns of Fates Dilemma wound. Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite, Both at full Noon, and perfect Night ! The Stars have not a possibility Of blessing Thee ; If things then from their End we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most Hopeless thing of all. Hope, thou bold Taster of Delight, Who whilst thou shouldst but tast, devour'st it quite ! Thou bringst us an Estate, yet leav'st us Poor, By clogging it with Legacies before ! The Joys which we entire should wed, Come deflowr'd Virgins to our bed ; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty Custom's paid to Thee. For Joy, like Wine, kept close does better tast ; If it take air before, its spirits wast. Hope, Fortunes cheating Lottery ! Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be ; Fond Archer, Hope, who tak'st thy aim so far, That still or short, or wide thine arrows are ! Thin, empty Cloud, which th' eye deceives With shapes that our own Fancy gives ! A Cloud, which gilt and painted now appears, But must drop presently in tears ! When thy false beams o'er Reasons light prevail, By Ignes fatui for North-Stars we sail. Brother of Fear, more gaily clad ! The merr'ier Fool o' th' two, yet quite as Mad : Sire of Repentance, Child of fond Desire ! That blow'st the Chymicks, and the Lovers fire ! Leading them still insensibly'on By the strange witchcraft of Anon ! By Thee the one does changing Nature through Her endless Labyrinths pursue, And th' other chases Woman, whilst She goes More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows. ~ Abraham Cowley

120:that, instead of being fused to the skull, hangs loosely beneath the brain case. This enables the upper jaw to push forward and hyperextend open—wide enough to engulf, and crush, an adult bull elephant. As if the size and voraciousness of its feeding orifice were not enough, nature has endowed this monster with a predatory intelligence, honed by 400 million years of evolution. Six distinct senses expose every geological feature, every current, every temperature gradient … and every creature occupying its domain. The predator’s eyes contain a reflective layer of tissue situated behind the retina. When moving through the darkness of the depths, light is reflected off this layer, allowing the creature to see. In sunlight, the reflective plate is covered by a layer of pigment, which functions like a built-in pair of sunglasses. While black in normally pigmented members of the species, this particular male’s eyes are a cataract-blue—a trait found in albinos. As large as basketballs, the sight organs reflexively roll back into the skull as the creature launches its attack on its prey, protecting the eyeball from being damaged. Forward of the eyes, just beneath the snout, are a pair of directional nostrils so sensitive that they can detect one drop of blood or urine in a million gallons of water. The tongue and snout provide a sense of taste and touch, while two labyrinths within the skull function as ears. But it is two other receptor organs that make this predator the master of its liquid domain. The first of these mid-to-long-range detection systems is the lateral line, a hollow tube that runs along either flank just beneath the skin. Microscopic pores open these tubes to the sea. When another animal creates a vibration or turbulence in the water, the reverberations stimulate tiny hairs within these sensory cells that alert the predator to the source of the disturbance—miles away! Even more sensitive are the hunter’s long-range receptor cells, located along the top and underside ~ Steve Alten

121:Science Alone I climb the steep ascending path Which leads to knowledge. In the babbling throngs That hurry after, shouting to the world Small fragments of large truths, there is not one Who comprehends my purpose, or who sees The ultimate great goal. Why, even she, My heaven intended Spouse, my other self, Religion, turns her beauteous face on me With hatred in the eyes, where love should dwell. While those who call me Master blindly run, Wounding the ear of Faith with blasphemies, And making useless slaughter in my name. Mine is the difficult slow task to blaze A road of Facts, through labyrinths of dreams To tear down Maybe and establish IS: And substitute I Know for I Believe. I follow closely where the Seers have led: But that intangible dim path of theirs, Which may be trodden but by other Seers, I seek to render solid for the feet Of all mankind. With reverent hands I lift The mask from Mystery: and show the face Of Reason, smiling bravely on the world. The visions of the prophets, one by one, Grew visible beneath my tireless touch: And the white secrets of elusive stars I tell aloud, to listening multitudes. To fit the better world my toil ensures, Time will impregnate with a better race The Future's womb: and when the hour is ripe, To ready eyes of men, the alien spheres Shall seem as friendly neighbours: and my skill Shall make their music audible to ears Which will be tuned to those high harmonies. 498 Mine is the work to fashion, step by step, The shining Way that leads from man to God. Though I demolish obstacles of creeds And blast tradition, from the face of earth, My hand shall open wide the door of Truth, Whose other name is Faith: and at the end Of this most holy labour, I shall turn To see Religion, with enlightened eyes, Seeking the welcome of my outstretched arms. While all the world stands hushed and awed before The proven splendour of the Fact Supreme. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

122:Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my own tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine – I didn’t hear mine – only hears, probably counter-pointing mine, a high-pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly to practically a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense any more, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straight away, some line crossed, where every fractured sound already spoken finally compacts into one long agonizing word, easily exceeding a hundred letters, even thunder, anticipating the inevitable letting go, when the heat is ultimately too much to bear, threatening to burn, scar, tear it all apart, yet tempting enough to hold onto for even one second more, to extend it all, if we can, as if by getting that much closer to the heat, that much more enveloped, would prove … - which when we did clutch, hold, postpone, did in fact prove too much after all, seconds too much, and impossible to refuse, so blowing all of everything apart, shivers and shakes and deep in her throat a thousand letters crashing in a long unmodulated fall, resonating deep within my cochlea and down the cochlear nerve, a last fit of fury describing in lasting detail the shape of things already come. Too bad dark languages rarely survive. ~ Mark Z Danielewski

123:FROM THE PURGATORIO OF DANTE, CANTO 28, LINES 1-51. And earnest to explore within--around-- The divine wood, whose thick green living woof Tempered the young day to the sight--I wound Up the green slope, beneath the forests roof, With slow, soft steps leaving the mountains steep, And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof Against the air, that in that stillness deep And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare, The slow, soft stroke of a continuous... In which the ... leaves tremblingly were All bent towards that part where earliest The sacred hill obscures the morning air. Yet were they not so shaken from the rest, But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray, Incessantly renewing their blithe quest, With perfect joy received the early day, Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound Kept a low burden to their roundelay, Such as from bough to bough gathers around The pine forest on bleak Chiassis shore, When Aeolus Sirocco has unbound. My slow steps had already borne me oer Such space within the antique wood, that I Perceived not where I entered any more,-- When, lo! a stream whose little waves went by, Bending towards the left through grass that grew Upon its bank, impeded suddenly My going on. Water of purest hue On earth, would appear turbid and impure Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew, Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms The rays of moon or sunlight neer endure. I moved not with my feet, but mid the glooms Pierced with my charmed eye, contemplating The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms Which starred that night, when, even as a thing That suddenly, for blank astonishment, Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing,-- A solitary woman! and she went Singing and gathering flower after flower, With which her way was painted and besprent. Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power To bear true witness of the heart within, Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower Towards this bank. I prithee let me win This much of thee, to come, that I may hear Thy song: like Proserpine, in Ennas glen, Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when She lost the Spring, and Ceres her, more dear. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Matilda Gathering Flowers

124:Friend!the Great Ruler, easily content, Needs not the laws it has laborious been The task of small professors to invent; A single wheel impels the whole machine Matter and spirit;yea, that simple law, Pervading nature, which our Newton saw. This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein, Their radiant labyrinths to weave around Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain, Which into interwoven systems bound All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun As brooks that ever into ocean run! Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond? Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go To that perfection which the angels know! Happy, O happyI have found theeI Have out of millions found thee, and embraced; Thou, out of millions, mine!Let earth and sky Return to darkness, and the antique waste To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be, Still shall each heart unto the other flee! Do I not find within thy radiant eyes Fairer reflections of all joys most fair? In thee I marvel at myselfthe dyes Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there, And in the bright looks of the friend is given A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven! Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes From the intolerant storm to rest awhile, In love's true heart, sure haven of repose; Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile From that bright eloquence affection gave To friendly looks?there, finds not pain a grave? In all creation did I stand alone, Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find, Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone, My griefs should feel a listener in the wind; My joyits echo in the caves should be! Fool, if ye willFool, for sweet sympathy! We are dead groups of matter when we hate; But when we love we are as gods!Unto The gentle fetters yearning, through each state And shade of being multiform, and through All countless spirits (save of all the sire) Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire. Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade, From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek, Who the fine link between the mortal made, And heaven's last serapheverywhere we seek Union and bondtill in one sea sublime Of love be merged all measure and all time! Friendless ruled God His solitary sky; He felt the want, and therefore souls were made, The blessed mirrors of his bliss!His eye No equal in His loftiest works surveyed; And from the source whence souls are quickened, He Called His companion forthETERNITY! [From \ ~ Friedrich Schiller, Friendship

125:Adelia began to get cross. Why was it women who were to blame for everything—everything, from the Fall of Man to these blasted hedges? “We are not in a labyrinth, my lord,” she said clearly. “Where are we, then?” “It’s a maze.” “Same difference.” Puffing at the horse: “Get back, you great cow.” “No, it isn’t. A labyrinth has only one path and you merely have to follow it. It’s a symbol of life or, rather, of life and death. Labyrinths twist and turn, but they have a beginning and an end, through darkness into light.” Softening, and hoping that he would, too, she added, “Like Ariadne’s. Rather beautiful, really.” “I don’t want mythology, mistress, beautiful or not, I want to get to that sodding tower. What’s a maze when it’s at home?” “It’s a trick. A trick to confuse. To amaze.” “And I suppose Mistress Clever-boots knows how to get us out?” “I do, actually.” God’s rib, he was sneering at her, sneering. She’d a mind to stay where she was and let him sweat. “Then in the name of Christ, do it.” “Stop bellowing at me,” she yelled at him. “You’re bellowing.” She saw his teeth grit in the pretense of a placatory smile; he always had good teeth. Still did. Between them, he said, “The Bishop of Saint Albans presents his compliments to Mistress Adelia and please to escort him out of this hag’s hole, for the love of God. How will you do it?” “My business.” Be damned if she’d tell him. Women were defenseless enough without revealing their secrets. “I’ll have to take the lead.” She stumped along in front, holding Walt’s mount’s reins in her right hand. In the other was her riding crop, which she trailed with apparent casualness so that it brushed against the hedge on her left. As she went, she chuntered to herself. Lord, how disregarded I am in this damned country. How disregarded all women are. ... Ironically, the lower down the social scale women were, the greater freedom they had; the wives of laborers and craftsmen could work alongside their men—even, sometimes, when they were widowed, take over their husband’s trade. Adelia trudged on. Hag’s hole. Grendel’s mother’s entrails. Why was this dreadful place feminine to the men lost in it? Because it was tunneled? Womb-like? Is this woman’s magic? The great womb? Is that why the Church hates me, hates all women? Because we are the source of all true power? Of life? She supposed that by leading them out of it, she was only confirming that a woman knew its secrets and they did not. Great God, she thought, it isn't a question of hatred. It’s fear. They are frightened of us. And Adelia laughed quietly, sending a suggestion of sound reverberating backward along the tunnel, as if a small pebble was skipping on water, making each man start when it passed him. “What in hell was that?” Walt called back stolidly, “Reckon someone’s laughing at us, master.” “Dear God. ~ Ariana Franklin

126:The Last Giustianini O WIFE, wife, wife! As if the sacred name Could weary one with saying! Once again Laying against my brow your lips' soft flame, Join with me, Sweetest, in love's new refrain, Since the whole music of my late-found life Is that we call each other 'husband -- wife.' And yet, stand back, and let your cloth of gold Straighten its sumptuous lines from waist to knee, And, flowing firmly outward, fold on fold, Invest your slim young form with majesty As when, in those calm bridal robes arrayed, You stood beside me, and I was afraid. I was afraid -- O sweetness, whiteness, youth, Best gift of God, I feared you! I, indeed, For whom all womanhood has been, forsooth, Summed up in the sole Virgin of the Creed, I thought that day our Lady's self stood there And bound herself to me with vow and prayer. Ah, yes, that day. I sat, remember well, Half-crook'd above a missal, and laid in The gold-leaf slowly; silence in my cell; The picture, Satan tempting Christ to sin Upon the mount's blue, pointed pinnacle, The world outspread beneath as fair as hell -When suddenly they summoned me. I stood Abashed before the Abbot, who reclined Full-bellied in his chair beneath the rood, And roseate with having lately dined; And then -- I standing there abashed -- he said: 'The house of Giustiniani all lie dead.' It scarcely seemed to touch me (I had led A grated life so long) that oversea My kinsmen in their knighthood should lie dead, Nor that this sudden death should set me free, 71 Me, the last Giustiniani -- well, what then? A monk! -- The Giustiniani had been men. So when the Abbot said: 'The state decrees That you, the latest scion of the house Which died in vain for Venice overseas, Should be exempted from your sacred vows, And straightway, when you leave this cloistered place, Take wife, and add new honors to the race,' I hardly heard him -- would have crept again To the warped missal -- but he snatched a sword And girded me, and all the heart of men Rushed through me, as he laughed and hailed me lord, And, with my hand upon the hilt, I cried, 'Viva San Marco!' like my kin who died. But, straightway, when, a new-made knight, I stood Beneath the bridal arch, and saw you come, A certain monkish warping of the blood Ran up and struck the man's heart in me dumb; I breathed an Ave to our Lady's grace, And did not dare to look upon your face. And when we swept the waters side by side, With timbrelled gladness clashing on the air, I trembled at your image in the tide, And warded off the devil with a prayer, Still seeming in a golden dream to move Through fiendish labyrinths of forbidden love. But when they left us, and we stood alone, I, the last Giustiniani, face to face With your unvisioned beauty, made my own In this, the last strange bridal of our race, And, looking up at last to meet your eyes, Saw in their depths the star of love arise, Ah, then the monk's garb shrivelled from my heart, And left me man to face your womanhood. Without a prayer to keep our lips apart I turned about and kissed you where you stood, 72 And gathering all the gladness of my life Into a new-found word, I called you 'wife!' ~ Edith Wharton

127:To The Royal Society (Excerpts) Philosophy the great and only heir Of all that human knowledge which has bin Unforfeited by man's rebellious sin, Though full of years he do appear, (Philosophy, I say, and call it, he, For whatso'ere the painter's fancy be, It a male-virtue seems to me) Has still been kept in nonage till of late, Nor manag'd or enjoy'd his vast estate: Three or four thousand years one would have thought, To ripeness and perfection might have brought A science so well bred and nurst, And of such hopeful parts too at the first. But, oh, the guardians and the tutors then, (Some negligent, and some ambitious men) Would ne'er consent to set him free, Or his own natural powers to let him see, Lest that should put an end to their authority. That his own business he might quite forget, They' amus'd him with the sports of wanton wit, With the desserts of poetry they fed him, Instead of solid meats t' encrease his force; Instead of vigorous exercise they led him Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse: Instead of carrying him to see The riches which do hoarded for him lie In Nature's endless treasury, They chose his eye to entertain (His curious but not covetous eye) With painted scenes, and pageants of the brain. Some few exalted spirits this latter age has shown, That labour'd to assert the liberty (From guardians, who were now usurpers grown) Of this old minor still, captiv'd Philosophy; But 'twas rebellion call'd to fight For such a long oppressed right. Bacon at last, a mighty man, arose Whom a wise King and Nature chose 88 Lord Chancellor of both their laws, And boldly undertook the injur'd pupil's cause. Authority, which did a body boast, Though 'twas but air condens'd, and stalk'd about, Like some old giant's more gigantic ghost, To terrify the learned rout With the plain magic of true reason's light, He chas'd out of our sight, Nor suffer'd living men to be misled By the vain shadows of the dead: To graves, from whence it rose, the conquer'd phantom fled; He broke that monstrous god which stood In midst of th' orchard, and the whole did claim, Which with a useless scythe of wood, And something else not worth a name, (Both vast for show, yet neither fit Or to defend, or to beget; Ridiculous and senseless terrors!) made Children and superstitious men afraid. The orchard's open now, and free; Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity; Come, enter, all that will, Behold the ripen'd fruit, come gather now your fill. Yet still, methinks, we fain would be Catching at the forbidden tree, We would be like the Deity, When truth and falshood, good and evil, we Without the senses aid within our selves would see; For 'tis God only who can find All Nature in his mind. From words, which are but pictures of the thought, Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew To things, the mind's right object, he it brought, Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew; He sought and gather'd for our use the true; And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay, He press'd them wisely the mechanic way, Till all their juice did in one vessel join, Ferment into a nourishment divine, The thirsty soul's refreshing wine. 89 Who to the life an exact piece would make, Must not from other's work a copy take; No, not from Rubens or Vandyke; Much less content himself to make it like Th' ideas and the images which lie In his own fancy, or his memory. No, he before his sight must place The natural and living face; The real object must command Each judgment of his eye, and motion of his hand. From these and all long errors of the way, In which our wand'ring predecessors went, And like th' old Hebrews many years did stray In deserts but of small extent; Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last, The barren wilderness he past, Did on the very border stand Of the blest promis'd land, And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit, Saw it himself, and shew'd us it. But life did never to one man allow Time to discover worlds, and conquer too; Nor can so short a line sufficient be To fathom the vast depths of Nature's sea: The work he did we ought t' admire, And were unjust if we should more require From his few years, divided 'twixt th' excess Of low affliction, and high happiness. For who on things remote can fix his sight, That's always in a triumph, or a fight? From you, great champions, we expect to get These spacious countries but discover'd yet; Countries where yet in stead of Nature, we Her images and idols worshipp'd see: These large and wealthy regions to subdue, Though learning has whole armies at command, Quarter'd about in every land, A better troop she ne're together drew. Methinks, like Gideon's little band, God with design has pick'd out you, To do these noble wonders by a few: 90 When the whole host he saw, they are (said he) Too many to o'ercome for me; And now he chooses out his men, Much in the way that he did then: Not those many whom he found Idly extended on the ground, To drink with their dejected head The stream just so as by their mouths it fled: No, but those few who took the waters up, And made of their laborious hands the cup. ... With courage and success you the bold work begin; Your cradle has not idle bin: None e're but Hercules and you could be At five years age worthy a history. And ne're did fortune better yet Th' historian to the story fit: As you from all old errors free And purge the body of philosophy; So from all modern follies he Has vindicated eloquence and wit. His candid style like a clean stream does slide, And his bright fancy all the way Does like the sun-shine in it play; It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide, Where the god does not rudely overturn, But gently pour the crystal urn, And with judicious hand does the whole current guide. 'T has all the beauties Nature can impart, And all the comely dress without the paint of art. ~ Abraham Cowley

128:The Rape Of The Lock: Canto 2 Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair nymphs, and well-dress'd youths around her shone, But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those: Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finney prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implor'd Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd, But chiefly love--to love an altar built, Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves; 225 And all the trophies of his former loves; With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r, The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air. But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides, While melting music steals upon the sky, And soften'd sounds along the waters die. Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay. All but the Sylph--with careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons strait his denizens of air; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew; Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd; His purple pinions op'ning to the sun, He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun. "Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear! Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest æther play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, 226 Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British throne. "Our humbler province is to tend the fair, Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care. To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale, To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs, To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. "This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight, But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade, Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. "To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: 227 Oft have we known that sev'n-fold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins; Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain; Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flow'r. Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below!" He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend, Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair, Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. ~ Alexander Pope

129:Thus in altemate uproar and sad peace, Amazed were those Titans utterly. O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes; For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire: A solitary sorrow best befits Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find Many a fallen old Divinity Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, And not a wind of heaven but will breathe In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute; For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse. Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue, Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, And let the clouds of even and of morn Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; Let the red wine within the goblet boil, Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells, On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surpris'd. Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green, And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade: Apollo is once more the golden theme! Where was he, when the Giant of the sun Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers? Together had he left his mother fair And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, And in the morning twilight wandered forth Beside the osiers of a rivulet, Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle There was no covert, no retired cave, Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears Went trickling down the golden bow he held. Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood, While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by With solemn step an awful Goddess came, And there was purport in her looks for him, Which he with eager guess began to read Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said: "How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea? Or hath that antique mien and robed form Mov'd in these vales invisible till now? Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced The rustle of those ample skirts about These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before, And their eternal calm, and all that face, Or I have dream'd."-"Yes," said the supreme shape, "Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast Unwearied ear of the whole universe Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth, What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Of loveliness new born."-Apollo then, With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat Throbb'd with the syllables.-"Mnemosyne! Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how; Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark, And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, Until a melancholy numbs my limbs; And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, Like one who once had wings.-O why should I Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the liegeless air Yields to my step aspirant? why should I Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet? Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing: Are there not other regions than this isle? What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And the most patient brilliance of the moon! And stars by thousands! Point me out the way To any one particular beauteous star, And I will flit into it with my lyre, And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity Makes this alarum in the elements, While I here idle listen on the shores In fearless yet in aching ignorance? O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, That waileth every morn and eventide, Tell me why thus I rave about these groves! Mute thou remainest-Mute! yet I can read A wondrous lesson in thy silent face: Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal."-Thus the God, While his enkindled eyes, with level glance Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush All the immortal fairness of his limbs; Most like the struggle at the gate of death; Or liker still to one who should take leave Of pale immortal death, and with a pang As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd: His very hair, his golden tresses famed, Kept undulation round his eager neck. During the pain Mnemosyne upheld Her arms as one who prophesied. At length Apollo shriek'd;-and lo! from all his limbs Celestial * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * (last lines): 'Leigh Hunt says of this part of the fragment, "It strikes us that there is something too effeminate and human in the way in which Apollo receives the exaltation which his wisdom is giving him. He weeps and wonders somewhat too fondly; but his powers gather nobly on him as he proceeds." I confess that I should be disposed to rank all these symptoms of convulsion and hysteria in the same category as the fainting of lovers which Keats so frequently represented, -- a kind of thing which his astonishing powers of progress would infallibly have' outgrown had he lived a year or two longer."' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Hyperion. Book III

130:The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees The soft blue starlight through the one small window, The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,— And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. It is so long, indeed, since I have written,— Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,— That these first words I write seem cold and strange. Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? Altered, of course—just as I too have altered— And whether towards each other, or more apart, We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter— Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure— Pondering much on all you say in it Of mystic consciousness—divine conversion— The sense of oneness with the infinite,— Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, If one's to talk through this dark world contented. But is the world so dark? Or is it rather Our own brute minds,—in which we hurry, trembling, Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"— Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: Even before the question grew to problem And drove you bickering into metaphysics, You met on lower planes the same great dragon, Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, The cruder first, more violent sensations, Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,— Savoring all more delicate gradations In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, 265 Or thought on brain,—you passed, if I may say so, From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, As instruments of music, whereon our lives Will play as we desire: and let us yield These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves To all experience plays . . . And so you went From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; And closing one by one your doors, drew in Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber— Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly It is the last, and cunningest, resort Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,— This world of lamentations, death, injustice, Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,— Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,— With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, Coldly imperious,—this transient world, What has it then to give, if not containing Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,— Momentary and trivial for the most part, Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,— And know how much outweighed they are by darkness. We are like searchers in a house of darkness, A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway Leading to who knows what; but never seeing The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little, And then grow tired. No matter what we touch, Dust is the answer—dust: dust everywhere. If this were all—what were the use, you ask? But this is not: for why should we be seeking, 266 Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, To lift our minds, if there were only dust? This is the central chamber you have come to: Turning your back to the world, until you came To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. Well, in a measure, so only do we all. I am not sure that you can be refuted. At the very last we all put faith in something,— You in this ghost that animates your world, This ethical ghost,—and I, you'll say, in reason,— Or sensuous beauty,—or in my secret self . . . Though as for that you put your faith in these, As much as I do—and then, forsaking reason,— Ascending, you would say, to intuition,— You predicate this ghost of yours, as well. Of course, you might have argued,—and you should have,— That no such deep appearance of design Could shape our world without entailing purpose: For can design exist without a purpose? Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, Strange patterns drawn,—circles, arcs, ellipses, Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder? Did someone draw them here before we came? Or was it just the sea?—We pore upon them, But find no answer—only suppositions. And if these perfect shapes are evidence Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: We never come upon him at his work, He never troubles us. He stands aloof— Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned With what we are or do. You, if you like, May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing You see, without much reason, will in law. I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, Happily so for us, by accident: We go our ways untroubled save by laws Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? 267 If we were wise—which God knows we are not— (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. These brains of ours—these delicate spinal clusters— Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, Until you managed to see that world as omen,— Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?— You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. You find your pleasure in being at one with all things— Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too— With reservations. I find more varied pleasure In understanding: and so find beauty even In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. For household news—what have you heard, I wonder? You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time— Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done— We found it out too late. His death has changed me, Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom To see them clearly, meditate upon them, And understand what things flow out of them. Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, And bring old times with you?—If you could see me Sitting here by the window, watching Venus Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,— Just where you used to sit,—I'm sure you'd come. This year, they say, the springtime will be early. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

131:Circe The sun drops luridly into the west; darkness has raised her arms to draw him down before the time, not waiting as of wont till he has come to her behind the sea; and the smooth waves grow sullen in the gloom and wear their threatening purple; more and more the plain of waters sways and seems to rise convexly from its level of the shores; and low dull thunder rolls along the beach: there will be storm at last, storm, glorious storm. Oh welcome, welcome, though it rend my bowers, scattering my blossomed roses like the dust, splitting the shrieking branches, tossing down my riotous vines with their young half-tinged grapes like small round amethysts or beryls strung tumultuously in clusters, though it sate its ravenous spite among my goodliest pines standing there round and still against the sky that makes blue lakes between their sombre tufts, or harry from my silvery olive slopes some hoary king whose gnarled fantastic limbs wear crooked armour of a thousand years; though it will hurl high on my flowery shores the hostile wave that rives at the poor sward and drags it down the slants, that swirls its foam over my terraces, shakes their firm blocks of great bright marbles into tumbled heaps, and makes my preached and mossy labyrinths, where the small odorous blossoms grow like stars strewn in the milky way, a briny marsh. What matter? let it come and bring me change, breaking the sickly sweet monotony. I am too weary of this long bright calm; always the same blue sky, always the sea the same blue perfect likeness of the sky, one rose to match the other that has waned, to-morrow's dawn the twin of yesterday's; 57 and every night the ceaseless crickets chirp the same long joy and the late strain of birds repeats their strain of all the even month; and changelessly the petty plashing surfs bubble their chiming burden round the stones; dusk after dusk brings the same languid trance upon the shadowy hills, and in the fields the waves of fireflies come and go the same, making the very flash of light and stir vex one like dronings of the spinning wheel. Give me some change. Must life be only sweet, all honey-pap as babes would have their food? And, if my heart must always be adrowse in a hush of stagnant sunshine, give me then something outside me stirring; let the storm break up the sluggish beauty, let it fall beaten below the feet of passionate winds, and then to-morrow waken jubilant in a new birth: let me see subtle joy of anguish and of hopes, of change and growth. What fate is mine who, far apart from pains and fears and turmoils of the cross-grained world, dwell, like a lonely god, in a charmed isle where I am first and only, and, like one who should love poisonous savours more than mead, long for a tempest on me and grow sick of resting, and divine free carelessness! Oh me, I am a woman, not a god; yea, those who tend me even are more than I, my nymphs who have the souls of flowers and birds singing and blossoming immortally. Ah me! these love a day and laugh again, and loving, laughing, find a full content; but I know nought of peace, and have not loved. Where is my love? Does some one cry for me, not knowing whom he calls? does his soul cry for mine to grow beside it, grow in it? does he beseech the gods to give him me, 58 the one unknown rare woman by whose side no other woman, thrice as beautiful, should once seem fair to him; to whose voice heard in any common tones no sweetest sound of love made melody on silver lutes, or singing like Apollo's when the gods grow pale with happy listening, might be peered for making music to him; whom once found there will be no more seeking anything? Oh love, oh love, oh love, art not yet come out of the waiting shadows into life? art not yet come after so many years that I have longed for thee? Come! I am here. Not yet. For surely I should feel a sound of his far answering, if now in the world he sought me who will seek me--Oh ye gods will he not seek me? Is it all a dream? will there be never never such a man? will there be only these, these bestial things who wallow in my styes, or mop and mow among the trees, or munch in pens and byres, or snarl and filch behind their wattled coops; these things who had believed that they were men? Nay but he will come. Why am I so fair, and marvellously minded, and with sight which flashes suddenly on hidden things, as the gods see who do not need to look? why wear I in my eyes that stronger power than basilisks, whose gaze can only kill, to draw men's souls to me to live or die as I would have them? why am I given pride which yet longs to be broken, and this scorn cruel and vengeful for the lesser men who meet the smiles I waste for lack of him and grow too glad? why am I who I am, but for the sake of him whom fate will send one day to be my master utterly, that he should take me, the desire of all, whom only he in the world could bow to him? 59 Oh sunlike glory of pale glittering hairs, bright as the filmy wires my weavers take to make me golden gauzes; oh deep eyes, darker and softer than the bluest dusk of August violets, darker and deep like crystal fathomless lakes in summer noons; oh sad sweet longing smile; oh lips that tempt my very self to kisses; oh round cheeks, tenderly radiant with the even flush of pale smoothed coral; perfect lovely face answering my gaze from out this fleckless pool; wonder of glossy shoulders, chiselled limbs; should I be so your lover as I am, drinking an exquisite joy to watch you thus in all a hundred changes through the day, but that I love you for him till he comes, but that my beauty means his loving it? Oh, look! a speck on this side of the sun, coming--yes, coming with the rising wind that frays the darkening cloud-wrack on the verge and in a little while will leap abroad, spattering the sky with rushing blacknesses, dashing the hissing mountainous waves at the stars. 'Twill drive me that black speck a shuddering hulk caught in the buffeting waves, dashed impotent from ridge to ridge, will drive it in the night with that dull jarring crash upon the beach, and the cries for help and the cries of fear and hope. And then to-morrow they will thoughtfully, with grave low voices, count their perils up, and thank the gods for having let them live, and tell of wives or mothers in their homes, and children, who would have such loss in them that they must weep, and may be I weep too, with fancy of the weepings had they died. And the next morrow they will feel their ease and sigh with sleek content, or laugh elate, tasting delights of rest and revelling, music and perfumes, joyaunce for the eyes 60 of rosy faces and luxurious pomps, the savour of the banquet and the glow and fragrance of the wine-cup; and they'll talk how good it is to house in palaces out of the storms and struggles, and what luck strewed their good ship on our accessless coast. Then the next day the beast in them will wake, and one will strike and bicker, and one swell with puffed up greatness, and one gibe and strut in apish pranks, and one will line his sleeve with pilfered booties, and one snatch the gems out of the carven goblets as they pass, one will grow mad with fever of the wine, and one will sluggishly besot himself, and one be lewd, and one be gluttonous; and I shall sickly look, and loathe them all. Oh my rare cup! my pure and crystal cup, with not one speck of colour to make false the passing lights, or flaw to make them swerve! My cup of Truth! How the lost fools will laugh and thank me for my boon, as if I gave some momentary flash of the gods' joy, to drink where I have drunk and touch the touch of my lips with their own! Aye, let them touch. Too cruel am I? And the silly beasts, crowding around me when I pass their way, glower on me and, although they love me still, (with their poor sorts of love such as they could,) call wrath and vengeance to their humid eyes to scare me into mercy, or creep near with piteous fawnings, supplicating bleats. Too cruel? Did I choose them what they are? or change them from themselves by poisonous charms? But any draught, pure water, natural wine, out of my cup, revealed them to themselves and to each other. Change? there was no change; only disguise gone from them unawares: and had there been one right true man of them he would have drunk the draught as I had drunk, and stood unchanged, and looked me in the eyes, 61 abashing me before him. But these things-why, which of them has even shown the kind of some one nobler beast? Pah, yapping wolves and pitiless stealthy wild-cats, curs and apes and gorging swine and slinking venomous snakes all false and ravenous and sensual brutes that shame the Earth that bore them, these they are. Lo, lo! the shivering blueness darting forth on half the heavens, and the forked thin fire strikes to the sea: and hark, the sudden voice that rushes through the trees before the storm, and shuddering of the branches. Yet the sky is blue against them still, and early stars glimmer above the pine-tops; and the air clings faint and motionless around me here. Another burst of flame--and the black speck shows in the glare, lashed onwards. It were well I bade make ready for our guests to-night. ~ Augusta Davies Webster

132:Les Phares (The Beacons) Rubens, fleuve d'oubli, jardin de la paresse, Oreiller de chair fraîche où l'on ne peut aimer, Mais où la vie afflue et s'agite sans cesse, Comme l'air dans le ciel et la mer dans la mer; Léonard de Vinci, miroir profond et sombre, Où des anges charmants, avec un doux souris Tout chargé de mystère, apparaissent à l'ombre Des glaciers et des pins qui ferment leur pays; Rembrandt, triste hôpital tout rempli de murmures, Et d'un grand crucifix décoré seulement, Où la prière en pleurs s'exhale des ordures, Et d'un rayon d'hiver traversé brusquement; Michel-Ange, lieu vague où l'on voit des Hercules Se mêler à des Christs, et se lever tout droits Des fantômes puissants qui dans les crépuscules Déchirent leur suaire en étirant leurs doigts; Colères de boxeur, impudences de faune, Toi qui sus ramasser la beauté des goujats, Grand coeur gonflé d'orgueil, homme débile et jaune, Puget, mélancolique empereur des forçats; Watteau, ce carnaval où bien des coeurs illustres, Comme des papillons, errent en flamboyant, Décors frais et légers éclairés par des lustres Qui versent la folie à ce bal tournoyant; Goya, cauchemar plein de choses inconnues, De foetus qu'on fait cuire au milieu des sabbats, De vieilles au miroir et d'enfants toutes nues, Pour tenter les démons ajustant bien leurs bas; Delacroix, lac de sang hanté des mauvais anges, Ombragé par un bois de sapins toujours vert, Où, sous un ciel chagrin, des fanfares étranges Passent, comme un soupir étouffé de Weber; 345 Ces malédictions, ces blasphèmes, ces plaintes, Ces extases, ces cris, ces pleurs, ces Te Deum, Sont un écho redit par mille labyrinthes; C'est pour les coeurs mortels un divin opium! C'est un cri répété par mille sentinelles, Un ordre renvoyé par mille porte-voix; C'est un phare allumé sur mille citadelles, Un appel de chasseurs perdus dans les grands bois! Car c'est vraiment, Seigneur, le meilleur témoignage Que nous puissions donner de notre dignité Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d'âge en âge Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité! The Beacons Rubens, river of oblivion, garden of indolence, Pillow of cool flesh where one cannot love, But where life moves and whirls incessantly Like the air in the sky and the tide in the sea; Leonardo, dark, unfathomable mirror, In which charming angels, with sweet smiles Full of mystery, appear in the shadow Of the glaciers and pines that enclose their country; Rembrandt, gloomy hospital filled with murmuring, Ornamented only with a large crucifix, Lit for a moment by a wintry sun, Where from rot and ordure rise tearful prayers; Angelo, shadowy place where Hercules' are seen Mingling with Christs, and rising straight up, Powerful phantoms, which in the twilights Rend their winding-sheets with outstretched fingers; Boxer's wrath, shamelessness of Fauns, you whose genius Showed to us the beauty in a villain, Great heart filled with pride, sickly, yellow man, Puget, melancholy emperor of galley slaves; 346 Watteau, carnival where the loves of many famous hearts Flutter capriciously like butterflies with gaudy wings; Cool, airy settings where the candelabras' light Touches with madness the couples whirling in the dance Goya, nightmare full of unknown things, Of fetuses roasted in the midst of witches' sabbaths, Of old women at the mirror and of nude children, Tightening their hose to tempt the demons; Delacroix, lake of blood haunted by bad angels, Shaded by a wood of fir-trees, ever green, Where, under a gloomy sky, strange fanfares Pass, like a stifled sigh from Weber; These curses, these blasphemies, these lamentations, These Te Deums, these ecstasies, these cries, these tears, Are an echo repeated by a thousand labyrinths; They are for mortal hearts a divine opium. They are a cry passed on by a thousand sentinels, An order re-echoed through a thousand megaphones; They are a beacon lighted on a thousand citadels, A call from hunters lost deep in the woods! For truly, Lord, the clearest proofs That we can give of our nobility, Are these impassioned sobs that through the ages roll, And die away upon the shore of your Eternity. — Translated by William Aggeler The Beacons Rubens, the grove of case, Nepenthe's river Couch of cool flesh, where Love may never be, But where life ever flows and seems to quiver As air in heaven, or, in the sea, the sea. Da Vinci, dusky mirror and profound, 347 Where angels, smiling mystery, appear, Shaded by pines and glaciers, that surround And seem to shut their country in the rear. Rembrandt, sad hospital of murmurs, where Adorned alone by one great crucifix, From offal-heaps exhales the weeping prayer That winter shoots a sunbeam to transfix. Vague region, Michelangelo, where Titans Are mixed with Christs: and strong ghosts rise, in crowds To stand bolt upright in the gloom that lightens, With gristly talons tearing through their shrouds. Rage of the boxer, mischief of the faun, Extracting beauty out of blackguards' looks — The heart how proud, the man how pinched and drawn — Puget the mournful emperor of crooks! Watteau, the carnival, where famous hearts Go flitting by like butterflies that burn, While through gay scenes each chandelier imparts A madness to the dancers as they turn. Goya's a nightmare full of things unguessed, Of foeti stewed on nights of witches' revels. Crones ogle mirrors; children scarcely dressed, Adjust their hose to tantalise the devils. A lake of gore where fallen angels dwell Is Delacroix, by firwoods ever fair, Where under fretful skies strange fanfares swell Like Weber's sighs and heartbeats in the air. These curses, blasphemies, and lamentations, These ecstasies, tears, cries and soaring psalms — Through endless mazes, their reverberations Bring, to our mortal hearts, divinest balms. A thousand sentinels repeat the cry. A thousand trumpets echo. Beacon-tossed A thousand summits flare it through the sky, 348 A call of hunters in the jungle lost. And certainly this is the most sublime Proof of our worth and value, Oh Divinity, That this great sob rolls on through ageless time To die upon the shores of your infinity. — Translated by Roy Campbell Les Phares Rubens, great river of oblivion, garden of ease, cool flesh no lovers crave, but where the floods of life unceasing run, like wind on wind or wave on ocean wave; Da Vinci — deep and sombre looking-glass enchanting angels haunt, with subtle smile all mystery-charged, while shadows dark amass and pines and ice-cliffs bound their prison-isle; Rembrandt — a piteous murmuring hospital where ordure streams in tears and orisons, stripped to the crucifix on one bare wall illumed by one chill dart from wintry suns; vast desert void, — o Michael Angelo! — where TItans mix with Christs, and twilight clouds where mighty spectres rise up stark and slow — whose opening fingers rend their mouldered shrouds; the rage of boxers and the satyrs' lust — thou who hast found a grace in toiling knaves, great heart, in a poor bilious body thrust — Puget, the gloomy king of galley-slaves; Watteau — bright carnival, where courtly pairs, like butterflies in satin, flit about; flaming in misty groves 'neath resin-flares which pour their madness on the whirling rout; 349 Goya, who in a nightmare-horde unfurls hags boiling foetuses in witches' milk, beldames before the glass and naked girls for demon-lovers tightening hose of silk; and Delacroix — dark lake of blood forlorn 'mid fadeless firs, where evil angels fare, a sullen sky wherefrom a faery horn floats, faint as Oberon's horn through muffling air; these curses, blasphemies and these laments, these ecstasies, cries, tears, hossanas from a thousand caverns, form one echo, whence — death-doomed, we draw a heavenly opium! theirs is a blast a thousand sentinels pass on with their trumpets in a thousand moods; a torch upon a thousand citadels, a hail from hunters lost in pathless woods! for truly, 'tis the mightiest voice our souls command, o Lord, to prove their worth to Thee: this ardent sob which down the ages rolls and dies against Thy verge, Eternity! — Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks The Beacons Reubens, river of forgetfulness, garden of sloth, Pillow of wet flesh that one cannot love, But where life throngs and seethes without cease Like the air in the sky and the water in the sea. Leonardo da Vinci, sinister mirror, Where these charming angels with sweet smiles Charged with mystery, appear in shadows Of glaciers and pines that close off the country. Rembrandt, sad hospital full of murmurs 350 Decorated only with a crucifix, Where tearful prayers arise from filth And a ray of winter light crosses brusquely. Michelangelo, a wasteland where one sees Hercules Mingling with Christ, and rising in a straight line Powerful phantoms that in the twilight Tear their shrouds with stretching fingers. Rage of a boxer, impudence of a faun, You who gather together the beauty of the boor, Your big heart swelling with pride at man defective and yellow, Puget, melancholy emperor of the poor. Watteau, this carnival of illustrious hearts Like butterflies, errant and flamboyant, In the cool decor, with delicate lightning in the chandeliers Crossing the madness of the twirling ball. Goya, nightmare of unknown things, Fetuses roasting on the spit, Harridans in the mirror and naked children Tempting demons by loosening their stockings. Delacroix, haunted lake of blood and evil angels, Shaded by evergreen forests of dark firs, Where, under a grieving sky, strange fanfares Pass, like a gasping breath of Weber. These curses, these blasphemies, these moans, These ecstasies, these tears, these cries of 'Te Deum' Are an echo reiterated in a thousand mazes; It is for mortal hearts a divine opium! It is a cry repeated by a thousand sentinels, An order returned by a thousand megaphones, A beacon lighting a thousand citadels A summons to hunters lost in the wide woods. For truly, O Lord, what better testimony Can we give to our dignity Than this burning sob that rolls from age to age 351 And comes to die on the shore of Your eternity? Translated by William A. Sigler ~ Charles Baudelaire

133:The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,— Yet know so little of them; only seeing The small bright circle of our consciousness, Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know— Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, And there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, While one tall woman sent her voice above them In powerful sweetness. . . .Closing then the door I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,— And walked in a quiet hallway as before. Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . We hear a sudden music, see a playing Of ordered thoughts—and all again is silence. The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,— As it continues after our departure, So, we divine, it played before we came . . . What do you know of me, or I of you? . . . Little enough. . . .We set these doors ajar Only for chosen movements of the music: This passage, (so I think—yet this is guesswork) Will please him,—it is in a strain he fancies,— More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered And thinks (to judge from self—this too is guesswork) The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, Perplexed with implications; he suspects me Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,— 284 Simple and clear; and all the while he listens I make pretence to think my doors are closed. This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? Or only mocking?'—There I let it end. . . . Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it— When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, Talking with too great zeal—our doors fly open Without intention; and the hungry watcher Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, And laughs. . . .but this, for many counts, is seldom. And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, Our lovers too, only such few clear notes As we shall deem them likely to admire: 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . .all the while Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,— Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, The sombre note that gives the chord its power; Or a white loveliness—if such we know— Too much like fire to speak of without shame. Well, this being so, and we who know it being So curious about those well-locked houses, The minds of those we know,—to enter softly, And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, Breathing deliberately the very air, Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness To learn what ghosts are there,— Suppose for once I set my doors wide open And bid you in. . . .Suppose I try to tell you The secrets of this house, and how I live here; Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . Deceiving you—as far as I may know it— Only so much as I deceive myself. If you are clever you already see me As one who moves forever in a cloud Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, Changing such outlines as a light may change, 285 Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained In a world of things that flatter me: a sky Just as I would have had it; trees and grass Just as I would have shaped and colored them; Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,— In some deep way I am aware these praise me: Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, They point, somehow, to me. . . .This water says,— Shimmering at the sky, or undulating In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,— This water says, there is some secret in you Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive To all that circles you. This bare tree says,— Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches Flung out against the sky,—this tall tree says, There is some cold austerity in you, A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, Concealing what reserves of power and beauty! What teeming Aprils!—chorus of leaves on leaves! These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; Walls windowless where darkness is desired; Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,— Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,— All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, This cool room says,—just such a room have you, It waits you always at the tops of stairways, 286 Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, Hung there forever,—these so soundless glidings Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,— This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,— This says, just such an involuted beauty Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: You need but sit and close your eyes a moment To see these deep designs unfold themselves. And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me— I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; And in this world you see me like a wraith Blown softly here and there, on silent winds. 'Praise me'—I say; and look, not in a glass, But in your eyes, to see my image there— Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; You look at me, with interest unfeigned, And listen—I am pleased; or else, alone, I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward From unknown depths,—my silver thoughts ascending; Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,— Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,— But all with one deep meaning: this is I, This is the glistening secret holy I, This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, This singing ghost. . . .And hearing, I am warmed. You see me moving, then, as one who moves Forever at the centre of his circle: A circle filled with light. And into it Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, Or huddle in dark again. . . .A clock ticks clearly, 287 A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; And through these things my pencil pushes softly To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture Above unsteady lamps,—with black boughs flung Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. 'Beauty!' I cry. . . .My feet move on, and take me Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. Beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, Remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . Well, I am frustrate; life has beaten me, The thing I strongly seized has turned to darkness, And darkness rides my heart. . . .These skeleton elm-trees— Leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky— Beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness Extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, The eaves make liquid music. . . .Hours have passed, And nothing changes, and everything is changed. Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,— And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. If you could solve this darkness you would have me. This causeless melancholy that comes with rain, Or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes Drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? Well, so-and-so, this morning when I saw him, Seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; And you, I saw too much; and you, too little; And the word I chose for you, the golden word, The word that should have struck so deep in purpose, And set so many doors of wish wide open, You let it fall, and would not stoop for it, And smiled at me, and would not let me guess 288 Whether you saw it fall. . . These things, together, With other things, still slighter, wove to music, And this in time drew up dark memories; And there I stand. This music breaks and bleeds me, Turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, Faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, And chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, And cries that none can answer, few will hear. Have these things meaning? Or would you see more clearly If I should say 'My second wife grows tedious, Or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? Or 'one day dies eventless as another, Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, And beauty shines in vain'?— These things you ask for, These you shall have. . . So, talking with my first wife, At the dark end of evening, when she leaned And smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs Of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,— Calling to mind remote and small successions Of countless other evenings ending so,— I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; Dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands Savagely killed; I saw her in her coffin, I saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, I saw myself alone there, palely watching, Wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted That grief itself possessed me. Time would pass, And I should meet this girl,—my second wife— And drop the masque of grief for one of passion. Forward we move to meet, half hesitating, We drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, Looking now here, now there, faintly pretending We do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude Roaring beneath our words . . . The time approaches. We lean unbalanced. The mute last glance between us, Profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, Is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . 289 . . . .'What are you thinking of?'. . . .My first wife's voice Scattered these ghosts. 'Oh nothing—nothing much— Just wondering where we'd be two years from now, And what we might be doing . . . ' And then remorse Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, And pity to echoed love. And one more evening Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. And, as it is with this, so too with all things. The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, And those on older still; and so forever. The old shines through the new, and colors it. What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,— All things return. I write a line with passion (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) Only to find the same thing, done before,— Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,— Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, And broke the accustomed order of our days, And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,— Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,— No more for me than you. I move here always, From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, Once more I have deceived you. . . .I withhold The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken

134:Hesperus: A Legend Of The Stars PRELUDE. The Stars are heaven's ministers; Right royally they teach God's glory and omnipotence, In wondrous lowly speech. All eloquent with music as The tremblings of a lyre, To him that hath an ear to hear They speak in words of fire. Not to learned sagas only Their whisperings come down; The monarch is not glorified Because he wears a crown. The humblest soldier in the camp Can win the smile of Mars, And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold Communion with the stars. Thoughts too refined for utterance, Ethereal as the air, Crowd through the brain's dim labyrinths, And leave their impress there; As far along the gleaming void Man's tender glances roll, Wonder usurps the throne of speech, But vivifies the soul. Oh, heaven-cradled mysteries, What sacred paths ye've trodBright, jewelled scintillations from The chariot-wheels of God! When in the spirit He rode forth, With vast creative aim, These were His footprints left behind, To magnify His name! 38 --We gazed on the Evening Star, Mary and I, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue sky; Shone like a ransomed soul In the depths of that quiet heaven; Like a pearly tear, Trembling with fear On the pallid cheek of Even. And I thought of the myriad souls Gazing with human eyes On the light of that star, Shining afar, In the quiet evening skies; Some with winged hope, Clearing the cope Of heaven as swift as light, Others, with souls Blind as the moles, Sinking in rayless night. Dreams such as dreamers dream Flitted before our eyes; Beautiful visions!Angelo's, Titian's, Had never more gorgeous dyes: We soared with the angels Through vistas of glory, We heard the evangels Relate the glad story Of the beautiful star, Shining afar In the quiet evening skies. And we gazed and dreamed, Till our spirits seemed 39 Absorbed in the stellar world; Sorrow was swallowed up, Drained was the bitter cup Of earth to the very lees; And we sailed over seas Of white vapour that whirled Through the skies afar, Angels our charioteers, Threading the endless spheres, And to the chorus of angels Rehearsed the evangels The Birth of the Evening Star. --I. Far back in the infant ages, Before the eras stamped their autographs Upon the stony records of the earth; Before the burning incense of the sun Rolled up the interlucent space, Brightening the blank abyss; Ere the Recording Angel's tears Were shed for man's transgressions: A Seraph, with a face of light, And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere, Blue eyes serene in their beatitude, Godlike in their tranquillity, Features as perfect as God's dearest work, And stature worthy of her race, Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere That floated in a sea of harmony Translucent as pure crystal, or the light That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below The extremest regions underneath the Earth The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light, In calm rotation through aerial deep, Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline, Crystal and violet; layers of worlds- 40 The robes of ages that had passed away, Left as memorials of their sojournings. For nothing passes wholly. All is changed. The Years but slumber in their sepulchres, And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep. FIRST ANGEL. Oh, how our souls are gladdened, When we think of that brave old age, When God's light came down From heaven, to crown Each act of the virgin page! Oh, how our souls are saddened, At the deeds which were done since then, By the angel race In the holy place, And on earth by the sons of men! Lo, as the years are fleeting, With their burden of toil and pain, We know that the page Of that primal age Will be opened up once again. II. Progressing still, the bright-faced Seraph rose From Goodness to Perfection, till she stood The fairest and the best of all that waked The tuneful echoes of that lofty world, Where Lucifer, then the stateliest of the throng Of Angels, walked majestical, arrayed In robes of brightness worthy of his place. And all the intermediate spheres were homes Of the existences Of spiritual life. 41 Love, the divine arcanum, was the bond That linked them to each other-heart to heart, And angel world to world, and soul to soul. Thus the first ages passed, Cycles of perfect bliss, God the acknowledged sovereign of all. Sphere spake with sphere, and love conversed with love, From the far centre to sublimest height, And down the deep, unfathomable space, To the remotest homes of angel-life, A viewless chain of being circling all, And linking every spirit to its God. ANGEL CHORUS. Spirits that never falter, Before God's altar Rehearse their paeans of unceasing praise; Their theme the boundless love By which God rules above, Mysteriously engrafted On grace divine, and wafted Into every soul of man that disobeys. Not till the wondrous being Of the All-Seeing Is manifested to finite man, Can ye understand the love By which God rules above, Evermore extending, In circles never-ending, To every atom in the universal plan. SECOND ANGEL. Oh, the love beyond computing Of the high and holy place! The unseen bond Circling beyond 42 The limits of time and space. Through earth and her world of beauty The heavenly links extend, Man feels its presence, Imbibes its essence, But cannot yet comprehend. THIRD ANGEL. But the days are fast approaching, When the Father of Love will send His interpreter From the highest sphere, That man fully may comprehend. III. Oh, truest Love, because the truest life! Oh, blest existence, to exist with Love! Oh, Love, without which all things else must die The death that knows no waking unto life! Oh, Jealousy that saps the heart of Love, And robs it of its tenderness divine; And Pride, that tramples with its iron hoof Upon the flower of love, whose fragrant soul Exhales itself in sweetness as it dies! A lofty spirit surfeited with Bliss! A Prince of Angels cancelling all love, All due allegiance to his rightful Lord; Doing dishonour to his high estate; Turning the truth and wisdom which were his For ages of supreme felicity, To thirst for power, and hatred of his God, Who raised him to such vast preeminence! SECOND ANGEL CHORUS. 43 Woe, woe to the ransomed spirit, Once freed from the stain of sin, Whose pride increases Till all love ceases To nourish it from within! Its doom is the darkened regions Where the rebel angel legions Live their long night of sorrow; Where no expectant morrow, No mercy-tempered ray From the altar of to-day, Comes down through the gloom to borrow One dropp from their cup of sorrow, Or lighten their cheerless way. FIRST ANGEL. But blest be the gentle spirit Whose love is ever increased From its own pure soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast! IV. Ingrate Angel, he, To purchase Hell, and at so vast a price! 'Tis the old story of celestial strifeRebellion in the palace-halls of GodFalse angels joining the insurgent ranks, Who suffered dire defeats, and fell at last From bliss supreme to darkness and despair. But they, the faithful dwellers in the spheres, Who kept their souls inviolate, to whom Heaven's love and truth were truly great rewards: For these the stars were sown throughout all space, As fit memorials of their faithfulness. The wretched lost were banished to the depths Beneath the lowest spheres. Earth barred the space 44 Between them and the Faithful. Then the hills Rose bald and rugged o'er the wild abyss; The waters found their places; and the sun, The bright-haired warder of the golden morn, Parting the curtains of reposing night, Rung his first challenge to the dismal shades, That shrunk back, awed, into Cimmerean gloom; And the young moon glode through the startled void With quiet beauty and majestic mien. SECOND ANGEL. Slowly rose the daedal Earth, Through the purple-hued abysm Glowing like a gorgeous prism, Heaven exulting o'er its birth, Still the mighty wonder came, Through the jasper-coloured sphere, Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, Trembling to the loud acclaim, In a haze of golden rain, Up the heavens rolled the sun, Danae-like the earth was won, Else his love and light were vain. So the heart and soul of man Own the light and love of heaven, Nothing yet in vain was given, Nature's is a perfect plan. V. The glowing Seraph with the brow of light Was first among the Faithful. When the war Between heaven's rival armies fiercely waged, She bore the Will Divine from rank to rank, The chosen courier of Deity. 45 Her presence cheered the combatants for Truth, And Victory stood up where'er she moved. And now, in gleaming robe of woven pearl, Emblazoned with devices of the stars, And legends of their glory yet to come, The type of Beauty Intellectual, The representative of Love and Truth, She moves first in the innumerable throng Of angels congregating to behold The crowning wonder of creative power. THIRD ANGEL CHORUS, Oh, joy, that no mortal can fathom, To rejoice in the smile of God! To be first in the light Of His Holy sight, And freed from His chastening rod. Faithful, indeed, that soul, to be The messenger of Deity! FIRST ANGEL. This, this is the chosen spirit, Whose love is ever increased From its own pare soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast. VI. With noiseless speed the angel charioteers In dazzling splendour all triumphant rode; Through seas of ether painfully serene, That flashed a golden, phosphorescent spray, As luminous as the sun's intensest beams, 46 Athwart the wide, interminable space. Legion on legion of the sons of God; Vast phalanxes of graceful cherubim; Innumerable multitudes and ranks Of all the hosts and hierarchs of heaven, Moved by one universal impulse, urged Their steeds of swiftness up the arch of light, From sphere to sphere increasing as they came, Till world on world was emptied of its race. Upward, with unimaginable speed, The myriads, congregating zenith-ward, Reached the far confines of the utmost sphere, The home of Truth, the dwelling-place of Love, Striking celestial symphonies divine From the resounding sea of melody, That heaved in swells of soft, mellifluous sound, To the blest crowds at whose triumphal tread Its soul of sweetness waked in thrills sublime, The sun stood poised upon the western verge; The moon paused, waiting for the march of earth, That stayed to watch the advent of the stars; And ocean hushed its very deepest deeps In grateful expectation. SECOND ANGEL. Still through the viewless regions Of the habitable air, Through the ether ocean, In unceasing motion, Pass the multitudinous legions Of angels everywhere. Bearing each new-born spirit Through the interlucent void To its starry dwelling, Angel anthems telling Every earthly deed of merit To each flashing asteroid. 47 THIRD ANGEL. Through the realms sidereal, Clothed with the immaterial, Far as the fields elysian In starry bloom extend, The stretch of angel vision Can see and comprehend. VII. Innumerable as the ocean sands The angel concourse in due order stood, In meek anticipation waiting for The new-created orbs, Still hidden in the deep And unseen laboratory, where Not even angel eyes could penetrate: A star for each of that angelic host, Memorials of their faithfulness and love. The Evening Star, God's bright eternal gift To the pure Seraph with the brow of light, And named for her, mild Hesperus, Came twinkling down the unencumbered blue, On viewless wings of sweet melodious sound, Beauty and grace presiding at its birth. Celestial plaudits sweeping through the skies Waked resonant paeans, till the concave thrilled Through its illimitable bounds. With a sudden burst Of light, that lit the universal space As with a flame of crystal, Rousing the Soul of Joy That slumbered in the patient sea, From every point of heaven the hurrying cars Conveyed the constellations to their thronesThe throbbing planets, and the burning suns, Erratic comets, and the various grades 48 And magnitudes of palpitating stars. From the far arctic and antarctic zones, Through all the vast, surrounding infinite, A wilderness of intermingling orbs, The gleaming wonders, pulsing earthward, came; Each to its destined place, Each in itself a world, With all its coining myriad life, Drawing us nearer the Omnipotent, With hearts of wonder, and with souls of praise: Astrea, Pallas, strange Aldebaran, The Pleiads, Arcturus, the ruddy Mars, Pale Saturn, Ceres and OrionAll as they circle still Through the enraptured void. For each young angel born to us from earth, A new-made star is launched among its peers. FULL ANGEL CHORUS. Dreamer in the realms aerial, Searcher for the true and good, Hoper for the high, ethereal Limit of Beatitude, Lift thy heart to heaven, for there Is embalmed thy spirit prayer: Not in words is shrined thy prayer, But thy Thought awaits thee there. God loves the silent worshipper. The grandest hymn That nature chants-the litany Of the rejoicing stars-is silent praise. Their nightly anthems stir The souls of lofty seraphim In the remotest heaven. The melody Descends in throbbings of celestial light Into the heart of man, whose upward gaze, And meditative aspect, tell Of the heart's incense passing up the night. Above the crystalline height The theme of thoughtful praise ascends. 49 Not from the wildest swell Of the vexed ocean soars the fullest psalm; But in the evening calm, And in the solemn midnight, silence blends With silence, and to the ear Attuned to harmony divine Begets a strain Whose trance-like stillness wakes delicious pain. The silent tear Holds keener anguish in its orb of brine, Deeper and truer grief Than the loud wail that brings relief, As thunder clears the atmosphere. But the deep, tearless Sorrow,-how profound! Unspoken to the ear Of sense, 'tis yet as eloquent a sound As that which wakes the lyre Of the rejoicing Day, when Morn on the mountains lights his urn of fire. The flowers of the glen Rejoice in silence; huge pines stand apart Upon the lofty hills, and sigh Their woes to every breeze that passeth by; The willow tells its mournful tale So tenderly, that e'en the passing gale Bears not a murmur on its wings Of what the spirit sings That breathes its trembling thoughts through all the drooping strings. He loves God most who worships most In the obedient heart. The thunder's noisome boast, What is it to the violet lightning thought? So with the burning passion of the starsCreation's diamond sands, Strewn along the pearly strands, And far-extending corridors Of heaven's blooming shores; No scintil of their jewelled flame But wafts the exquisite essence Of prayer to the Eternal Presence, 50 Of praise to the Eternal Name. The silent prayer unbars The gates of Paradise, while the too-intimate, Self-righteous' boast, strikes rudely at the gate Of heaven, unknowing why it does not open to Their summons, as they see pale Silence passing through. VIII. In grateful admiration, till the Dawn Withdrew the gleaming curtains of the night, We watched the whirling systems, until each Could recognize their own peculiar star; When, with the swift celerity Of Fancy-footed Thought, The light-caparisoned, aerial steeds, Shod with rare fleetness, Revisited the farthest of the spheres Ere the earth's sun had kissed the mountain tops, Or shook the sea-pearls from his locks of gold. --Still on the Evening Star Gazed we with steadfast eyes, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue skies. No longer the charioteers Dashed through the gleaming spheres; No more the evangels Rehearsed the glad story; But, in passing, the angels Left footprints of glory: For up the starry void Bright-flashing asteroid, Pale moon and starry choir, Aided by Fancy's fire, 51 Rung from the glittering lyre Changes of song and hymn, Worthy of Seraphim. Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne, Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone, While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone, Intently pondered on the Known Unknown. ~ Charles Sangster

135:                             What is more gentle than a wind in summer?     What is more soothing than the pretty hummer     That stays one moment in an open flower,     And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?     What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing     In a green island, far from all men's knowing?     More healthful than the leafiness of dales?     More secret than a nest of nightingales?     More serene than Cordelia's countenance?     More full of visions than a high romance?     What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!     Low murmurer of tender lullabies!     Light hoverer around our happy pillows!     Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!     Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!     Most happy listener! when the morning blesses     Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes     That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.     But what is higher beyond thought than thee?     Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?     More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,     Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?     What is it? And to what shall I compare it?     It has a glory, and naught else can share it:     The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,     Chasing away all worldliness and folly;     Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,     Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;     And sometimes like a gentle whispering     Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing     That breathes about us in the vacant air;     So that we look around with prying stare,     Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,     And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;     To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,     That is to crown our name when life is ended.     Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,     And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!     Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,     And die away in ardent mutterings.     No one who once the glorious sun has seen,     And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean     For his great Maker's presence, but must know     What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:     Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,     By telling what he sees from native merit.     O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel     Upon some mountain-top until I feel     A glowing splendour round about me hung,     And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?     O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,     Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,     Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath     Of flowering bays, that I may die a death     Of luxury, and my young spirit follow     The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo     Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear     The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair     Visions of all places: a bowery nook     Will be elysium- an eternal book     Whence I may copy many a lovely saying     About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing     Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade     Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;     And many a verse from so strange influence     That we must ever wonder how, and whence     It came. Also imaginings will hover     Round my fire-side, and haply there discover     Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander     In happy silence, like the clear Meander     Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot     Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,     Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress     Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,     Write on my tablets all that was permitted,     All that was for our human senses fitted.     Then the events of this wide world I'd seize     Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze     Till at its shoulders it should proudly see     Wings to find out an immortality.     Stop and consider! life is but a day;     A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way     From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep     While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep     Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?     Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;     The reading of an ever-changing tale;     The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;     A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;     A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,     Riding the springy branches of an elm.     O for ten years, that I may overwhelm     Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed     That my own soul has to itself decreed.     Then will I pass the countries that I see     In long perspective, and continually     Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass     Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,     Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,     And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;     Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,     To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-     Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white     Into a pretty shrinking with a bite     As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,     A lovely tale of human life we'll read.     And one will teach a tame dove how it best     May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;     Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,     Will set a green robe floating round her head,     And still will dance with ever varied ease,     Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:     Another will entice me on, and on     Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;     Till in the bosom of a leafy world     We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd     In the recesses of a pearly shell.     And can I ever bid these joys farewell?     Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,     Where I may find the agonies, the strife     Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,     O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car     And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer     Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:     And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly     Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly     Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,     Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.     Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;     And now I see them on the green-hill's side     In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.     The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks     To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear     Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,     Passing along before a dusky space     Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase     Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep.     Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:     Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;     Some with their faces muffled to the ear     Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,     Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;     Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;     Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways     Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls     Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;     And now broad wings. Most awfully intent     The driver of those steeds is forward bent,     And seems to listen: O that I might know     All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.     The visions all are fled- the car is fled     Into the light of heaven, and in their stead     A sense of real things comes doubly strong,     And, like a muddy stream, would bear along     My soul to nothingness: but I will strive     Against all doubtings, and will keep alive     The thought of that same chariot, and the strange     Journey it went.                Is there so small a range     In the present strength of manhood, that the high     Imagination cannot freely fly     As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,     Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds     Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all?     From the clear space of ether, to the small     Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning     Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening     Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,     E'en in this isle; and who could paragon     The fervid choir that lifted up a noise     Of harmony, to where it aye will poise     Its mighty self of convoluting sound,     Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,     Eternally around a dizzy void?     Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd     With honors; nor had any other care     Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.     Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism     Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,     Made great Apollo blush for this his land.     Men were thought wise who could not understand     His glories: with a puling infant's force     They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,     And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!     The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd     Its gathering waves- ye felt it not. The blue     Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew     Of summer nights collected still to make     The morning precious: beauty was awake!     Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead     To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed     To musty laws lined out with wretched rule     And compass vile: so that ye taught a school     Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,     Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,     Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:     A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask     Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!     That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,     And did not know it,- no, they went about,     Holding a poor, decrepid standard out     Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large     The name of one Boileau!                    O ye whose charge     It is to hover round our pleasant hills!     Whose congregated majesty so fills     My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace     Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,     So near those common folk; did not their shames     Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames     Delight you? Did ye never cluster round     Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,     And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu     To regions where no more the laurel grew?     Or did ye stay to give a welcoming     To some lone spirits who could proudly sing     Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:     But let me think away those times of woe:     Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed     Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed     Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard     In many places;- some has been upstirr'd     From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,     By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,     Nested and quiet in a valley mild,     Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild     About the earth: happy are ye and glad.     These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had     Strange thunders from the potency of song;     Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,     From majesty: but in clear truth the themes     Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes     Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower     Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;     'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.     The very archings of her eye-lids charm     A thousand willing agents to obey,     And still she governs with the mildest sway:     But strength alone though of the Muses born     Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,     Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres     Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,     And thorns of life; forgetting the great end     Of poesy, that it should be a friend     To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than     E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds     Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds     A silent space with ever sprouting green.     All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,     Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,     Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.     Then let us clear away the choking thorns     From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,     Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,     Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown     With simple flowers: let there nothing be     More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;     Nought more ungentle than the placid look     Of one who leans upon a closed book;     Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes     Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!     As she was wont, th' imagination     Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,     And they shall be accounted poet kings     Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.     O may these joys be ripe before I die.     Will not some say that I presumptuously     Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace     'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?     That whining boyhood should with reverence bow     Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!     If I do hide myself, it sure shall be     In the very fane, the light of Poesy:     If I do fall, at least I will be laid     Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;     And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;     And there shall be a kind memorial graven.     But off Despondence! miserable bane!     They should not know thee, who athirst to gain     A noble end, are thirsty every hour.     What though I am not wealthy in the dower     Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know     The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow     Hither and thither all the changing thoughts     Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts     Out the dark mysteries of human souls     To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls     A vast idea before me, and I glean     Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen     The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear     As anything most true; as that the year     Is made of the four seasons- manifest     As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,     Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I     Be but the essence of deformity,     A coward, did my very eye-lids wink     At speaking out what I have dared to think.     Ah! rather let me like a madman run     Over some precipice; let the hot sun     Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down     Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown     Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.     An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,     Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!     How many days! what desperate turmoil!     Ere I can have explored its widenesses.     Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,     I could unsay those- no, impossible!     Impossible!            For sweet relief I'll dwell     On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay     Begun in gentleness die so away.     E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:     I turn full hearted to the friendly aids     That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,     And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.     The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet     Into the brain ere one can think upon it;     The silence when some rhymes are coming out;     And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:     The message certain to be done to-morrow.     'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow     Some precious book from out its snug retreat,     To cluster round it when we next shall meet.     Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs     Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;     Many delights of that glad day recalling,     When first my senses caught their tender falling.     And with these airs come forms of elegance     Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,     Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round     Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound     Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye     Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.     Thus I remember all the pleasant flow     Of words at opening a portfolio.     Things such as these are ever harbingers     To trains of peaceful images: the stirs     Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:     A linnet starting all about the bushes:     A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,     Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted     With over pleasure- many, many more,     Might I indulge at large in all my store     Of luxuries: yet I must not forget     Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:     For what there may be worthy in these rhymes     I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes     Of friendly voices had just given place     To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace     The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.     It was a poet's house who keeps the keys     Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung     The glorious features of the bards who sung     In other ages- cold and sacred busts     Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts     To clear Futurity his darling fame!     Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim     At swelling apples with a frisky leap     And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap     Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane     Of liny marble, and thereto a train     Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:     One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward     The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet     Bending their graceful figures till they meet     Over the trippings of a little child:     And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild     Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.     See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping     Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-     A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims     At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion     With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean     Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er     Its rocky marge, and balances once more     The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam     Feel all about their undulating home.     Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down     At nothing; just as though the earnest frown     Of over thinking had that moment gone     From off her brow, and left her all alone.     Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,     As if he always listened to the sighs     Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn     By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn.     Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,     Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean     His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!     For over them was seen a free display     Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone     The face of Poesy: from off her throne     She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.     The very sense of where I was might well     Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came     Thought after thought to nourish up the flame     Within my breast; so that the morning light     Surprised me even from a sleepless night;     And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,     Resolving to begin that very day     These lines; and howsoever they be done,     I leave them as a father does his son.             THE END (lines 250-1): An idea, says Leigh Hunt... "of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words." (line 354): Leigh Hunt's house: he says ... the poem "originated in sleeping in a room adorned with busts and pictures," -- "many a bust from Shout," as Shelley wrote to Mrs. Gisborne. In Hunt's Correspondence (Volume i, page 289) we read "Keats's Sleep and Poetry is a description of a parlour that was mine, no bigger than an old mansion's closet." Charles Cowden Clarke says (Gentleman's Magazine, February 1874) "It was in the library at Hunt's cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Chaucer

136:SCENE 1.PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. THE LORD AND THE HOST OF HEAVEN. ENTER THREE ARCHANGELS. RAPHAEL: The sun makes music as of old Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, On its predestined circle rolled With thunder speed: the Angels even Draw strength from gazing on its glance, Though none its meaning fathom may:-- The worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as at Creations day. GABRIEL: And swift and swift, with rapid lightness, The adorned Earth spins silently, Alternating Elysian brightness With deep and dreadful night; the sea Foams in broad billows from the deep Up to the rocks, and rocks and Ocean, Onward, with spheres which never sleep, Are hurried in eternal motion. MICHAEL: And tempests in contention roar From land to sea, from sea to land; And, raging, weave a chain of power, Which girds the earth, as with a band.-- A flashing desolation there, Flames before the thunders way; But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle changes of Thy day. CHORUS OF THE THREE: The Angels draw strength from Thy glance, Though no one comprehend Thee may;-- Thy worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as on Creation's day. The sun sounds, according to ancient custom, In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres. And its fore-written circle Fulfils with a step of thunder. Its countenance gives the Angels strength Though no one can fathom it. The incredible high works Are excellent as at the first day. GABRIEL: And swift, and inconceivably swift The adornment of earth winds itself round, And exchanges Paradise--clearness With deep dreadful night. The sea foams in broad waves From its deep bottom, up to the rocks, And rocks and sea are torn on together In the eternal swift course of the spheres. MICHAEL: And storms roar in emulation From sea to land, from land to sea, And make, raging, a chain Of deepest operation round about. There flames a flashing destruction Before the path of the thunderbolt. But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle alternations of Thy day. CHORUS: Thy countenance gives the Angels strength, Though none can comprehend Thee: And all Thy lofty works Are excellent as at the first day. [ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES.] MEPHISTOPHELES: As thou, O Lord, once more art kind enough To interest Thyself in our affairs, And ask, How goes it with you there below? And as indulgently at other times Thou tookest not my visits in ill part, Thou seest me here once more among Thy household. Though I should scandalize this company, You will excuse me if I do not talk In the high style which they think fashionable; My pathos certainly would make You laugh too, Had You not long since given over laughing. Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds; I observe only how men plague themselves;-- The little god o the world keeps the same stamp, As wonderful as on creations day:-- A little better would he live, hadst Thou Not given him a glimpse of Heavens light Which he calls reason, and employs it only To live more beastlily than any beast. With reverence to Your Lordship be it spoken, Hes like one of those long-legged grasshoppers, Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever The same old song i the grass. There let him lie, Burying his nose in every heap of dung. THE LORD: Have you no more to say? Do you come here Always to scold, and cavil, and complain? Seems nothing ever right to you on earth? MEPHISTOPHELES: No, Lord! I find all there, as ever, bad at best. Even I am sorry for mans days of sorrow; I could myself almost give up the pleasure Of plaguing the poor things. THE LORD: Knowest thou Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES: The Doctor? THE LORD: Ay; My servant Faust. MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth He serves You in a fashion quite his own; And the fools meat and drink are not of earth. His aspirations bear him on so far That he is half aware of his own folly, For he demands from Heaven its fairest star, And from the earth the highest joy it bears, Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain To calm the deep emotions of his breast. THE LORD: Though he now serves Me in a cloud of error, I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. When trees look green, full well the gardener knows That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year. MEPHISTOPHELES: What will You bet?--now am sure of winning-- Only, observe You give me full permission To lead him softly on my path. THE LORD: As long As he shall live upon the earth, so long Is nothing unto thee forbiddenMan Must err till he has ceased to struggle. MEPHISTOPHELES: Thanks. And that is all I ask; for willingly I never make acquaintance with the dead. The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me, And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. For I am like a cat--I like to play A little with the mouse before I eat it. THE LORD: Well, well! it is permitted thee. Draw thou His spirit from its springs; as thou findst power Seize him and lead him on thy downward path; And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee That a good man, even in his darkest longings, Is well aware of the right way. MEPHISTOPHELES: Well and good. I am not in much doubt about my bet, And if I lose, then tis Your turn to crow; Enjoy Your triumph then with a full breast. Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure, Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. THE LORD: Pray come here when it suits you; for I never Had much dislike for people of your sort. And, among all the Spirits who rebelled, The knave was ever the least tedious to Me. The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 100 He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I Have given him the Devil for a companion, Who may provoke him to some sort of work, And must create forever.--But ye, pure Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;-- Let that which ever operates and lives Clasp you within the limits of its love; And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts The floating phantoms of its loveliness. [HEAVEN CLOSES; THE ARCHANGELS EXEUNT.] MEPHISTOPHELES: From time to time I visit the old fellow, And I take care to keep on good terms with Him. Civil enough is the same God Almighty, To talk so freely with the Devil himself. SCENE 2.MAY-DAY NIGHT. THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES. MEPHISTOPHELES: Would you not like a broomstick? As for me I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; For we are still far from the appointed place. FAUST: This knotted staff is help enough for me, Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good Is there in making short a pleasant way? To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs, Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, Is the true sport that seasons such a path. Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, And the hoar pines already feel her breath: Shall she not work also within our limbs? MEPHISTOPHELES: Nothing of such an influence do I feel. My body is all wintry, and I wish The flowers upon our path were frost and snow. But see how melancholy rises now, Dimly uplifting her belated beam, The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, And gives so bad a light, that every step One stumbles gainst some crag. With your permission, Ill call on Ignis-fatuus to our aid: I see one yonder burning jollily. Halloo, my friend! may I request that you Would favour us with your bright company? Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? Pray be so good as light us up this way. IGNIS-FATUUS: With reverence be it spoken, I will try To overcome the lightness of my nature; Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. MEPHISTOPHELES: Ha, ha! your worship thinks you have to deal With men. Go straight on, in the Devils name, Or I shall puff your flickering life out. IGNIS-FATUUS: Well, I see you are the master of the house; I will accommodate myself to you. Only consider that to-night this mountain Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern Shows you his way, though you should miss your own, You ought not to be too exact with him. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, AND IGNIS-FATUUS, IN ALTERNATE CHORUS: The limits of the sphere of dream, The bounds of true and false, are past. Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, Lead us onward, far and fast, To the wide, the desert waste. But see, how swift advance and shift Trees behind trees, row by row,-- How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift Their frowning foreheads as we go. The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, and how they blow! Through the mossy sods and stones, Stream and streamlet hurry down A rushing throng! A sound of song Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown! Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones Of this bright day, sent down to say That Paradise on Earth is known, Resound around, beneath, above. All we hope and all we love Finds a voice in this blithe strain, Which wakens hill and wood and rill, And vibrates far oer field and vale, And which Echo, like the tale Of old times, repeats again. To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now The sound of song, the rushing throng! Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay, All awake as if twere day? See, with long legs and belly wide, A salamander in the brake! Every root is like a snake, And along the loose hillside, With strange contortions through the night, Curls, to seize or to affright; And, animated, strong, and many, They dart forth polypus-antennae, To blister with their poison spume The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom The many-coloured mice, that thread The dewy turf beneath our tread, In troops each others motions cross, Through the heath and through the moss; And, in legions intertangled, The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng, Till all the mountain depths are spangled. Tell me, shall we go or stay? Shall we onward? Come along! Everything around is swept Forward, onward, far away! Trees and masses intercept The sight, and wisps on every side Are puffed up and multiplied. MEPHISTOPHELES: Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain This pinnacle of isolated crag. One may observe with wonder from this point, How Mammon glows among the mountains. FAUST: Ay-- And strangely through the solid depth below A melancholy light, like the red dawn, Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss Of mountains, lightning hitherward: there rise Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by; Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air, Or the illumined dust of golden flowers; And now it glides like tender colours spreading; And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth; And now it winds, one torrent of broad light, Through the far valley with a hundred veins; And now once more within that narrow corner Masses itself into intensest splendour. And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness; The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains That hems us in are kindled. MEPHISTOPHELES: Rare: in faith! Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate His palace for this festival?--it is A pleasure which you had not known before. I spy the boisterous guests already. FAUST: How The children of the wind rage in the air! With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. Beware! for if with them thou warrest In their fierce flight towards the wilderness, Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag Thy body to a grave in the abyss. A cloud thickens the night. Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest! The owls fly out in strange affright; The columns of the evergreen palaces Are split and shattered; The roots creak, and stretch, and groan; And ruinously overthrown, The trunks are crushed and shattered By the fierce blasts unconquerable stress. Over each other crack and crash they all In terrible and intertangled fall; And through the ruins of the shaken mountain The airs hiss and howl-- It is not the voice of the fountain, Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. Dost thou not hear? Strange accents are ringing Aloft, afar, anear? The witches are singing! The torrent of a raging wizard song Streams the whole mountain along. CHORUS OF WITCHES: The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, Now to the Brocken the witches go; The mighty multitude here may be seen Gathering, wizard and witch, below. Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air; Hey over stock! and hey over stone! 'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done? Tell it who dare! tell it who dare! A VOICE: Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, Old Baubo rideth alone. CHORUS: Honour her, to whom honour is due, Old mother Baubo, honour to you! An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour! The legion of witches is coming behind, Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind-- A VOICE: Which way comest thou? A VOICE: Over Ilsenstein; The owl was awake in the white moonshine; I saw her at rest in her downy nest, And she stared at me with her broad, bright eyne. VOICES: And you may now as well take your course on to Hell, Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. A VOICE: She dropped poison upon me as I passed. Here are the wounds-- CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come away! come along! The way is wide, the way is long, But what is that for a Bedlam throng? Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom. The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, And the mother is clapping her hands.-- SEMICHORUS OF WIZARDS 1: We glide in Like snails when the women are all away; And from a house once given over to sin Woman has a thousand steps to stray. SEMICHORUS 2: A thousand steps must a woman take, Where a man but a single spring will make. VOICES ABOVE: Come with us, come with us, from Felsensee. VOICES BELOW: With what joy would we fly through the upper sky! We are washed, we are nointed, stark naked are we; But our toil and our pain are forever in vain. BOTH CHORUSES: The wind is still, the stars are fled, The melancholy moon is dead; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. Come away! VOICES BELOW: Stay, Oh, stay! VOICES ABOVE: Out of the crannies of the rocks Who calls? VOICES BELOW: Oh, let me join your flocks! I, three hundred years have striven To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven,-- And still in vain. Oh, might I be With company akin to me! BOTH CHORUSES: Some on a ram and some on a prong, On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along; Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. A HALF-WITCH BELOW: I have been tripping this many an hour: Are the others already so far before? No quiet at home, and no peace abroad! And less methinks is found by the road. CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come onward, away! aroint thee, aroint! A witch to be strong must anoint--anoint-- Then every trough will be boat enough; With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky, Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly? BOTH CHORUSES: We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground; Witch-legions thicken around and around; Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. [THEY DESCEND.] MEPHISTOPHELES: What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling; What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling; What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning, As Heaven and Earth were overturning. There is a true witch element about us; Take hold on me, or we shall be divided:-- Where are you? FAUST [FROM A DISTANCE]: Here! MEPHISTOPHELES: What! I must exert my authority in the house. Place for young Voland! pray make way, good people. Take hold on me, doctor, an with one step Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd: They are too mad for people of my sort. Just there shines a peculiar kind of light-- Something attracts me in those bushes. Come This way: we shall slip down there in a minute. FAUST: Spirit of Contradiction! Well, lead on-- Twere a wise feat indeed to wander out Into the Brocken upon May-day night, And then to isolate oneself in scorn, Disgusted with the humours of the time. MEPHISTOPHELES: See yonder, round a many-coloured flame A merry club is huddled altogether: Even with such little people as sit there One would not be alone. FAUST: Would that I were Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, Where the blind million rush impetuously To meet the evil ones; there might I solve Many a riddle that torments me. MEPHISTOPHELES: Yet Many a riddle there is tied anew Inextricably. Let the great world rage! We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings. Tis an old custom. Men have ever built Their own small world in the great world of all. I see young witches naked there, and old ones Wisely attired with greater decency. Be guided now by me, and you shall buy A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. I hear them tune their instruments--one must Get used to this damned scraping. Come, Ill lead you Among them; and what there you do and see, As a fresh compact twixt us two shall be. How say you now? this space is wide enough-- Look forth, you cannot see the end of it-- An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they Who throng around them seem innumerable: Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, What is there better in the world than this? FAUST: In introducing us, do you assume The character of Wizard or of Devil? MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth, I generally go about In strict incognito; and yet one likes To wear ones orders upon gala days. I have no ribbon at my knee; but here At home, the cloven foot is honourable. See you that snail there?she comes creeping up, And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something. I could not, if I would, mask myself here. Come now, well go about from fire to fire: Ill be the Pimp, and you shall be the Lover. [TO SOME OLD WOMEN, WHO ARE SITTING ROUND A HEAP OF GLIMMERING COALS.] Old gentlewomen, what do you do out here? You ought to be with the young rioters Right in the thickest of the revelry-- But every one is best content at home. General. Who dare confide in right or a just claim? So much as I had done for them! and now-- With women and the people tis the same, Youth will stand foremost ever,--age may go To the dark grave unhonoured. MINISTER: Nowadays People assert their rights: they go too far; 280 But as for me, the good old times I praise; Then we were all in all--twas something worth Ones while to be in place and wear a star; That was indeed the golden age on earth. PARVENU: We too are active, and we did and do What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we now Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round and round, A spoke of Fortunes wheel, and keep our ground. AUTHOR: Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense And ponderous volume? tis impertinence To write what none will read, therefore will I To please the young and thoughtless people try. MEPHISTOPHELES [WHO AT ONCE APPEARS TO HAVE GROWN VERY OLD]: I find the people ripe for the last day, Since I last came up to the wizard mountain; And as my little cask runs turbid now, So is the world drained to the dregs. PEDLAR-WITCH: Look here, Gentlemen; do not hurry on so fast; And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. I have a pack full of the choicest wares Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle Is nothing like what may be found on earth; Nothing that in a moment will make rich Men and the world with fine malicious mischief-- There is no dagger drunk with blood; no bowl From which consuming poison may be drained By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel, The price of an abandoned maidens shame; No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose, Or stabs the wearers enemy in the back; No-- MEPHISTOPHELES: Gossip, you know little of these times. What has been, has been; what is done, is past, They shape themselves into the innovations They breed, and innovation drags us with it. The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: You think to impel, and are yourself impelled. FAUST: What is that yonder? MEPHISTOPHELES: Mark her well. It is Lilith. FAUST: Who? MEPHISTOPHELES: Lilith, the first wife of Adam. Beware of her fair hair, for she excels All women in the magic of her locks; And when she winds them round a young mans neck, She will not ever set him free again. FAUST: There sit a girl and an old woman--they Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. MEPHISTOPHELES: There is no rest to-night for any one: When one dance ends another is begun; Come, let us to it. We shall have rare fun. [FAUST DANCES AND SINGS WITH A GIRL, AND MEPHISTOPHELES WITH AN OLD WOMAN.] FAUST: I had once a lovely dream In which I saw an apple-tree, Where two fair apples with their gleam To climb and taste attracted me. THE GIRL: She with apples you desired From Paradise came long ago: With you I feel that if required, Such still within my garden grow. ... PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: What is this cursed multitude about? Have we not long since proved to demonstration That ghosts move not on ordinary feet? But these are dancing just like men and women. THE GIRL: What does he want then at our ball? FAUST: Oh! he Is far above us all in his conceit: Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; And any step which in our dance we tread, If it be left out of his reckoning, Is not to be considered as a step. There are few things that scandalize him not: And when you whirl round in the circle now, As he went round the wheel in his old mill, He says that you go wrong in all respects, Especially if you congratulate him Upon the strength of the resemblance. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: Fly! Vanish! Unheard-of impudence! What, still there! In this enlightened age too, since you have been Proved not to exist!--But this infernal brood Will hear no reason and endure no rule. Are we so wise, and is the POND still haunted? How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish Of superstition, and the world will not Come clean with all my pains!--it is a case Unheard of! THE GIRL: Then leave off teasing us so. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: I tell you, spirits, to your faces now, That I should not regret this despotism Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. To-night I shall make poor work of it, Yet I will take a round with you, and hope Before my last step in the living dance To beat the poet and the devil together. MEPHISTOPHELES: At last he will sit down in some foul puddle; That is his way of solacing himself; Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. [TO FAUST, WHO HAS SECEDED FROM THE DANCE.] Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance? FAUST: A red mouse in the middle of her singing Sprung from her mouth. MEPHISTOPHELES: That was all right, my friend: Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. Do not disturb your hour of happiness With close consideration of such trifles. FAUST: Then saw I-- MEPHISTOPHELES: What? FAUST: Seest thou not a pale, Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? She drags herself now forward with slow steps, And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: I cannot overcome the thought that she Is like poor Margaret. MEPHISTOPHELES: Let it be--pass on-- No good can come of it--it is not well To meet itit is an enchanted phantom, A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, It freezes up the blood of man; and they Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, Like those who saw Medusa. FAUST: Oh, too true! Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! That is the breast which Margaret yielded to me-- Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed! MEPHISTOPHELES: It is all magic, poor deluded fool! She looks to every one like his first love. FAUST: Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. How strangely does a single blood-red line, Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, Adorn her lovely neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Ay, she can carry Her head under her arm upon occasion; Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures End in delusion.Gain this rising ground, It is as airy here as in a... And if I am not mightily deceived, I see a theatre.What may this mean? ATTENDANT: Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for tis The custom now to represent that number. Tis written by a Dilettante, and The actors who perform are Dilettanti; Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish. I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Scenes From The Faust Of Goethe

137:Upon Appleton House, To My Lord Fairfax Within this sober Frame expect Work of no Forrain Architect; That unto Caves the Quarries drew, And Forrests did to Pastures hew; Who of his great Design in pain Did for a Model vault his Brain, Whose Columnes should so high be rais'd To arch the Brows that on them gaz'd. Why should of all things Man unrul'd Such unproportion'd dwellings build? The Beasts are by their Denns exprest: And Birds contrive an equal Nest; The low roof'd Tortoises do dwell In cases fit of Tortoise-shell: No Creature loves an empty space; Their Bodies measure out their Place. But He, superfluously spread, Demands more room alive then dead. And in his hollow Palace goes Where Winds as he themselves may lose. What need of all this Marble Crust T'impark the wanton Mose of Dust, That thinks by Breadth the World t'unite Though the first Builders fail'd in Height? But all things are composed here Like Nature, orderly and near: In which we the Dimensions find Of that more sober Age and Mind, When larger sized Men did stoop To enter at a narrow loop; As practising, in doors so strait, To strain themselves through Heavens Gate. And surely when the after Age Shall hither come in Pilgrimage, These sacred Places to adore, 188 By Vere and Fairfax trod before, Men will dispute how their Extent Within such dwarfish Confines went: And some will smile at this, as well As Romulus his Bee-like Cell. Humility alone designs Those short but admirable Lines, By which, ungirt and unconstrain'd, Things greater are in less contain'd. Let others vainly strive t'immure The Circle in the Quadrature! These holy Mathematics can In ev'ry Figure equal Man. Yet thus the laden House does sweat, And scarce indures the Master great: But where he comes the swelling Hall Stirs, and the Square grows Spherical; More by his Magnitude distrest, Then he is by its straitness prest: And too officiously it slights That in it self which him delights. So Honour better Lowness bears, Then That unwonted Greatness wears Height with a certain Grace does bend, But low Things clownishly ascend. And yet what needs there here Excuse, Where ev'ry Thing does answer Use? Where neatness nothing can condemn, Nor Pride invent what to contemn? A Stately Frontispice Of Poor Adorns without the open Door: Nor less the Rooms within commends Daily new Furniture Of Friends. The House was built upon the Place Only as for a Mark Of Grace; And for an Inn to entertain Its Lord a while, but not remain. 189 Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may, Or Bilbrough, better hold then they: But Nature here hath been so free As if she said leave this to me. Art would more neatly have defac'd What she had laid so sweetly wast; In fragrant Gardens, shaddy Woods, Deep Meadows, and transparent Floods. While with slow Eyes we these survey, And on each pleasant footstep stay, We opportunly may relate The progress of this Houses Fate. A Nunnery first gave it birth. For Virgin Buildings oft brought forth. And all that Neighbour-Ruine shows The Quarries whence this dwelling rose. Near to this gloomy Cloysters Gates There dwelt the blooming Virgin Thwates, Fair beyond Measure, and an Heir Which might Deformity make fair. And oft She spent the Summer Suns Discoursing with the Suttle Nuns. Whence in these Words one to her weav'd, (As 'twere by Chance) Thoughts long conceiv'd. "Within this holy leisure we "Live innocently as you see. "these Walls restrain the World without, "But hedge our Liberty about. "These Bars inclose the wider Den "Of those wild Creatures, called Men. "The Cloyster outward shuts its Gates, "And, from us, locks on them the Grates. "Here we, in shining Armour white, "Like Virgin Amazons do fight. "And our chast Lamps we hourly trim, "Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim. "Our Orient Breaths perfumed are "With insense of incessant Pray'r. 190 "And Holy-water of our Tears "Most strangly our complexion clears. "Not Tears of Grief; but such as those "With which calm Pleasure overflows; "Or Pity, when we look on you "That live without this happy Vow. "How should we grieve that must be seen "Each one a Spouse, and each a Queen; "And can in Heaven hence behold "Our brighter Robes and Crowns of Gold? "When we have prayed all our Beads, "Some One the holy Legend reads; "While all the rest with Needles paint "The Face and Graces of the Saint. "But what the Linnen can't receive "They in their Lives do interweave "This work the Saints best represents; "That serves for Altar's Ornaments. "But much it to our work would add "If here your hand, your Face we had: "By it we would our Lady touch; "Yet thus She you resembles much. "Some of your Features, as we sow'd, "Through ev'ry Shrine should be bestow'd. "And in one Beauty we would take "Enough a thousand Saints to make. "And (for I dare not quench the Fire "That me does for your good inspire) "'Twere Sacriledge a Mant t'admit "To holy things, for Heaven fit. "I see the Angels in a Crown "On you the Lillies show'ring down: "And round about you Glory breaks, "That something more then humane speaks. "All Beauty, when at such a height, "Is so already consecrate. "Fairfax I know; and long ere this 191 "Have mark'd the Youth, and what he is. "But can he such a Rival seem "For whom you Heav'n should disesteem? "Ah, no! and 'twould more Honour prove "He your Devoto were, then Love. Here live beloved, and obey'd: Each one your Sister, each your Maid. "And, if our Rule seem strictly pend, "The Rule it self to you shall bend. "Our Abbess too, now far in Age, "Doth your succession near presage. "How soft the yoke on us would lye, "Might such fair Hands as yours it tye! "Your voice, the sweetest of the Quire, "Shall draw Heav'n nearer, raise us higher. "And your Example, if our Head, "Will soon us to perfection lead. "Those Virtues to us all so dear, "Will straight grow Sanctity when here: "And that, once sprung, increase so fast "Till Miracles it work at last. "Nor is our Order yet so nice, "Delight to banish as a Vice. "Here Pleasure Piety doth meet; "One perfecting the other Sweet. "So through the mortal fruit we boyl "The Sugars uncorrupting Oyl: "And that which perisht while we pull, "Is thus preserved clear and full. "For such indeed are all our Arts; "Still handling Natures finest Parts. "Flow'rs dress the Altars; for the Clothes, "The Sea-born Amber we compose; "Balms for the griv'd we draw; and pasts "We mold, as Baits for curious tasts. "What need is here of Man? unless "These as sweet Sins we should confess. 192 "Each Night among us to your side "Appoint a fresh and Virgin Bride; "Whom if Our Lord at midnight find, "Yet Neither should be left behind. "Where you may lye as chast in Bed, "As Pearls together billeted. "All Night embracing Arm in Arm, "Like Chrystal pure with Cotton warm. "But what is this to all the store "Of Joys you see, and may make more! "Try but a while, if you be wise: "The Tryal neither Costs, nor Tyes. Now Fairfax seek her promis'd faith: Religion that dispensed hath; Which She hence forward does begin; The Nuns smooth Tongue has suckt her in. Oft, though he knew it was in vain, Yet would he valiantly complain. "Is this that Sanctity so great, "An Art by which you finly'r cheat "Hypocrite Witches, hence Avant, "Who though in prison yet inchant! "Death only can such Theeves make fast, "As rob though in the Dungeon cast. "Were there but, when this House was made, "One Stone that a just Hand had laid, "It must have fall'n upon her Head "Who first Thee from thy Faith misled. "And yet, how well soever ment, "With them 'twould soon grow fraudulent "For like themselves they alter all, "And vice infects the very Wall. "But sure those Buildings last not long, "Founded by Folly, kept by Wrong. "I know what Fruit their Gardens yield, "When they it think by Night conceal'd. "Fly from their Vices. 'Tis thy state, "Not Thee, that they would consecrate. 193 "Fly from their Ruine. How I fear "Though guiltless lest thou perish there. What should he do? He would respect Religion, but not Right neglect: For first Religion taught him Right, And dazled not but clear'd his sight. Sometimes resolv'd his Sword he draws, But reverenceth then the Laws: "For Justice still that Courage led; First from a Judge, then Souldier bred. Small Honour would be in the Storm. The Court him grants the lawful Form; Which licens'd either Peace or Force, To hinder the unjust Divorce. Yet still the Nuns his Right debar'd, Standing upon their holy Guard. Ill-counsell'd Women, do you know Whom you resist, or what you do? Is not this he whose Offspring fierce Shall fight through all the Universe; And with successive Valour try France, Poland, either Germany; Till one, as long since prophecy'd, His Horse through conquer'd Britain ride? Yet, against Fate, his Spouse they kept; And the great Race would intercept. Some to the Breach against their Foes Their Wooden Saints in vain oppose Another bolder stands at push With their old Holy-Water Brush. While the disjointed Abbess threads The gingling Chain-shot of her Beads. But their lowd'st Cannon were their Lungs; And sharpest Weapons were their Tongues. But, waving these aside like Flyes, Young Fairfax through the Wall does rise. Then th' unfrequented Vault appear'd, 194 And superstitions vainly fear'd. The Relicks False were set to view; Only the Jewels there were true. But truly bright and holy Thwaites That weeping at the Altar waites. But the glad Youth away her bears, And to the Nuns bequeaths her Tears: Who guiltily their Prize bemoan, Like Gipsies that a Child hath stoln. Thenceforth (as when th' Inchantment ends The Castle vanishes or rends) The wasting Cloister with the rest Was in one instant dispossest. At the demolishing, this Seat To Fairfax fell as by Escheat. And what both Nuns and Founders will'd 'Tis likely better thus fulfill'd, For if the Virgin prov'd not theirs, The Cloyster yet remained hers. Though many a Nun there made her vow, 'Twas no Religious-House till now. From that blest Bed the Heroe came, Whom France and Poland yet does fame: Who, when retired here to Peace, His warlike Studies could not cease; But laid these Gardens out in sport In the just Figure of a Fort; And with five Bastions it did fence, As aiming one for ev'ry Sense. When in the East the Morning Ray Hangs out the Colours of the Day, The Bee through these known Allies hums, Beating the Dian with its Drumms. Then Flow'rs their drowsie Eylids raise, Their Silken Ensigns each displayes, And dries its Pan yet dank with Dew, And fills its Flask with Odours new. 195 These, as their Governour goes by, In fragrant Vollyes they let fly; And to salute their Governess Again as great a charge they press: None for the Virgin Nymph; for She Seems with the Flow'rs a Flow'r to be. And think so still! though not compare With Breath so sweet, or Cheek so faire. Well shot ye Fireman! Oh how sweet, And round your equal Fires do meet; Whose shrill report no Ear can tell, But Ecchoes to the Eye and smell. See how the Flow'rs, as at Parade, Under their Colours stand displaid: Each Regiment in order grows, That of the Tulip Pinke and Rose. But when the vigilant Patroul Of Stars walks round about the Pole, Their Leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their Staves the Ensigns furl'd. Then in some Flow'rs beloved Hut Each Bee as Sentinel is shut; And sleeps so too: but, if once stir'd, She runs you through, or askes The Word. Oh Thou, that dear and happy Isle The Garden of the World ere while, Thou Paradise of four Seas, Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the World, did guard With watry if not flaming Sword; What luckless Apple did we tast, To make us Mortal, and The Wast. Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet Milltia restore, When Gardens only had their Towrs, And all the Garrisons were Flow'rs, When Roses only Arms might bear, And Men did rosie Garlands wear? 196 Tulips, in several Colours barr'd, Were then the Switzers of our Guard. The Gardiner had the Souldiers place, And his more gentle Forts did trace. The Nursery of all things green Was then the only Magazeen. The Winter Quarters were the Stoves, Where he the tender Plants removes. But War all this doth overgrow: We Ord'nance Plant and Powder sow. And yet their walks one on the Sod Who, had it pleased him and God, Might once have made our Gardens spring Fresh as his own and flourishing. But he preferr'd to the Cinque Ports These five imaginary Forts: And, in those half-dry Trenches, spann'd Pow'r which the Ocean might command. For he did, with his utmost Skill, Ambition weed, but Conscience till. Conscience, that Heaven-nursed Plant, Which most our Earthly Gardens want. A prickling leaf it bears, and such As that which shrinks at ev'ry touch; But Flow'rs eternal, and divine, That in the Crowns of Saints do shine. The sight does from these Bastions ply, Th' invisible Artilery; And at proud Cawood Castle seems To point the Battery of its Beams. As if it quarrell'd in the Seat Th' Ambition of its Prelate great. But ore the Meads below it plays, Or innocently seems to gaze. And now to the Abbyss I pass Of that unfathomable Grass, Where Men like Grashoppers appear, 197 But Grashoppers are Gyants there: They, in there squeking Laugh, contemn Us as we walk more low then them: And, from the Precipices tall Of the green spir's, to us do call. To see Men through this Meadow Dive, We wonder how they rise alive. As, under Water, none does know Whether he fall through it or go. But, as the Marriners that sound, And show upon their Lead the Ground, They bring up Flow'rs so to be seen, And prove they've at the Bottom been. No Scene that turns with Engines strange Does oftner then these Meadows change, For when the Sun the Grass hath vext, The tawny Mowers enter next; Who seem like Israaliies to be, Walking on foot through a green Sea. To them the Grassy Deeps divide, And crowd a Lane to either Side. With whistling Sithe, and Elbow strong, These Massacre the Grass along: While one, unknowing, carves the Rail, Whose yet unfeather'd Quils her fail. The Edge all bloody from its Breast He draws, and does his stroke detest; Fearing the Flesh untimely mow'd To him a Fate as black forebode. But bloody Thestylis, that waites To bring the mowing Camp their Cates, Greedy as Kites has trust it up, And forthwith means on it to sup: When on another quick She lights, And cryes, he call'd us Israelites; But now, to make his saying true, Rails rain for Quails, for Manna Dew. 198 Unhappy Birds! what does it boot To build below the Grasses Root; When Lowness is unsafe as Hight, And Chance o'retakes what scapeth spight? And now your Orphan Parents Call Sounds your untimely Funeral. Death-Trumpets creak in such a Note, And 'tis the Sourdine in their Throat. Or sooner hatch or higher build: The Mower now commands the Field; In whose new Traverse seemeth wrought A Camp of Battail newly fought: Where, as the Meads with Hay, the Plain Lyes quilted ore with Bodies slain: The Women that with forks it filing, Do represent the Pillaging. And now the careless Victors play, Dancing the Triumphs of the Hay; Where every Mowers wholesome Heat Smells like an Alexanders Sweat. Their Females fragrant as the Mead Which they in Fairy Circles tread: When at their Dances End they kiss, Their new-made Hay not sweeter is. When after this 'tis pil'd in Cocks, Like a calm Sea it shews the Rocks: We wondring in the River near How Boats among them safely steer. Or, like the Desert Memphis Sand, Short Pyramids of Hay do stand. And such the Roman Camps do rise In Hills for Soldiers Obsequies. This Scene again withdrawing brings A new and empty Face of things; A levell'd space, as smooth and plain, As Clothes for Lilly strecht to stain. The World when first created sure Was such a Table rase and pure. 199 Or rather such is the Toril Ere the Bulls enter at Madril. For to this naked equal Flat, Which Levellers take Pattern at, The Villagers in common chase Their Cattle, which it closer rase; And what below the Sith increast Is pincht yet nearer by the Breast. Such, in the painted World, appear'd Davenant with th'Universal Heard. They seem within the polisht Grass A landskip drawen in Looking-Glass. And shrunk in the huge Pasture show As spots, so shap'd, on Faces do. Such Fleas, ere they approach the Eye, In Multiplyiug Glasses lye. They feed so wide, so slowly move, As Constellatious do above. Then, to conclude these pleasant Acts, Denton sets ope its Cataracts; And makes the Meadow truly be (What it but seem'd before) a Sea. For, jealous of its Lords long stay, It try's t'invite him thus away. The River in it self is drown'd, And Isl's th' astonish Cattle round. Let others tell the Paradox, How Eels now bellow in the Ox; How Horses at their Tails do kick, Turn'd as they hang to Leeches quick; How Boats can over Bridges sail; And Fishes do the Stables scale. How Salmons trespassing are found; And Pikes are taken in the Pound. But I, retiring from the Flood, Take Sanctuary in the Wood; And, while it lasts, my self imbark 200 In this yet green, yet growing Ark; Where the first Carpenter might best Fit Timber for his Keel have Prest. And where all Creatures might have shares, Although in Armies, not in Paires. The double Wood of ancient Stocks Link'd in so thick, an Union locks, It like two Pedigrees appears, On one hand Fairfax, th' other Veres: Of whom though many fell in War, Yet more to Heaven shooting are: And, as they Natures Cradle deckt, Will in green Age her Hearse expect. When first the Eye this Forrest sees It seems indeed as Wood not Trees: As if their Neighbourhood so old To one great Trunk them all did mold. There the huge Bulk takes place, as ment To thrust up a Fifth Element; And stretches still so closely wedg'd As if the Night within were hedg'd. Dark all without it knits; within It opens passable and thin; And in as loose an order grows, As the Corinthean Porticoes. The Arching Boughs unite between The Columnes of the Temple green; And underneath the winged Quires Echo about their tuned Fires. The Nightingale does here make choice To sing the Tryals of her Voice. Low Shrubs she sits in, and adorns With Musick high the squatted Thorns. But highest Oakes stoop down to hear, And listning Elders prick the Ear. The Thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws Within the Skin its shrunken claws. 201 But I have for my Musick found A Sadder, yet more pleasing Sound: The Stock-doves whose fair necks are grac'd With Nuptial Rings their Ensigns chast; Yet always, for some Cause unknown, Sad pair unto the Elms they moan. O why should such a Couple mourn, That in so equal Flames do burn! Then as I carless on the Bed Of gelid Straw-berryes do tread, And through the Hazles thick espy The hatching Thrastles shining Eye, The Heron from the Ashes top, The eldest of its young lets drop, As if it Stork-like did pretend That Tribute to its Lord to send. But most the Hewel's wonders are, Who here has the Holt-felsters care. He walks still upright from the Root, Meas'ring the Timber with his Foot; And all the way, to keep it clean, Doth from the Bark the Wood-moths glean. He, with his Beak, examines well Which fit to stand and which to fell. The good he numbers up, and hacks; As if he mark'd them with the Ax. But where he, tinkling with his Beak, Does find the hollow Oak to speak, That for his building he designs, And through the tainted Side he mines. Who could have thought the tallest Oak Should fall by such a feeble Strok'! Nor would it, had the Tree not fed A Traitor-worm, within it bred. (As first our Flesh corrupt within Tempts impotent and bashful Sin. And yet that Worm triumphs not long, But serves to feed the Hewels young. 202 While the Oake seems to fall content, Viewing the Treason's Punishment. Thus I, easie Philosopher, Among the Birds and Trees confer: And little now to make me, wants Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants. Give me but Wings as they, and I Streight floting on the Air shall fly: Or turn me but, and you shall see I was but an inverted Tree. Already I begin to call In their most-learned Original: And where I Language want,my Signs The Bird upon the Bough divines; And more attentive there doth sit Then if She were with Lime-twigs knit. No Leaf does tremble in the Wind Which I returning cannot find. Out of these scatter'd Sibyls Leaves Strange Prophecies my Phancy weaves: And in one History consumes, Like Mexique Paintings, all the Plumes. What Rome, Greece, Palestine, ere said I in this light Mosaick read. Thrice happy he who, not mistook, Hath read in Natures mystick Book. And see how Chance's better Wit Could with a Mask my studies hit! The Oak-Leaves me embroyder all, Between which Caterpillars crawl: And Ivy, with familiar trails, Me licks, and clasps, and curles, and hales. Under this antick Cope I move Like some great Prelate of the Grove, Then, languishing with ease, I toss On Pallets swoln of Velvet Moss; While the Wind, cooling through the Boughs, 203 Flatters with Air my panting Brows. Thanks for my Rest ye Mossy Banks, And unto you cool Zephyr's Thanks, Who, as my Hair, my Thoughts too shed, And winnow from the Chaff my Head. How safe, methinks, and strong, behind These Trees have I incamp'd my Mind; Where Beauty, aiming at the Heart, Bends in some Tree its useless Dart; And where the World no certain Shot Can make, or me it toucheth not. But I on it securely play, And gaul its Horsemen all the Day. Bind me ye Woodbines in your 'twines, Curle me about ye gadding Vines, And Oh so close your Circles lace, That I may never leave this Place: But, lest your Fetters prove too weak, Ere I your Silken Bondage break, Do you, O Brambles, chain me too, And courteous Briars nail me though. Here in the Morning tye my Chain, Where the two Woods have made a Lane; While, like a Guard on either side, The Trees before their Lord divide; This, like a long and equal Thread, Betwixt two Labyrinths does lead. But, where the Floods did lately drown, There at the Ev'ning stake me down. For now the Waves are fal'n and dry'd, And now the Meadows fresher dy'd; Whose Grass, with moister colour dasht, Seems as green Silks but newly washt. No Serpent new nor Crocodile Remains behind our little Nile; Unless it self you will mistake, Among these Meads the only Snake. 204 See in what wanton harmless folds It ev'ry where the Meadow holds; And its yet muddy back doth lick, Till as a Chrystal Mirrour slick; Where all things gaze themselves, and doubt If they be in it or without. And for his shade which therein shines, Narcissus like, the Sun too pines. Oh what a Pleasure 'tis to hedge My Temples here with heavy sedge; Abandoning my lazy Side, Stretcht as a Bank unto the Tide; Or to suspend my sliding Foot On the Osiers undermined Root, And in its Branches tough to hang, While at my Lines the Fishes twang! But now away my Hooks, my Quills, And Angles, idle Utensils. The Young Maria walks to night: Hide trifling Youth thy Pleasures slight. 'Twere shame that such judicious Eyes Should with such Toyes a Man surprize; She that already is the Law Of all her Sex, her Ages Aw. See how loose Nature, in respect To her, it self doth recollect; And every thing so whisht and fine, Starts forth with to its Bonne Mine. The Sun himself, of Her aware, Seems to descend with greater Care, And lest She see him go to Bed, In blushing Clouds conceales his Head. So when the Shadows laid asleep From underneath these Banks do creep, And on the River as it flows With Eben Shuts begin to close; The modest Halcyon comes in sight, Flying betwixt the Day and Night; 205 And such an horror calm and dumb, Admiring Nature does benum. The viscous Air, wheres'ere She fly, Follows and sucks her Azure dy; The gellying Stream compacts below, If it might fix her shadow so; The Stupid Fishes hang, as plain As Flies in Chrystal overt'ane, And Men the silent Scene assist, Charm'd with the saphir-winged Mist. Maria such, and so doth hush The World, and through the Ev'ning rush. No new-born Comet such a Train Draws through the Skie, nor Star new-slain. For streight those giddy Rockets fail, Which from the putrid Earth exhale, But by her Flames, in Heaven try'd, Nature is wholly Vitrifi'd. 'Tis She that to these Gardens gave That wondrous Beauty which they have; She streightness on the Woods bestows; To Her the Meadow sweetness owes; Nothing could make the River be So Chrystal-pure but only She; She yet more Pure, Sweet, Streight, and Fair, Then Gardens, Woods, Meads, Rivers are. Therefore what first She on them spent, They gratefully again present. The Meadow Carpets where to tread; The Garden Flow'rs to Crown Her Head; And for a Glass the limpid Brook, Where She may all her Beautyes look; But, since She would not have them seen, The Wood about her draws a Skreen. For She, to higher Beauties rais'd, Disdains to be for lesser prais'd. She counts her Beauty to converse 206 In all the Languages as hers; Not yet in those her self imployes But for the Wisdome, not the Noyse; Nor yet that Wisdome would affect, But as 'tis Heavens Dialect. Blest Nymph! that couldst so soon prevent Those Trains by Youth against thee meant; Tears (watry Shot that pierce the Mind;) And Sighs (Loves Cannon charg'd with Wind;) True Praise (That breaks through all defence;) And feign'd complying Innocence; But knowing where this Ambush lay, She scap'd the safe, but roughest Way. This 'tis to have been from the first In a Domestick Heaven nurst, Under the Discipline severe Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere; Where not one object can come nigh But pure, and spotless as the Eye; And Goodness doth it self intail On Females, if there want a Male. Go now fond Sex that on your Face Do all your useless Study place, Nor once at Vice your Brows dare knit Lest the smooth Forehead wrinkled sit Yet your own Face shall at you grin, Thorough the Black-bag of your Skin; When knowledge only could have fill'd And Virtue all those Furows till'd. Hence She with Graces more divine Supplies beyond her Sex the Line; And, like a sprig of Misleto, On the Fairfacian Oak does grow; Whence, for some universal good, The Priest shall cut the sacred Bud; While her glad Parents most rejoice, And make their Destiny their Choice. 207 Mean time ye Fields, Springs, Bushes, Flow'rs, Where yet She leads her studious Hours, (Till Fate her worthily translates, And find a Fairfax for our Thwaites) Employ the means you have by Her, And in your kind your selves preferr; That, as all Virgins She preceds, So you all Woods, Streams, Gardens, Meads. For you Thessalian Tempe's Seat Shall now be scorn'd as obsolete; Aranjeuz, as less, disdain'd; The Bel-Retiro as constrain'd; But name not the Idalian Grove, For 'twas the Seat of wanton Love; Much less the Dead's Elysian Fields, Yet nor to them your Beauty yields. 'Tis not, what once it was, the World; But a rude heap together hurl'd; All negligently overthrown, Gulfes, Deserts, Precipices, Stone. Your lesser World contains the same. But in more decent Order tame; You Heaven's Center, Nature's Lap. And Paradice's only Map. But now the Salmon-Fishers moist Their Leathern Boats begin to hoist; And, like Antipodes in Shoes, Have shod their Heads in their Canoos. How Tortoise like, but not so slow, These rational Amphibii go? Let's in: for the dark Hemisphere Does now like one of them appear. ~ Andrew Marvell

138:TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) I. How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-wingd fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a wingd Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way And that is dead.O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsonsbut she matches Peter, Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. I. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learnd rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. II. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. III. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-wingd moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. IV. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent The sea-deserted sand -- like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. V. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty -- deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof -- her hair Darkthe dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. VI. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved -- all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, Such gentleness and power even to behold. VII. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. VIII. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. IX. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone, And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. X. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, All came, much wondering how the enwombd rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth; Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. XI. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,and lumps neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. XII. For she was beautifulher beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. XIII. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; And with these threads a subtle veil she wove A shadow for the splendour of her love. XIV. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasuressounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never dieyet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. XV. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss It was its work to bear to many a saint Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's -- and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapesand each was at her beck. XVI. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy. They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. XVII. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreamsor if eyes needs must weep, Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. XVIII. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage Of gold and bloodtill men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; XIX. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; Time, earth, and firethe ocean and the wind, And all their shapes -- and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Lovelet the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. XX. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone In their own golden beams -- each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. XXI. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon. XXII. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarld heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence -- each a satellite. XXIII. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew Will be consumedthe stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. XXIV. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one; If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun Shall smile on your decay -- oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must -- over me Your leaves shall glance -- the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so -- farewell!'-- XXV. She spoke and wept:the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. XXVI. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heavenand ever she Added some grace to the wrought poesy. XXVII. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. XXVIII. This lady never slept, but lay in trance All night within the fountain -- as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies -- and withal did ever keep The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. XXIX. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson firefull even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. XXX. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns -- the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. XXXI. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat Which ever upon mortal stream did float. XXXII. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. XXXIII. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veind fan-- Of which Love scooped this boat -- and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. XXXIV. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a wingd thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. XXXV. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love -- all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity. XXXVII. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. XXXVIII. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. XXXIX. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. XL. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. XLI. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:mortal boat In such a shallow rapid could not float. XLII. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear A subterranean portal for the river, It fledthe circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. XLIII. And when the wizard lady would ascend The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend She called 'Hermaphroditus!'and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. XLIV. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingd minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. XLV. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vansand speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. XLVI. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel The swift and steady motion of the keel. XLVII. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, XLVIII. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: XLIX. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. L. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke -- this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- LI. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, To journey from the misty east began. LII. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits In mighty legions, million after million, They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. LIII. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk -- cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. LIV. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of ary dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence -- and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. LV. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beakd cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air; -- oft-time Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. LVI. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. LVII. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axum, until he spreads, Like a calm flock of silver-fleecd sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. LVIII. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms -- within the brazen doors Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. LIX. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased -- but tremble ever Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. LX. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind, Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. LXI. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linkd innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. LXII. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, She saw the priests asleepall of one sort-- For all were educated to be so. The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits -- to her eyes The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. LXVIII. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady -- like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand coversall his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak What'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed -- alas, how many kiss the same! LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares; -- in a band The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy -- till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart -- a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, ed. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mary first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino -- a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lsasitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes -- wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Witch Of Atlas

139:BOOK THE FOURTH The Story of Alcithoe and her Sisters Yet still Alcithoe perverse remains, And Bacchus still, and all his rites, disdains. Too rash, and madly bold, she bids him prove Himself a God, nor owns the son of Jove. Her sisters too unanimous agree, Faithful associates in impiety. Be this a solemn feast, the priest had said; Be, with each mistress, unemploy'd each maid. With skins of beasts your tender limbs enclose, And with an ivy-crown adorn your brows, The leafy Thyrsus high in triumph bear, And give your locks to wanton in the air. These rites profan'd, the holy seer foreshow'd A mourning people, and a vengeful God. Matrons and pious wives obedience show, Distaffs, and wooll, half spun, away they throw: Then incense burn, and, Bacchus, thee adore, Or lov'st thou Nyseus, or Lyaeus more? O! doubly got, O! doubly born, they sung, Thou mighty Bromius, hail, from light'ning sprung! Hail, Thyon, Eleleus! each name is thine: Or, listen parent of the genial vine! Iachus! Evan! loudly they repeat, And not one Grecian attri bute forget, Which to thy praise, great Deity, belong, Stil'd justly Liber in the Roman song. Eternity of youth is thine! enjoy Years roul'd on years, yet still a blooming boy. In Heav'n thou shin'st with a superior grace; Conceal thy horns, and 'tis a virgin's face. Thou taught'st the tawny Indian to obey, And Ganges, smoothly flowing, own'd thy sway. Lycurgus, Pentheus, equally profane, By thy just vengeance equally were slain. By thee the Tuscans, who conspir'd to keep Thee captive, plung'd, and cut with finns the deep. With painted reins, all-glitt'ring from afar, The spotted lynxes proudly draw thy car. Around, the Bacchae, and the satyrs throng; Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along: On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride. Still at thy near approach, applauses loud Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd. Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries, Swell up in sounds confus'd, and rend the skies. Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore, And act thy sacred orgies o'er and o'er. But Mineus' daughters, while these rites were pay'd, At home, impertinently busie, stay'd. Their wicked tasks they ply with various art, And thro' the loom the sliding shuttle dart; Or at the fire to comb the wooll they stand, Or twirl the spindle with a dext'rous hand. Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in; Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin. At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew To draw nice threads, and winde the finest clue, While others idly rove, and Gods revere, Their fancy'd Gods! they know not who, or where; Let us, whom Pallas taught her better arts, Still working, cheer with mirthful chat our hearts, And to deceive the time, let me prevail With each by turns to tell some antique tale. She said: her sisters lik'd the humour well, And smiling, bad her the first story tell. But she a-while profoundly seem'd to muse, Perplex'd amid variety to chuse: And knew not, whether she should first relate The poor Dircetis, and her wond'rous fate. The Palestines believe it to a man, And show the lake, in which her scales began. Or if she rather should the daughter sing, Who in the hoary verge of life took wing; Who soar'd from Earth, and dwelt in tow'rs on high, And now a dove she flits along the sky. Or how lewd Nais, when her lust was cloy'd, To fishes turn'd the youths, she had enjoy'd, By pow'rful verse, and herbs; effect most strange! At last the changer shar'd herself the change. Or how the tree, which once white berries bore, Still crimson bears, since stain'd with crimson gore. The tree was new; she likes it, and begins To tell the tale, and as she tells, she spins. The Story of Pyramus and Thisbe In Babylon, where first her queen, for state Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great, Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair! He found no eastern youth his equal there, And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair. A closer neighbourhood was never known, Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one. Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love: Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad, What parents could not hinder, they forbad. For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd, And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd. Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break, But silent stand; and silent looks can speak. The fire of love the more it is supprest, The more it glows, and rages in the breast. When the division-wall was built, a chink Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink. So slight the cranny, that it still had been For centuries unclos'd, because unseen. But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies, Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes? Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found A friendly passage for a trackless sound. Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys, In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise, By turns to catch each other's breath they strove, And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love. Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd, Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide! Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place To lock, and fasten in a close embrace: But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss, Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss. We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know, This safe conveyance of our minds we owe. Thus they their vain petition did renew 'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu. But first they strove to kiss, and that was all; Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall. Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd, And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd, The lovers to their well-known place return, Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn. At last their parents they resolve to cheat (If to deceive in love be call'd deceit), To steal by night from home, and thence unknown To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town. But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark, They both agree to fix upon a mark; A mark, that could not their designs expose: The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose. There they might rest secure beneath the shade, Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made: A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took Just on the margin of a gurgling brook. Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay; And chide the slowness of departing day; In western seas down sunk at last the light, From western seas up-rose the shades of night. The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour, With cautious silence she unlocks the door, And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb. For still the fearful sex can fearless prove; Boldly they act, if spirited by love. When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain, Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain: And what to the dire sight new horrors brought, To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she sought. Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies, Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she flies; And in a cave recovers from her fright, But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight. When sated with repeated draughts, again The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain, She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er, With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore. The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon, Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon Some savage feet, new printed on the ground, His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found; But when, advancing on, the veil he spied Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried, One night shall death to two young lovers give, But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live! 'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd, Who came not early, as my charming maid. Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain, I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain. Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair, Pity the wretch, this impious body tear! But cowards thus for death can idly cry; The brave still have it in their pow'r to die. Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away, The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay: The veil all rent yet still it self endears, He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears. Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain, Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain. Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd, And fell supine, extended on the ground. As out again the blade lie dying drew, Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew. So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw, Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw: Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high, And a new fountain plays amid the sky. The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show A dark complexion, and forgot their snow; While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit. Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd, Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid. Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to find With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind. Already in his arms, she hears him sigh At her destruction, which was once so nigh. The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew, The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue. Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground. She started back, the red her cheeks forsook, And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook. So trembles the smooth surface of the seas, If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze. But when her view her bleeding love confest, She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her breast. She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round, And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound. Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd, And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd! My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate? My Pyramus!- ah! speak, ere 'tis too late. I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore, One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before. At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd. The fatal cause was now at last explor'd, Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword: From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found, She said, but love first taught that hand to wound, Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show, And love, which shall as true direct the blow. I will against the woman's weakness strive, And never thee, lamented youth, survive. The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death, But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath. Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain, Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain. Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r; My pray'r to offer for us both I dare; Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd, Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd. The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request; Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest. Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid, Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade. Still let our loves from thee be understood, Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood. She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword, All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord. The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd, Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard. The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled, And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red: While both their parents their lost children mourn, And mix their ashes in one golden urn. Thus did the melancholy tale conclude, And a short, silent interval ensu'd. The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue, And drew attentive all the sister-throng. The Story of Leucothoe and the Sun The Sun, the source of light, by beauty's pow'r Once am'rous grew; then hear the Sun's amour. Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes This God first spy'd; this God first all things spies. Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent, To haughty Juno's shapeless son he went: The Goddess, and her God gallant betray'd, And told the cuckold, where their pranks were play'd. Poor Vulcan soon desir'd to hear no more, He drop'd his hammer, and he shook all o'er: Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire: From liquid brass, tho' sure, yet subtile snares He forms, and next a wond'rous net prepares, Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly, Unseen the mashes cheat the searching eye. Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave, Which the most wary, buzzing prey deceive. These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread In secret foldings o'er the conscious bed: The conscious bed again was quickly prest By the fond pair, in lawless raptures blest. Mars wonder'd at his Cytherea's charms, More fast than ever lock'd within her arms. While Vulcan th' iv'ry doors unbarr'd with care, Then call'd the Gods to view the sportive pair: The Gods throng'd in, and saw in open day, Where Mars, and beauty's queen, all naked, lay. O! shameful sight, if shameful that we name, Which Gods with envy view'd, and could not blame; But, for the pleasure, wish'd to bear the shame. Each Deity, with laughter tir'd, departs, Yet all still laugh'd at Vulcan in their hearts. Thro' Heav'n the news of this surprizal run, But Venus did not thus forget the Sun. He, who stol'n transports idly had betray'd, By a betrayer was in kind repay'd. What now avails, great God, thy piercing blaze, That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays? Thou, who can'st warm this universe alone, Feel'st now a warmth more pow'rful than thy own: And those bright eyes, which all things should survey, Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray. The lamp of light, for human good design'd, Is to one virgin niggardly confin'd. Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams, Sometimes too late they set in western streams: 'Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays, And gives to winter skies long summer days. Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears, And spreads thro' impious nations empty fears: For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night, Poor mortals tremble in despair of light. 'Tis not the moon, that o'er thee casts a veil 'Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale. Leucothoe is grown thy only care, Not Phaeton's fair mother now is fair. The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought, And beauteous Porsa is at last forgot. Fond Clytie, scorn'd, yet lov'd, and sought thy bed, Ev'n then thy heart for other virgins bled. Leucothoe has all thy soul possest, And chas'd each rival passion from thy breast. To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth In the blest confines of the spicy Earth. Excelling others, she herself beheld By her own blooming daughter far excell'd. The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command, The sev'nth from Belus, rul'd the Persian Land. Deep in cool vales, beneath th' Hesperian sky, For the Sun's fiery steeds the pastures lye. Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain New vigour, and their daily toils sustain. While thus on heav'nly food the coursers fed, And night, around, her gloomy empire spread, The God assum'd the mother's shape and air, And pass'd, unheeded, to his darling fair. Close by a lamp, with maids encompass'd round, The royal spinster, full employ'd, he found: Then cry'd, A-while from work, my daughter, rest; And, like a mother, scarce her lips he prest. Servants retire!- nor secrets dare to hear, Intrusted only to a daughter's ear. They swift obey'd: not one, suspicious, thought The secret, which their mistress would be taught. Then he: since now no witnesses are near, Behold! the God, who guides the various year! The world's vast eye, of light the source serene, Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen. Believe me, nymph! (for I the truth have show'd) Thy charms have pow'r to charm so great a God. Confus'd, she heard him his soft passion tell, And on the floor, untwirl'd, the spindle fell: Still from the sweet confusion some new grace Blush'd out by stealth, and languish'd in her face. The lover, now inflam'd, himself put on, And out at once the God, all-radiant, shone. The virgin startled at his alter'd form, Too weak to bear a God's impetuous storm: No more against the dazling youth she strove, But silent yielded, and indulg'd his love. This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone, Whose soul was fix'd, and doated on the Sun. She rag'd to think on her neglected charms, And Phoebus, panting in another's arms. With envious madness fir'd, she flies in haste, And tells the king, his daughter was unchaste. The king, incens'd to hear his honour stain'd, No more the father nor the man retain'd. In vain she stretch'd her arms, and turn'd her eyes To her lov'd God, th' enlightner of the skies. In vain she own'd it was a crime, yet still It was a crime not acted by her will. The brutal sire stood deaf to ev'ry pray'r, And deep in Earth entomb'd alive the fair. What Phoebus could do, was by Phoebus done: Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone: To pointed beams the gaping Earth gave way; Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day, But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay. Not more the God wept, when the world was fir'd, And in the wreck his blooming boy expir'd. The vital flame he strives to light again, And warm the frozen blood in ev'ry vein: But since resistless Fates deny'd that pow'r, On the cold nymph he rain'd a nectar show'r. Ah! undeserving thus (he said) to die, Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky. The body soon dissolv'd, and all around Perfum'd with heav'nly fragrancies the ground, A sacrifice for Gods up-rose from thence, A sweet, delightful tree of frankincense. The Transformation of Clytie Tho' guilty Clytie thus the sun betray'd, By too much passion she was guilty made. Excess of love begot excess of grief, Grief fondly bad her hence to hope relief. But angry Phoebus hears, unmov'd, her sighs, And scornful from her loath'd embraces flies. All day, all night, in trackless wilds, alone She pin'd, and taught the list'ning rocks her moan. On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare, Loose her attire, dishevel'd is her hair. Nine times the morn unbarr'd the gates of light, As oft were spread th' alternate shades of night, So long no sustenance the mourner knew, Unless she drunk her tears, or suck'd the dew. She turn'd about, but rose not from the ground, Turn'd to the Sun, still as he roul'd his round: On his bright face hung her desiring eyes, 'Till fix'd to Earth, she strove in vain to rise. Her looks their paleness in a flow'r retain'd, But here, and there, some purple streaks they gain'd. Still the lov'd object the fond leafs pursue, Still move their root, the moving Sun to view, And in the Heliotrope the nymph is true. The sisters heard these wonders with surprise, But part receiv'd them as romantick lies; And pertly rally'd, that they could not see In Pow'rs divine so vast an energy. Part own'd, true Gods such miracles might do, But own'd not Bacchus, one among the true. At last a common, just request they make, And beg Alcithoe her turn to take. I will (she said) and please you, if I can. Then shot her shuttle swift, and thus began. The fate of Daphnis is a fate too known, Whom an enamour'd nymph transform'd to stone, Because she fear'd another nymph might see The lovely youth, and love as much as she: So strange the madness is of jealousie! Nor shall I tell, what changes Scython made, And how he walk'd a man, or tripp'd a maid. You too would peevish frown, and patience want To hear, how Celmis grew an adamant. He once was dear to Jove, and saw of old Jove, when a child; but what he saw, he told. Crocus, and Smilax may be turn'd to flow'rs, And the Curetes spring from bounteous show'rs; I pass a hundred legends stale, as these, And with sweet novelty your taste will please. The Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. The Naids nurst an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore: From both th' illustrious authors of his race The child was nam'd, nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents thro' the infant's face. When fifteen years in Ida's cool retreat The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil, With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost, A river here he view'd so lovely bright, It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight. The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with chearful verdure crown'd, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, not practis'd in the chace, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, wou'd cry, "Fie Salmacis: what, always idle! fie. Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would ba the her in the chrystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she views her face, And drest her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, Now gather'd flow'rs that grew about her streams, And then by chance was gathering, as he stood To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd. Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserv'd to be reputed fair. "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove A God, and, if a God, the God of love; But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest: But oh how blest! how more than blest thy bride, Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd. If so, let mine the stoln enjoyments be; If not, behold a willing bride in me." The boy knew nought of love, and toucht with shame, He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became: In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Or leave me to my self alone, You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone." "Fair stranger then," says she, "it shall be so"; And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go: But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lillies shut within a chrystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. He's mine, he's all my own, the Naid cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipt, and kist the strugling boy. So when the wrigling snake is snatcht on high In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and wriths about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refus'd her love. Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join'd! Oh may we never, never part again!" So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; 'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces join'd, As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd. (He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone, Surpriz'd to hear a voice but half his own.) You parent-Gods, whose heav'nly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my pray'r; Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, If man he enter'd, he may rise again Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man! The heav'nly parents answer'd from on high, Their two-shap'd son, the double votary Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And ting'd its source to make his wishes good. Alcithoe and her Sisters transform'd to Bats But Mineus' daughters still their tasks pursue, To wickedness most obstinately true: At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around, Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound. Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed, And now the present deity they dread. Strange to relate! Here ivy first was seen, Along the distaff crept the wond'rous green. Then sudden-springing vines began to bloom, And the soft tendrils curl'd around the loom: While purple clusters, dangling from on high, Ting'd the wrought purple with a second die. Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light, The day declining to the bounds of night. The fabrick's firm foundations shake all o'er, False tigers rage, and figur'd lions roar. Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air, And angry flashes of red light'nings glare. To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun, Swift the pale sisters in confusion run. Their arms were lost in pinions, as they fled, And subtle films each slender limb o'er-spread. Their alter'd forms their senses soon reveal'd; Their forms, how alter'd, darkness still conceal'd. Close to the roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs, Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings. They strove for words; their little bodies found No words, but murmur'd in a fainting sound. In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight, And, never, 'till the dusk, begin their flight; 'Till Vesper rises with his ev'ning flame; From whom the Romans have deriv'd their name. The Transformation of Ino and Melicerta to Sea-Gods The pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown: With awful rev'rence soon the God they own. Proud Ino, all around the wonder tells, And on her nephew deity still dwells. Of num'rous sisters, she alone yet knew No grief, but grief, which she from sisters drew. Imperial Juno saw her with disdain, Vain in her offspring, in her consort vain, Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a nod, But saw her vainest in her foster-God. Could then (she cry'd) a bastard-boy have pow'r To make a mother her own son devour? Could he the Tuscan crew to fishes change, And now three sisters damn to forms so strange? Yet shall the wife of Jove find no relief? Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her grief? Have I the mighty freedom to complain? Is that my pow'r? is that to ease my pain? A foe has taught me vengeance; and who ought To scorn that vengeance, which a foe has taught? What sure destruction frantick rage can throw, The gaping wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show. Why should not Ino, fir'd with madness, stray, Like her mad sisters her own kindred slay? Why, she not follow, where they lead the way? Down a steep, yawning cave, where yews display'd In arches meet, and lend a baleful shade, Thro' silent labyrinths a passage lies To mournful regions, and infernal skies. Here Styx exhales its noisome clouds, and here, The fun'ral rites once paid, all souls appear. Stiff cold, and horror with a ghastly face And staring eyes, infest the dreary place. Ghosts, new-arriv'd, and strangers to these plains, Know not the palace, where grim Pluto reigns. They journey doubtful, nor the road can tell, Which leads to the metropolis of Hell. A thousand avenues those tow'rs command, A thousand gates for ever open stand. As all the rivers, disembogu'd, find room For all their waters in old Ocean's womb: So this vast city worlds of shades receives, And space for millions still of worlds she leaves. Th' unbody'd spectres freely rove, and show Whate'er they lov'd on Earth, they love below. The lawyers still, or right, or wrong, support, The courtiers smoothly glide to Pluto's court. Still airy heroes thoughts of glory fire, Still the dead poet strings his deathless lyre, And lovers still with fancy'd darts expire. The Queen of Heaven, to gratify her hate, And sooth immortal wrath, forgets her state. Down from the realms of day, to realms of night, The Goddess swift precipitates her flight. At Hell arriv'd, the noise Hell's porter heard, Th' enormous dog his triple head up-rear'd: Thrice from three grizly throats he howl'd profound, Then suppliant couch'd, and stretch'd along the ground. The trembling threshold, which Saturnia prest, The weight of such divinity confest. Before a lofty, adamantine gate, Which clos'd a tow'r of brass, the Furies sate: Mis-shapen forms, tremendous to the sight, Th' implacable foul daughters of the night. A sounding whip each bloody sister shakes, Or from her tresses combs the curling snakes. But now great Juno's majesty was known; Thro' the thick gloom, all heav'nly bright, she shone: The hideous monsters their obedience show'd, And rising from their seats, submissive bow'd. This is the place of woe, here groan the dead; Huge Tityus o'er nine acres here is spread. Fruitful for pain th' immortal liver breeds, Still grows, and still th' insatiate vulture feeds. Poor Tantalus to taste the water tries, But from his lips the faithless water flies: Then thinks the bending tree he can command, The tree starts backwards, and eludes his hand. The labour too of Sisyphus is vain, Up the steep mount he heaves the stone with pain, Down from the summet rouls the stone again. The Belides their leaky vessels still Are ever filling, and yet never fill: Doom'd to this punishment for blood they shed, For bridegrooms slaughter'd in the bridal bed. Stretch'd on the rolling wheel Ixion lies; Himself he follows, and himself he flies. Ixion, tortur'd, Juno sternly ey'd, Then turn'd, and toiling Sisyphus espy'd: And why (she said) so wretched is the fate Of him, whose brother proudly reigns in state? Yet still my altars unador'd have been By Athamas, and his presumptuous queen. What caus'd her hate, the Goddess thus confest, What caus'd her journey now was more than guest. That hate, relentless, its revenge did want, And that revenge the Furies soon could grant: They could the glory of proud Thebes efface, And hide in ruin the Cadmean race. For this she largely promises, entreats, And to intreaties adds imperial threats. Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung, And from her mouth th' untwisted serpents flung. To gain this trifling boon, there is no need (She cry'd) in formal speeches to proceed. Whatever thou command'st to do, is done; Believe it finish'd, tho' not yet begun. But from these melancholly seats repair To happier mansions, and to purer air. She spoke: the Goddess, darting upwards, flies, And joyous re-ascends her native skies: Nor enter'd there, till 'round her Iris threw Ambrosial sweets, and pour'd celestial dew. The faithful Fury, guiltless of delays, With cruel haste the dire comm and obeys. Girt in a bloody gown, a torch she shakes, And round her neck twines speckled wreaths of snakes. Fear, and dismay, and agonizing pain, With frantick rage, compleat her loveless train. To Thebes her flight she sped, and Hell forsook; At her approach the Theban turrets shook: The sun shrunk back, thick clouds the day o'er-cast, And springing greens were wither'd as she past. Now, dismal yellings heard, strange spectres seen, Confound as much the monarch as the queen. In vain to quit the palace they prepar'd, Tisiphone was there, and kept the ward. She wide extended her unfriendly arms, And all the Fury lavish'd all her harms. Part of her tresses loudly hiss, and part Spread poyson, as their forky tongues they dart. Then from her middle locks two snakes she drew, Whose merit from superior mischief grew: Th' envenom'd ruin, thrown with spiteful care, Clung to the bosoms of the hapless pair. The hapless pair soon with wild thoughts were fir'd, And madness, by a thousand ways inspir'd. 'Tis true, th' unwounded body still was sound, But 'twas the soul which felt the deadly wound. Nor did th' unsated monster here give o'er, But dealt of plagues a fresh, unnumber'd store. Each baneful juice too well she understood, Foam, churn'd by Cerberus, and Hydra's blood. Hot hemlock, and cold aconite she chose, Delighted in variety of woes. Whatever can untune th' harmonious soul, And its mild, reas'ning faculties controul, Give false ideas, raise desires profane, And whirl in eddies the tumultuous brain, Mix'd with curs'd art, she direfully around Thro' all their nerves diffus'd the sad compound. Then toss'd her torch in circles still the same, Improv'd their rage, and added flame to flame. The grinning Fury her own conquest spy'd, And to her rueful shades return'd with pride, And threw th' exhausted, useless snakes aside. Now Athamas cries out, his reason fled, Here, fellow-hunters, let the toils be spread. I saw a lioness, in quest of food, With her two young, run roaring in this wood. Again the fancy'd savages were seen, As thro' his palace still he chac'd his queen; Then tore Learchus from her breast: the child Stretch'd little arms, and on its father smil'd: A father now no more, who now begun Around his head to whirl his giddy son, And, quite insensible to Nature's call, The helpless infant flung against the wall. The same mad poyson in the mother wrought, Young Melicerta in her arms she caught, And with disorder'd tresses, howling, flies, O! Bacchus, Evoe, Bacchus! loud she cries. The name of Bacchus Juno laugh'd to hear, And said, Thy foster-God has cost thee dear. A rock there stood, whose side the beating waves Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into caves. The head shot forwards in a bending steep, And cast a dreadful covert o'er the deep. The wretched Ino, on destruction bent, Climb'd up the cliff; such strength her fury lent: Thence with her guiltless boy, who wept in vain, At one bold spring she plung'd into the main. Her neice's fate touch'd Cytherea's breast, And in soft sounds she Neptune thus addrest: Great God of waters, whose extended sway Is next to his, whom Heav'n and Earth obey: Let not the suit of Venus thee displease, Pity the floaters on th' Ionian seas. Encrease thy Subject-Gods, nor yet disdain To add my kindred to that glorious train. If from the sea I may such honours claim, If 'tis desert, that from the sea I came, As Grecian poets artfully have sung, And in the name confest, from whence I sprung. Pleas'd Neptune nodded his assent, and free Both soon became from frail mortality. He gave them form, and majesty divine, And bad them glide along the foamy brine. For Melicerta is Palaemon known, And Ino once, Leucothoe is grown. The Transformation of the Theban Matrons The Theban matrons their lov'd queen pursu'd, And tracing to the rock, her footsteps view'd. Too certain of her fate, they rend the skies With piteous shrieks, and lamentable cries. All beat their breasts, and Juno all upbraid, Who still remember'd a deluded maid: Who, still revengeful for one stol'n embrace, Thus wreak'd her hate on the Cadmean race. This Juno heard: And shall such elfs, she cry'd, Dispute my justice, or my pow'r deride? You too shall feel my wrath not idly spent; A Goddess never for insults was meant. She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been, Said, Not the waves shall part me from my queen. She strove to plunge into the roaring flood; Fix'd to the stone, a stone her self she stood. This, on her breast would fain her blows repeat, Her stiffen'd hands refus'd her breast to beat. That, stretch'd her arms unto the seas; in vain Her arms she labour'd to unstretch again. To tear her comely locks another try'd, Both comely locks, and fingers petryfi'd. Part thus; but Juno with a softer mind Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd kind. Transform'd, the name of Theban birds they keep, And skim the surface of that fatal deep. Cadmus and his Queen transform'd to Serpents Mean-time, the wretched Cadmus mourns, nor knows, That they who mortal fell, immortal rose. With a long series of new ills opprest, He droops, and all the man forsakes his breast. Strange prodigies confound his frighted eyes; From the fair city, which he rais'd, he flies: As if misfortune not pursu'd his race, But only hung o'er that devoted place. Resolv'd by sea to seek some distant land, At last he safely gain'd th' Illyrian strand. Chearless himself, his consort still he chears, Hoary, and loaden'd both with woes and years. Then to recount past sorrows they begin, And trace them to the gloomy origin. That serpent sure was hallow'd, Cadmus cry'd, Which once my spear transfix'd with foolish pride; When the big teeth, a seed before unknown, By me along the wond'ring glebe were sown, And sprouting armies by themselves o'erthrown. If thence the wrath of Heav'n on me is bent, May Heav'n conclude it with one sad event; To an extended serpent change the man: And while he spoke, the wish'd-for change began. His skin with sea-green spots was vary'd 'round, And on his belly prone he prest the ground. He glitter'd soon with many a golden scale, And his shrunk legs clos'd in a spiry tail. Arms yet remain'd, remaining arms he spread To his lov'd wife, and human tears yet shed. Come, my Harmonia, come, thy face recline Down to my face; still touch, what still is mine. O! let these hands, while hands, be gently prest, While yet the serpent has not all possest. More he had spoke, but strove to speak in vain, The forky tongue refus'd to tell his pain, And learn'd in hissings only to complain. Then shriek'd Harmonia, Stay, my Cadmus, stay, Glide not in such a monstrous shape away! Destruction, like impetuous waves, rouls on. Where are thy feet, thy legs, thy shoulders gone? Chang'd is thy visage, chang'd is all thy frame; Cadmus is only Cadmus now in name. Ye Gods, my Cadmus to himself restore, Or me like him transform; I ask no more. The husband-serpent show'd he still had thought, With wonted fondness an embrace he sought; Play'd 'round her neck in many a harmless twist, And lick'd that bosom, which, a man, he kist. The lookers-on (for lookers-on there were) Shock'd at the sight, half-dy'd away with fear. The transformation was again renew'd, And, like the husband, chang'd the wife they view'd. Both, serpents now, with fold involv'd in fold, To the next covert amicably roul'd. There curl'd they lie, or wave along the green, Fearless see men, by men are fearless seen, Still mild, and conscious what they once have been. The Story of Perseus Yet tho' this harsh, inglorious fate they found, Each in the deathless grandson liv'd renown'd. Thro' conquer'd India Bacchus nobly rode, And Greece with temples hail'd the conqu'ring God. In Argos only proud Acrisius reign'd, Who all the consecrated rites profan'd. Audacious wretch! thus Bacchus to deny, And the great Thunderer's great son defie! Nor him alone: thy daughter vainly strove, Brave Perseus of celestial stem to prove, And her self pregnant by a golden Jove. Yet this was true, and truth in time prevails; Acrisius now his unbelief bewails. His former thought, an impious thought he found, And both the heroe, and the God were own'd. He saw, already one in Heav'n was plac'd, And one with more than mortal triumphs grac'd, The victor Perseus with the Gorgon-head, O'er Libyan sands his airy journey sped. The gory drops distill'd, as swift he flew, And from each drop envenom'd serpents grew, The mischiefs brooded on the barren plains, And still th' unhappy fruitfulness remains. Atlas transform'd to a Mountain Thence Perseus, like a cloud, by storms was driv'n, Thro' all th' expanse beneath the cope of Heaven. The jarring winds unable to controul, He saw the southern, and the northern pole: And eastward thrice, and westward thrice was whirl'd, And from the skies survey'd the nether world. But when grey ev'ning show'd the verge of night, He fear'd in darkness to pursue his flight. He pois'd his pinions, and forgot to soar, And sinking, clos'd them on th' Hesperian shore: Then beg'd to rest, 'till Lucifer begun To wake the morn, the morn to wake the sun. Here Atlas reign'd, of more than human size, And in his kingdom the world's limit lies. Here Titan bids his weary'd coursers sleep, And cools the burning axle in the deep. The mighty monarch, uncontrol'd, alone, His sceptre sways: no neighb'ring states are known. A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed, A thousand herds o'er grassy plains were spread. Here wond'rous trees their shining stores unfold, Their shining stores too wond'rous to be told, Their leafs, their branches, and their apples, gold. Then Perseus the gigantick prince addrest, Humbly implor'd a hospitable rest. If bold exploits thy admiration fire, He said, I fancy, mine thou wilt admire. Or if the glory of a race can move, Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove. At this confession Atlas ghastly star'd, Mindful of what an oracle declar'd, That the dark womb of Time conceal'd a day, Which should, disclos'd, the bloomy gold betray: All should at once be ravish'd from his eyes, And Jove's own progeny enjoy the prize. For this, the fruit he loftily immur'd, And a fierce dragon the strait pass secur'd. For this, all strangers he forbad to land, And drove them from th' inhospitable strand. To Perseus then: Fly quickly, fly this coast, Nor falsly dare thy acts and race to boast. In vain the heroe for one night entreats, Threat'ning he storms, and next adds force to threats. By strength not Perseus could himself defend, For who in strength with Atlas could contend? But since short rest to me thou wilt not give, A gift of endless rest from me receive, He said, and backward turn'd, no more conceal'd The present, and Medusa's head reveal'd. Soon the high Atlas a high mountain stood, His locks, and beard became a leafy wood. His hands, and shoulders, into ridges went, The summit-head still crown'd the steep ascent. His bones a solid, rocky hardness gain'd: He, thus immensely grown (as fate ordain'd), The stars, the Heav'ns, and all the Gods sustain'd. Andromeda rescu'd from the Sea Monster Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd, And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind, The rising Phospher with a purple light Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite. His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes, And his keen sabre in his hand resumes: Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs, And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings. O'er various seas, and various lands he past, 'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last. Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone By her own ruin follies not her own: And if injustice in a God can be, Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree. Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid. So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine, She seem'd a statue by a hand divine, Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd, And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd. Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires; The more he looks, the more he still admires. Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly, And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high. O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove, But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love; Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose, And give a true rehearsal of thy woes. A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd, To the free converse of a man unus'd. Her rising blushes had concealment found From her spread hands, but that her hands were bound. She acted to her full extent of pow'r, And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r. But by degrees in innocence grown bold, Her name, her country, and her birth she told: And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride, Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd. Part yet untold, the seas began to roar, And mounting billows tumbled to the shore. Above the waves a monster rais'd his head, His body o'er the deep was widely spread: Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries; Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies: But she had deepest cause to rend the skies. Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears Of help, they only lend their helpless tears. Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said, Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid, In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold, Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold. Medusa's snaky head is now my prey, And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way. If such desert be worthy of esteem, And, if your daughter I from death redeem, Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought, A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought? For her my arms I willingly employ, If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy. The parents eagerly the terms embrace: For who would slight such terms in such a case? Nor her alone they promise, but beside, The dowry of a kingdom with the bride. As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating, row, With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough; So when the monster mov'd, still at his back The furrow'd waters left a foamy track. Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh, Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly. Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung, And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung. His shadow quickly floated on the main; The monster could not his wild rage restrain, But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain. As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies, Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies, Unseen, he souses down, and bears away, Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey. To writh his neck the labour nought avails, Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales. Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars, And at his pleasure the vast monster gores. Full in his back, swift stooping from above, The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove. The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain, First bounded high, and then sunk low again. Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds, And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds, He on the foe turns with collected might, Who still eludes him with an airy flight; And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies: 'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood, And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood. At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er, With flaggy heaviness their master bore: A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low, Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow. A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd, And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd; With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around, And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd. In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise, And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies. The saviour-youth the royal pair confess, And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom bless. The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from chains, The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's pains, Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood, And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's blood: Then in the windings of a sandy bed Compos'd Medusa's execrable head. But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw, And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew, There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd, Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd. The wonted flexibility quite gone, The tender scyons harden'd into stone. Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought, Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught. The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep, And propagate the wonder thro' the deep. The pliant sprays of coral yet declare Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air. Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move, Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove, And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above. The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd, And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd. To Hermes this; and that he did assign To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine, He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull, A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull. Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight, Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite. Andromeda alone he greatly sought, The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought. Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays; With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze, Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high, And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye. The melting musick melting thoughts inspires, And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres. The palace opens wide in pompous state, And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate. A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give, And fit for God-like heroes to receive. The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each soul. Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd, And by what laws the people were restrain'd. Which told; the teller a like freedom takes, And to the warrior his petition makes, To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes. The Story of Medusa's Head The heroe with his just request complies, Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies, Where, with aspiring mountains fenc'd around, He the two daughters of old Phorcus found. Fate had one common eye to both assign'd, Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind. But while one strove to lend her sister sight, He stretch'd his hand, and stole their mutual light, And left both eyeless, both involv'd in night. Thro' devious wilds, and trackless woods he past, And at the Gorgon-seats arriv'd at last: But as he journey'd, pensive he survey'd, What wasteful havock dire Medusa made. Here, stood still breathing statues, men before; There, rampant lions seem'd in stone to roar. Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field, But in the mirror of his polish'd shield Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take, And not one serpent by good chance awake. Then backward an unerring blow he sped, And from her body lop'd at once her head. The gore prolifick prov'd; with sudden force Sprung Pegasus, and wing'd his airy course. The Heav'n-born warrior faithfully went on, And told the num'rous dangers which he run. What subject seas, what lands he had in view, And nigh what stars th' advent'rous heroe flew. At last he silent sate; the list'ning throng Sigh'd at the pause of his delightful tongue. Some beg'd to know, why this alone should wear, Of all the sisters, such destructive hair. Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail, Worth the relation, to relate a tale. Medusa once had charms; to gain her love A rival crowd of envious lovers strove. They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace More moving features in a sweeter face. Yet above all, her length of hair, they own, In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone. Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd, Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd. In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd, And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid. The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away, Nor durst such bold impurity survey; But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes, Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes. These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear, The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare, Than they did lovers once, when shining hair. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FOURTH

140:The House Of Dust: Complete I. The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. The purple lights leap down the hill before him. The gorgeous night has begun again. 'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams, I will hold my light above them and seek their faces. I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer Moves among us like light, like evening air . . . Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways, The rain runs over the pavement before our feet, The cold rain falls, the rain sings. We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces To what the eternal evening brings. Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, We have built a tower of stone high into the sky, We have built a city of towers. 162 Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . . Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . And after a while they will fall to dust and rain; Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. II. One, from his high bright window in a tower, Leans out, as evening falls, And sees the advancing curtain of the shower Splashing its silver on roofs and walls: Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, And silver falling from eave and tree. One, from his high bright window, looking down, Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, And thinks its towers are like a dream. The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, Pale roofs begin to gleam. Looking down from a window high in a wall He sees us all; Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, Searching the sky, and going our ways again, Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. The yellow lamps wink one by one again. The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. 163 III. One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, With wave upon slowly shattering wave, Turned to the city of towers as evening fell; And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; And saw how the towers darkened against the sky; And across the distance heard the toll of a bell. Along the darkening road he hurried alone, With his eyes cast down, And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown Here in the quiet of evening air, These empty and voiceless places . . . And he hurried towards the city, to enter there. Along the darkening road, between tall trees That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. And death was observed with sudden cries, And birth with laughter and pain. And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies And night came down again. IV. Up high black walls, up sombre terraces, Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, And some strange shadows threw. And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, 164 Restlessly moving in each lamplit room, From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: From some, a dazzling desire. And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, Combing with lifted arms her golden hair, Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death As she blew out her light. And And And And And there was one who turned from clamoring streets, walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, looked at the windy sky, thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze birds in the dead boughs cry . . . And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, To mingle among the crowds again, To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. And one, from his high bright window looking down On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, Hearing a sea-like murmur rise, Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. V. The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls Down golden-windowed walls. We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while We shall lie down again. The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . 165 One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; But whether he lives or dies we do not know. One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. He sings of a house he lived in long ago. It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, And throwing him pennies, we bear away A mournful echo of other times and places, And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; In broken slow cascades. The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, Vaguely and incoherently, some dream Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. We We We We We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; close our eyes to music in bright cafees. diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. VI. Over the darkened city, the city of towers, 166 The city of a thousand gates, Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, And dreams in white at the city's feet; On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea And sails toward the far-off city, that seems Like one vague tower. The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him In a quiet shower. Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; Rain thrills over the roofs again; Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, And among whirled leaves The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, From wall to remoter wall, Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound And close grey wings and fall . . . . . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . Voices about me rise . . . Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,— 'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down. We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me Weaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret. I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. 167 'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled, Thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.' 'I am the one you followed through crowded streets, The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' 'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: A bell that broke great memories in my brain.' 'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you, Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' 'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. They wrote me that he was dead. It was long ago. I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, And returned to see it again. And it was so.' Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! I am dissolved and woven again . . . Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. Thousands of voices weave in the rain. 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking At a dazzle of golden lights. Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, And turned, as she reached the door, To smile once more . . . Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon On a night in June . . . She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after; She dances in dreams over white-waved water; Her body is white and fragrant and cool, Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights Of a broken music and golden lights, 168 Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling Between my hands and their white desire: And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, Dipping to screen a fire . . . I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees, But as I lean to kiss her face, She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves, And run in a moonless place; And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, And shattering trees and cracking walls, And a net of intense white flame roars over the town, And someone cries; and darkness falls . . . But now she has leaned and smiled at me, My veins are afire with music, Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' He rises and moves away, he says no word, He folds his evening paper and turns away; I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, And some sit motionless in their accustomed places. Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. One peers out in the night for the place to change. Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. Remote and hurried the great bells beat. 'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. And to-day the woman I love lies dead. I gave her roses, a ring with opals; These hands have touched her head. 'I bound her to me in all soft ways, 169 I bound her to me in a net of days, Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you? There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. 'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . . Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. Wheels hiss beneath us. He yields us our desire. 'No, do not stare so—he is weak with grief, He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; He is confused with pain. I suffered this. I know. It was long ago . . . He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; And at last a silence falls. VII. Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers The golden lights go out . . . The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, We lie face down, we dream, We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem To stare at the ceiling or walls . . . Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, A vortex of soundless hours. 'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping. But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. The woman is dead. She died—you know the way. Just as we planned. Smiling, with open sunlit eyes. Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' 170 He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares. His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. Into the night he fades. Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; Blowing the water that gleams in the street; Blowing the rain, the sleet. In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing Above their heads a goblin night go by; Children are waked, and cry, The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams That her lover is caught in a burning tower, She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, She dreams of an evening, long ago: Of colored lanterns balancing under trees, Some of them softly catching afire; And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . The leaves are a pale and glittering green, The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, Shadows of dancers pass . . . The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, The face is beginning to change,— It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, She is held and kissed. She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . With a smoking ghost of shame . . . Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; 171 And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, Who dreamed for years in a tower, Seizes this hour Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar, Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, To fall to the street with a cat-like fall, Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, And at last is gone, Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . The mother whose child was buried to-day Turns her face to the window; her face is grey; And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. He would have grown as easily as a tree, He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, He would have been his father again . . . His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: Windows rattle above our beds; We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath, Our curious separate ways through life and death. VIII. The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, Over the pale grey tumbled towers,— And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, Curls like a dream among the motionless trees And seems to freeze. The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, Whirls over sleeping faces, 172 Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . And one from his high window, looking down, Peers at the cloud-white town, And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. PART II. I. The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. The city stirs like one that is half in dream. And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, Where one by one we wake and rise. We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, We rub the darkness from our eyes, And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer Compassionate over our towers bending. There, like one who gazes into a crystal, He broods upon our city with sombre eyes; He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. Each gleaming point of light is like a seed Dilating swiftly to coiling fires. Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, Each hurrying face records its strange desires. We descend our separate stairs toward the day, 173 Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. II. THE FULFILLED DREAM More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed— Great rocks hoisted in air; And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . And so he did not mention his dream of falling But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by And the small tree swell beneath him . . . He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,— And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail. Something had changed—but it was not the street— The street was just the same—it was himself. Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door The same old black cat winked green amber eyes; The butcher stood by his window tying his apron; The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, Reading the morning paper . . . He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, As if he knew for certain he walked to death: But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm, Looking about him calmly, watching the world, Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, Always the same, and heard that whistling wind, And saw the windows flashing upward past him,— He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. Was forty, then, too old for work like this? Why should it be? He'd never been afraid— 174 His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . But dreams had meanings. He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, It seemed to whirl and swim, It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten? Because he would not need it? Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,— That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,— He waved his hand for signal, and up he went In the dusty chute that hugged the wall; Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; Above the flattening roofs, until the sea Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped Giddily out, from that security, To the red rib of iron against the sky, And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; And looking down one instant, saw the tree Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, And up again, feeling his blood go wild. He gave the signal; the long girder swung Closer to him, dropped clanging into place, Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought A place so high in the air should be more quiet. The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, Teased at the corners of them, until he looked, And felt his body go suddenly small and light; Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, 'By God—I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' 175 III. INTERLUDE The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls On bright red roofs and walls; The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; We go from door to door in the streets again, Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, Recalling other times and places . . . We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, We crowd together and wait, A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, The ambulance drives away. We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say 'A man fell off the building and was killed— Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, And go our separate ways, each bearing with him A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,— A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, Wings are upon our feet. The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. We bear our dreams among us, bear them all, Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, Climb to beauty and die. The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, And smiles at the hostile sky. The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. The murderer hears a cry. IV. NIGHTMARE 'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . Draw three cards, and lay them down, Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, And think of time . . . My father was a clown, 176 My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt; And she was gotten with child in a strange way; And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, With the future in my eyes as clear as day.' I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain And think her face is like a wrinkled desert. The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. 'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. You will live long, love many times. I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. I see a shadow of secret crimes. 'There was a man who came intent to kill you, And hid behind a door and waited for you; There was a woman who smiled at you and lied. There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, Crawled after you, and died. 'There is a ghost of murder in your blood— Coming or past, I know not which. And here is danger—a woman with sea-green eyes, And white-skinned as a witch . . .' The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile. Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question; Something is creeping at me, something vile; And suddenly on the wall behind her head I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, And hear swift steps retreat . . . The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding. I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad. I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; 177 You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . . Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . My peril goes out from me, is blown among you. We loiter, dreaming together, along the street. V. RETROSPECT Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. And one old man looks down from a dusty window And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain And desires once more to walk among those trees. Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. And soon the pond must freeze. The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears More in his secret heart than in his ears,— A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,— Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. He opened his book once more, beside the window, 178 And read the printed words upon that page. The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, The quiet words enchanted time and age. 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing; Death is a chorded music, softly going By sweet transition from key to richer key. Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' VI. ADELE AND DAVIS She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, To shut out, if she could, this dingy room, The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,— Yellows and greens in the dark,—she walked again Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, And wondered if she dared to ask for poison: But it was late, few customers were there, The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river, She listened to the water slapping the wall, And felt queer fascination in its blackness: But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so She dragged herself once more to home, and bed. Paul hadn't guessed it yet—though twice, already, She'd fainted—once, the first time, on the stage. So she must tell him soon—or else—get out . . . How could she say it? That was the hideous thing. She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, If he refused to marry her . . . well, what? She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, 179 His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent, Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,—listen— There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped, Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say? 'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!' 'But what I've got to say—IS—serious!' Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying— He always did—and what could she do but cry? Perhaps, then, he would guess—perhaps he wouldn't. And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'— She knew she'd never tell—just say she was sick . . . And after that, when would she dare again? And what would he do—even suppose she told him? If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!— She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was, Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind To pay out Felix for never having liked her, By making people think that it was he . . . She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,— Just saying 'Felix did it—and wouldn't marry.' And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . . Paul would never forgive her—he'd never forgive her! Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . . She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. And then she closed her eyes and walked again Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. But it was late. No customers were there,— Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! And then—what poison would she dare to ask for? And if they asked her why, what would she say? VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES 180 Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, Two lovers blow together like music blowing: And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. 'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, They look at the great clock's golden hands, They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: Only, their words like music seem to play; And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. 'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars Down the smooth heaven of her memory. She stands again by a garden wall, The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, Water sings from an opened tap, the bees Glisten and murmur among the trees. Someone calls from the house. She does not answer. Backward she leans her head, And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough She sees an infinite May sky spread A vault profoundly blue. The voice from the house fades far away, The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . ' She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know She smiles from long ago . . . She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him Roars like a vast invisible sea, Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; He is released of weight, his body is free, He lifts his arms to swim, Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach With a whirring sound like wind in bells, He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands Reaching his lazy hands Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . 181 'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' They pause and smile, not caring what they say, If only they may talk. The crowd flows past them like dividing waters. Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. 'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face, Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: Time, like a flurry of rain, Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. Once, long ago, one night, She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! Look how the tower is changed and glows!' Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; We tremble like wind-blown grass. What was this dream we had, a dream of music, Music that rose from the opening earth like magic And shook its beauty upon us and died away? The long cold streets extend once more before us. The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES 182 Well,—it was two days after my husband died— Two days! And the earth still raw above him. And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. In number four—the room with the red wall-paper— Some chorus girls and men were singing that song 'They'll soon be lighting candles Round a box with silver handles'—and hearing them sing it I started to cry. Just then he came along And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down Where I was leaning against the wall, And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . And I was so sad, thinking about it,— Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,— That I was happy to have him sympathize, To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. And before I knew it, he got me into a room Where a table was set, and no one there, And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, And talked to me, telling me not to cry, That it was all right, he'd look after me,— But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, That when he turned my face between his hands, And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me— Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it— And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! And so we sat and talked, not talking much, But meaning as much in silence as in words, There in that empty room with palms about us, That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there I felt my future changing, day by day, 183 With unknown streets opening left and right, New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,— And thinking of this, and through it half remembering A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,— It seemed as if my brain would break in two. My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, And told him I must go, and said good-night— I couldn't see the end. How would it end? Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? And did I want him to—or would I rather Look for another job?—He took my shoulders Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, That would have—well, I don't know; but he didn't . . And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, Hoping to close the door before that party In number four should sing that song again— 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'— And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. IX. INTERLUDE The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. The door swings shut behind the latest comer. We set our watches, regard the time. What have we done? I close my eyes, remember The great machine whose sinister brain before me Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. 184 My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. I dropped great beams to the dusty street. My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, These walls whose windows gap against the sky, Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble Will build a glittering tower before we die . . . The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, The young girl hums beneath her breath. One goes out to beauty, and does not know it. And one goes out to death. X. SUDDEN DEATH 'Number four—the girl who died on the table— The girl with golden hair—' The purpling body lies on the polished marble. We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . One, who held the ether-cone, remembers Her dark blue frightened eyes. He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast More hurriedly fall and rise. Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,— And, suddenly, she lay dead. And all the dreams that hurried along her veins Came to the darkness of a sudden wall. 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? 185 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 passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. 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, Clustered, 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 lustrous 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, 186 '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 passed, 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 grass 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 pass, The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, 187 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 And And And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; one lies staring, and thinks of death. one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, 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 And And And And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, walls flung down . . . the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, whiteness hushes the town. PART III 188 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 balustrades, Through half-lit halls which reach no end. 189 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. I watch you from my window, unsuspected: You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . . . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei— The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; For his lover was dead, he never would love again. Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever— Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows— But then he saw this face, this face like flame, This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi; And took it home with him; and with it came What unexpected changes, subtle as weather! The dark room, cold as rain, Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April, Warmed its corners with light again, And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, And the quiet lady there, So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, Seemed ready to loose her hair, And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, The word already clear, Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . He held his breath to hear, And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, And held a candle, and searched her face Through all the little shadows, to see what secret Might give so warm a grace . . . Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? The eyes, half-turned aside? The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . 190 The secret was denied, He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, And slept; and as he slept A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, And chided him, and wept. And in the morning, waking, he remembered, And thought the dream was strange. Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? He turned, and felt a change, As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . Yet there was only sunlight there. Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, And held his breath to stare, And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . . Had slightly turned away . . . Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, Nor left his room that day. And that day, and for many days thereafter, He sat alone, and thought No lady had ever lived so beautiful As Hiroshigi wrought . . . Or if she lived, no matter in what country, By what far river or hill or lonely sea, He would look in every face until he found her . . . There was no other as fair as she. And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, And brought her every day Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, And somehow, she seemed to say, That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, That she was happy there; And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, And desired to touch her hair, 191 To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly With delicate finger-tips The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish Upon her lips . . . Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; And night by night a dread Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi Was many centuries dead,— And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . Dead, and long turned to dust . . . The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, The peach leaves flew in a gust, And he would surely have died; but there one day A wise man, white with age, Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi Knew more than archimage,— Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, Till partly it entered there . . . Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . Do all I say with care, And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' So then this ghost, Tokkei, Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, And alone at the end of day Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, And saw the quiet eyes Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, And knelt, and did not rise, And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' Said it three times aloud. And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense Rose to the walls in a cloud, And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; And suddenly, with a sigh, 192 The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, And stood, while worlds went by, And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; And the poet trembled, and said, 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'— 'But what when I am dead?' 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, And then we shall die no more.' Music came down upon them, and spring returning, They remembered worlds before, And years went over the earth, and over the sea, And lovers were born and spoke and died, But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; The music changes tone, you wake, remember Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. Elaine was married and soon to have a child. You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday? Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, Through many doors to the one door of all. Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: Or see a skeleton fall . . . We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. 193 You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. This is the thing remembered I would forget— No matter where I go, how soft I tread, This windy gesture menaces me with death. Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; Touches my throat and stops my breath. My fans—my jewels—the portrait of my husband— The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. They signify no crime. Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion. Let us return, hear music, and forget . . . IV. ILLICIT Of what she said to me that night—no matter. The strange thing came next day. My brain was full of music—something she played me—; I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, Urging to restlessness: verging on grief. I tried to play the tune, from memory,— But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed And found no resolution—only hung there, And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . . What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . And someone walking alone; and someone saying That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them 194 A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady? The one who always danced in golden slippers— And had I danced with her,—upon this music? Or was it further back—the unplumbed twilight Of childhood?—No—much recenter than that. You know, without my telling you, how sometimes A word or name eludes you, and you seek it Through running ghosts of shadow,—leaping at it, Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, You hear it, see it flash among the branches, And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it— Well, it was so I followed down this music, Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars—; Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, The thing resolved itself: and I remembered An April afternoon, eight years ago— Or was it nine?—no matter—call it nine— A room in which the last of sunlight faded; A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; And, she who played the same thing later, playing. She played this tune. And in the middle of it Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. 'You know—we've got to end this—Miriam loves you . . . If she should ever know, or even guess it,— What would she do?—Listen!—I'm not absurd . . . I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women— To understand them—which you've never had— You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, 195 Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness That she could neither break it—nor conclude? It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,— Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . Well, April passed with many other evenings, Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . And after that, when eight deep years had passed— Or nine—we met once more,—by accident . . . But was it just by accident, I wonder, She played this tune?—Or what, then, was intended? . . . V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; You strike a match and stare upon the flame. The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, And dwindles away as silently as it came. This melody, you say, has certain voices— They rise like nereids from a river, singing, Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. Wherever you go you bear this river with you: A leaf falls,—and it flows, and you have pain. So says the tune to you—but what to me? What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, The violinist who suavely draws his bow? That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. 196 Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, And the great sea shakes its walls. And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls This melody once more: 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' So says the tune to him—but what to me? What are the worlds I see? What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . I go my secret way, down secret alleys; My errand is not so simple as it seems. VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD This is the house. On one side there is darkness, On one side there is light. Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns— O, any number—it will still be night. And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward To long sonorous halls. And here is spring forever at these windows, With roses on the walls. This is her room. On one side there is music— On one side not a sound. At one step she could move from love to silence, Feel myriad darkness coiling round. And here are balconies from which she heard you, Your steady footsteps on the stair. And here the glass in which she saw your shadow As she unbound her hair. Here is the room—with ghostly walls dissolving— The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!— Through windy corridors of darkening end. 197 Here she could stand with one dim light above her And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. Your words were windows,—large enough for moonlight, Too small to let her through. Your letters—fragrant cloisters faint with music. The music that assuaged her there was you. How many times she heard your step ascending Yet never saw your face! She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, Till silence swept the place. Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . . You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken. A certain rose-leaf—sent without intention— Became, with time, a woven web of fire— She wore it, and was warm. A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, Became, with time, the flashings of a storm. Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you Of secret idols carved in secret chambers From all you did and said. Nothing was done, until at last she knew you. Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. How did she die?—You say, she died of poison. Simple and swift. And much to be regretted. You did not see her pass So many thousand times from light to darkness, Pausing so many times before her glass; You did not see how many times she hurried To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. You did not know how long she clung to music, You did not hear her sing. 198 Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely From sound to silence—close, herself, those windows? Or was it true, instead, That darkness moved,—for once,—and so possessed her? . . . We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. VII. PORCELAIN You see that porcelain ranged there in the window— Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! They're works of art—minutely seen and felt, Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure To spend your blood like this? Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal— My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting Day after day, close to a certain window, Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me— An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night Of two soft-patterned toads—I thought them stones, Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,— Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,— It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. Here,—as I coil the stems between two leaves,— It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, 199 I cried the secret between two universes . . . A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,— Though with his eyes wide open,— And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, Amazing leaves, folding one on another, Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals— All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, I need no hasheesh for it—it's too easy! Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, Violets purple as death, dripping with water, And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets— With scalloped edges gilded—here you have me Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,— There's something lacking—force, or will, or passion, I don't know what it is—and so, sometimes, When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, I get uneasy—just like poplar trees Ruffling their leaves—and I begin to think Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, And that delicious night. Where is she now? I meant to write—but she has moved, by this time, And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. Well, there is more—I'm getting old and timid— The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! I never strike out boldly as I used to— But sit here, painting violets, and remember That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,— Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,— Were thought so beautiful.—And so they were. Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! Well, I suppose such days can come but once. Lord, how happy we were! . . . 200 Here, if you only knew it, is a story— Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . Who killed himself by diving against a wall. Here is a recollection of my wife, When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. It's funny how things change,—just change, by growing, Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,— A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, If you look hard enough. This, in its way, Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist— You have my head before you . . . on a platter. VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. We are like music, each voice of it pursuing A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . Upward and downward, past him there, we stream. 201 One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. Death, from street to alley, from door to window, Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching, Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect? Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes Down jangled streets, and dies. The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; From freezing rooms as bare as rock. The curtains are closed across deserted windows. Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,— They are blown away like windflung chords of music, They drift away; the sudden music has died. And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly And sees the shadow of death in many faces, And thinks the world is strange. He desires immortal music and spring forever, And beauty that knows no change. 202 IX. CABARET We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, 'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . . How many others like ourselves, this instant, Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? How many others, laughing, sip their coffee— Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter What have we saved—what news, what tune, what play? 'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,— Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; No pity dims our eyes . . . How many others, like ourselves, this instant, See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, And even those most like angels creep for schemes. The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . And all these others who at your conjuration Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,— Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,— 203 Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, Lean to the music, rise, And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion With kindness in their eyes . . . They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' They say 'How strange it is that one such evening Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. With secret symbols they play on secret passions. With cunning eyes they see The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . The pendulum on the wall Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. X. LETTER From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees The soft blue starlight through the one small window, The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,— And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. It is so long, indeed, since I have written,— Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,— That these first words I write seem cold and strange. Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? Altered, of course—just as I too have altered— And whether towards each other, or more apart, We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter— 204 Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure— Pondering much on all you say in it Of mystic consciousness—divine conversion— The sense of oneness with the infinite,— Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, If one's to talk through this dark world contented. But is the world so dark? Or is it rather Our own brute minds,—in which we hurry, trembling, Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think. You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"— Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: Even before the question grew to problem And drove you bickering into metaphysics, You met on lower planes the same great dragon, Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember, One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, The cruder first, more violent sensations, Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,— Savoring all more delicate gradations In all that hue and tone may play on flesh, Or thought on brain,—you passed, if I may say so, From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. Let us regard ourselves, you used to say, As instruments of music, whereon our lives Will play as we desire: and let us yield These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves To all experience plays . . . And so you went From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; And closing one by one your doors, drew in Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached. What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber— Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly 205 It is the last, and cunningest, resort Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,— This world of lamentations, death, injustice, ~ Conrad Potter Aiken