The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy

THE LONG ROOM

He found the long room as it was of old,Glimmering with sunset's gold;That made the tapestries seem full of eyesStrange with a wild surmise:Glaring upon a Psyche where she shoneCarven of stainless stone,Holding a crystal heart where many a sunSeemed starrily bound in one:And near her, grim in rigid metal, stoodAn old knight in a wood,Groping his way: the bony wreck, that wasHis steed, at weary pause.And over these a canvas – one mad meshOf Chrysoprase tints of fleshAnd breasts – Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamedFor one who, brutish, seemedA hideous Troll, unto whose lustful armsShe yielded glad her charms.Then he remembered all her shame; and knewThe thing that he must do:These were but records of his life: the wholePortrayed to him his soul. —So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial,He drained it with a smile.And 'twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died;The arras, evil-eyed,Glared grimly at him where all night he lay,And where a stealthy rayPointed her to him– her, that nymph above,Who gave the Troll her love.

IN PEARL AND GOLD

When pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk,The moon curves, silvering the dusk, —As in a garden, dreaming,A lily slips its dewy huskA firefly in its gleaming, —I of my garden am a guest;My garden, that, in beauty dressedOf simple shrubs and oldtime flowers,Chats with me of the perished hours,When she companioned me in life,Living remote from care and strife.It says to me: "How sad and slowThe hours of daylight come and go,Until the Night walks here againWith moon and starlight in her train,And she and I with perfumed wordsOf winds and waters, dreaming birds,And flowers and crickets and the moon,For hour on hour, in soul commune. – "And you, and you,Sit here and listen in the dewFor her, the love, you used to know,Who often walked here, long ago,Long ago;The young, sweet love you used to knowLong agoWhom oft I watched with violet eye,Or eye of dew, as she passed by:As she passed by.And I reply, with half a sigh: —"You knew her too as well as I,That young sweet love of long-ago!That young sweet love, who walked here slow. —Oh, speak no more of the days gone by,Dear days gone by,Lest I lay me down on your heart and die!"

MOON FAIRIES

The moon, a circle of gold,O'er the crowded housetops rolled,And peeped in an attic, where,'Mid sordid things and bare,A sick child lay and gazedAt a road to the far-away,A road he followed, mazed,That grew from a moonbeam-ray,A road of light that ledFrom the foot of his garret-bedOut of that room of hate,Where Poverty slept by his mate,Sickness – out of the street,Into a wonderland,Where a voice called, far and sweet,"Come, follow our Fairy band!"A purple shadow, sprinkledWith golden star-dust, twinkledSuddenly into the roomOut of the winter gloom:And it wore a face to himOf a dream he'd dreamed: a formOf Joy, whose face was dim,Yet bright with a magic charm.And the shadow seemed to trail,Sounds that were green and frail:Dew-dripples; notes that fellLike drops in a ferny dell;A whispered lisp and stir,Like winds among the leaves,Blent with a cricket-chirr,And coo of a dove that grieves.And the Elfin bore on its backA little faery packOf forest scents: of loamAnd mossy sounds of foam;And of its contents breathedAs might a clod of groundFeeling a bud unsheathedThere in its womb profound.And the shadow smiled and gazedAt the child; then softly raisedIts arms and seemed to growTo a tree in the attic low:And from its glimmering handsShook emerald seeds of dreams,From which grew fairy bands,Like firefly motes and gleams.The child had seen them beforeIn his dreams of Fairy lore:The Elves, each with a lightTo guide his feet a-right,Out of this world to a worldWhere Magic built him towers,And Fable old, unfurled,flags like wonderful flowers.And the child, who knew this, smiled,And rose, a different child:No more he knew of pain,Or fear of heart and brain. —At Poverty there that sleptHe never even glanced,But into the moon-road stept,And out of the garret danced.Out of the earthly gloom,Out of the sordid room,Out, on a moonbeam ray! —Now at last to playThere with comrades found!Children of the moon,There on faery ground,Where none would find him soon!

HAEC OLIM MEMINISSE

Febrile perfumes as of faded rosesIn the old house speak of love to-day,Love long past; and where the soft day closes,Down the west gleams, golden-red, a ray.Pointing where departed splendor perished,And the path that night shall walk, and hang,On blue boughs of heaven, gold, long cherished —Fruit Hesperian, – that the ancients sang.And to him, who sits there dreaming, musing,At the window in the twilight wan,Like old scent of roses interfusing,Comes a vision of a day that's gone.And he sees Youth, walking brave but dimly'Mid the roses, in the afterglow;And beside him, like a star seen slimly,Love, who used to meet him long-ago.And again he seems to hear the flowersWhispering faintly of what no one knows —Of the dreams they dreamed there for long hours,Youth and Love, between their hearts a rose.Youth is dead; and Love, oh, where departed!Like the last streak of the dying day,Somewhere yonder, in a world uncharted,Calling him, with memories, away.

THE MAGIC PURSE

What is the gold of mortal-kindTo that men findDeep in the poet's mind! —That magic purseOf Dreams from whichGod builds His universe!That makes life richWith many a vision;Taking the soul from out its prisonOf facts with the precisionA wildflower donsWhen Spring comes knocking at the doorOf Earth across the windy lawns;Calling to Joy to rise and dance beforeHer happy feet:Or with the beatAnd bright exactness of a star,Hanging its punctual point afar,When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor,Leaving a gate ajar.That leads the Heart from all its achingFar above where day is breaking;Out of the doubts, the agonies,The strife and sin, to join with these —Hope and Beauty and Joy that buildTheir golden wallsOf sunset where, with spirits filled,A Presence calls,And points a landWhere Love walks, silent; hand in handWith the Spirit of God, and leads Man rightOut of the darkness into the light.

THE CHILD AT THE GATE

The sunset was a sleepy gold,And stars were in the skiesWhen down a weedy lane he strolledIn vague and thoughtless wise.And then he saw it, near a wood,An old house, gabled brown,Like some old woman, in a hood,Looking toward the town.A child stood at its broken gate,Singing a childish song,And weeping softly as if FateHad done her child's heart wrong.He spoke to her: – "Now tell me, dear,Why do you sing and weep?" —But she – she did not seem to hear,But stared as if asleep.Then suddenly she turned and fledAs if with soul of fear.He followed; but the house looked dead,And empty many a year.The light was wan: the dying dayGrew ghostly suddenly:And from the house he turned away,Wrapped in its mystery.* * * *They told him no one dwelt there now:It was a haunted place. —And then it came to him, somehow,The memory of a face.That child's – like hers, whose name was Joy —For whom his heart was fain:The face of her whom, when a boy,He played with in that lane.

THE LOST DREAM

The black night showed its hungry teeth,And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane;Beneath the door I heard it breathe —A beast that growled in vain.The hunter wind stalked up and down,And crashed his ice-spears through each tree;Before his rage, in tattered gown,I saw the maid moon flee.There stole a footstep to my door;A voice cried in my room and – there!A shadow cowled and gaunt and hoar,Death, leaned above my chair.He beckoned me; he bade me rise,And follow through the madman night;Into my heart's core pierced his eyes,And lifted me with might.I rose; I made no more delay;And followed where his eyes compelled;And through the darkness, far away,They lit me and enspelled.Until we reached an ancient wood,That flung its twisted arms around,As if in anguish that it stoodOn dark, unhallowed ground.And then I saw it – cold and blind —The dream, that had my heart to share,That fell, before its feet could findIts home, and perished there.

WITCHCRAFT

This world is made a witchcraft placeWith gazing on a woman's face.Now 'tis her smile, whose sorceryTurns all my thoughts to melody.Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,That makes my day a page of prose.And now her laugh, or but a word,That in my heart frees wild a bird.Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,Will lift from my dumb life the curseOf longing, inarticulate,That keeps me sad and celibate.

TRANSPOSED SEASONS

The gentian and the bluebell soCan change my calendar,I know not how the year may go,Or what the seasons are:The months, in some mysterious wise,Take their expression from her eyes.The gentian speaks to memoryOf autumns long since gone,When her blue eyes smiled up at me,And heaven was flushed with dawn:'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.The bluebell says a message tooOf springs long passed away,When in my eyes her eyes of blueGazed and 't was close of day:Spring spread around her fragrant chart,But it was autumn in my heart.

THE OLD DREAMER

Come, let's climb into our attic,In our house that's old and gray!Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic,And – it's close of day.Lay aside your rags and tatters,Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay!They're no use now. Nothing matters —It is close of day.Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.And no lamp to make a ray. —Where's our servant, young Desire? —Gone at close of day.Oft she served us with fine glances,Helped us out at work and play:She is gone now; better chances;And it's close of day.Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?Hope, who led us oft astray?Has she proved herself a harlotAt the close of day?What's become of Dream and Vision?Friends we thought were here to stay?Has life clapped the two in prisonAt the close of day?They are gone; and how we miss them!They who made our garret gay.How we used to hug and kiss them! —But – 'tis close of day.Where's friend Love now? – Who supposes? —Has he flung himself away?Left us for a wreath of rosesAt the close of day?And where's Song? the soul elected —Has he quit us too for aye? —Was it poverty he suspectedNear the close of day?How our attic rang their laughter!How it echoed laugh and lay!None may take their place hereafter? —It is close of day.We have done the best we could do.Let us kneel awhile and pray.Now, no matter what we would do,It is close of day.Let's to bed then! It's December.Long enough since it was May! —Let's forget it, and rememberNow 'tis close of day.

A LAST WORD

Oh, for some cup of consummating might,Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!A wine of darkness, that with death shall cureThis sickness called existence! – Oh to findSurcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind,An end of thought in something dark and sure!Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure! —Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams! —No more, no more, with patience, to endureThe wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems;Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time,And lamentations and the boasts of man!To hear no more the wild complaints of toil,And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve:To see no more life's disregard for Art!Oh God! to know no longer anything!Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!Nor hear the changing tides of customs rollOn the dark shores of Time! No more to hearThe stream of Life that furies on the shoalsOf hard necessity! No more to seeThe unavailing battle waged of NeedAgainst adversity! – Merely to lie, at last,Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!To think and dream no more! no more to hope!At rest at last! at last at peace and rest,Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of rootBearing me upward in its large embraceTo gentler things and fairer – clouds and winds,And stars and sun and moon! To undergoThe change the great trees know when Spring comes inWith shoutings and rejoicings of the rain,To swiftly rise an atom in a host,The myriad army of the leaves; and standA handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!To pulse in sap that beats unfevered inThe life we call inanimate – the heartOf some great tree. And so, unconsciously,As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm,Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace,To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.

THE SHADOW

A shadow glided down the wayWhere sunset groped among the trees,And all the woodland bower, aswayWith trouble of the evening breeze.A shape, it moved with head held down;I knew it not, yet seemed to knowIts form, its carriage of a clown,Its raiment of the long-ago.It never turned or spoke a word,But fixed its gaze on something far,As if within its heart it heardThe summons of the evening star.I turned to it and tried to speak;To ask it of the thing it saw,Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak —The dream, the splendor, and the awe.What beauty or what terror thereStill bade its purpose to ascendAbove the sunset's sombre glare,The twilight and the long day's end.It looked at me but said no word:Then suddenly I saw the truth: —This was the call that once I heardAnd failed to follow in my youth.Now well I saw that this was I —My own dead self who walked with me,Who died in that dark hour gone byWith all the dreams that used to be.

ON THE ROAD

Let us bid the world good-by,Now while sun and cloud's above us,While we've nothing to deny,Nothing but our selves to love us:Let us fancy, I and you,All the dreams we dreamed came true.We have gone but half the road,Rugged road of root and bowlder;Made the best of Life's dark load,Cares, that helped us to grow older:We, my dear, have done our best —Let us stop awhile and rest.Let us, by this halfway stile,Put away the world's desire,And sit down, a little while,With our hearts, and light a fire:Sing the songs that once we sungIn the days when we were young.Haply they will bring again,From the Lands of Song and Story,To our sides the elfin trainOf the dreams we dreamed of glory,That are one now with the crewOf the deeds we did not do.Here upon the road of LifeLet us rest us; take our pleasure:Free from care and safe from strife,Count again our only treasure —Love, that helped us on our way,Our companion night and day.

RECONCILIATION

Listen, dearest! you must love me more,More than you did before! —Hark, what a beating here of wings!Never at rest,Dear, in your breast! —Is it your heart with its flutterings,Making a music, love, for us both?Or merely a moth, a velvet-winged moth,Which out of the garden's fragrance swings,Weaving a spell,That holds the rose and the moon in thrall? —I love you more than I can tell;And no recallHow long agoOur quarrel and all! —You say, you know,A perfect pearl grows out of – well,A little friction; tiny grainOf sand or shell —So love grew out of that moment's pain,The heart's disdain —Since then I have thought of no one but you,And how your heart would beat on mine,Like light on dew.And I thought how foolish to fret and pine!Better to claim the fault all mine!To go to you and tell you that:And how stale and flatAll life without you was, and vain!And when I came, you turned and smiled,Like a darling child,And I knew from your look that, in your heart,You had followed the self-same trainOf thought that made me yours again. —Dearest! no more! —We shall never part! —So. Turn your face as you did before. —I smooth your browAnd kiss you. – Now…Tell me true —Did you miss me, dear, as I missed you?

PORTENTS

Above the world a glareOf sunset – guns and spears;An army, no one hears,Of mist and air:Long lines of bronze and gold,Huge helmets, each a cloud;And then a fortress oldThere in the night that phantoms seem to crowd.A face of flame; a handOf crimson alchemyIs waved: and, solemnly,At its command,Opens a fiery well,A burning hole,From which a stream of hell,A river of blood, in frenzy, seems to roll.And there, upon a throne,Like some vast precipice,Above that River of Dis,Behold a King! alone!Around whom shapes of bloodTake form: each one the peerOf those, who, in the woodOf Dante's Hell froze up the heart with fear.Then shapes, that breast to breastGallop to face a foe:And through the crimson glowTh' imperial crestOf him whose banner fliesAbove a world that burns,A raven in the skies,And as it flies into a Death's-Head turns.The wild trees writhe and twistTheir gaunt limbs, wrung with fear:And now into my earA word seems hissed;A message, filled with dread,A dark, foreboding word, —"Behold! we are the dead,Who here on Earth lived only by the sword!"

THE IRON CRAGS

Upon the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughtersIn battle speak while at their feet,In gulfs of human waters,A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat:And to my heart, in doubt, I said,"God? – God's above the storm!O heart, be brave, be comforted,And keep your hearth-stone warmFor her who breasts the storm —God's Peace, the fair of form."I heard the Battle Angels cry above the slain's red mountains,While from their wings the lightnings hurledOf Death's destroying fountains,And thunder of their revels rolled around the ruined world:Still to my heart, in fear, I cried,"God? – God is watching there!My heart, – oh, keep the doorway wideHere in your House of Care,For her who wanders there,God's Peace, with happy hair."The darkness and the battle passed: and rushing on wild pinionsThe hosts of Havoc shrieked their hateAnd fled to Hell's dominions, —And, lo! I heard, out in the night, a knocking at the gate:And one who cried aloud to me: —"The night and storm are gone!Oh, open wide the door and seeWho waits here in the dawn! —Peace, with God's splendor onBack to the sad world drawn!"

THE IRON CROSS

They pass, with heavy eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross,The Nations, stricken with their loss,And lifting faces of despair.What is the prayer they pray to Him,Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.Is it forgiveness for great sinThey plead before the Iron Cross?Or for some gift of gold or dross?Or battle lost, that they would win?With eyes where hate and horror meet,They pass before the Iron Cross,The Cross, that ancient words emboss,Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.His hair is fallen on his face.His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —The Crucified, who knows all loss,And had on Earth no resting place."O world of men," he seems to say,"Behold me on your Iron Cross!To me why kneel and tell your loss?Why kneel to me and weep and pray?"Have I not taught you to forgive?And bade you from my Iron CrossBelieve, and bear your grief and loss,That after death you too may live?"You have not followed at my call!You keep me on this Iron Cross,And pray me keep you from all loss,And save and comfort you withal. —"You ask for love, and hate the more! —You keep me on this Iron Cross! —Restore to me my greater loss,The brotherhood of rich and poor."* * * *They pass, with weary eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross —The Nations, wailing of their loss,And lifting faces of despair.

THE WANDERER

Between the death of day and birth of night,By War's red light,I met with one in trailing sorrows clad,Whose features hadThe look of Him who died to set men right.Around him many horrors, like great worms,Terrific forms,Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine, —Gaunt and obscene,Urged on to battle with a thousand arms.Columns of steel, and iron belching flame,Before them came:And cities crumbled; and amid them trodHavoc, their god,With Desolation that no tongue may name.And out of Heaven came a burning breath,And on it Death,Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herdsOf beasts, like birds,Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth.Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies;And mouths, with criesOf famine; and the madness of Despair;And everywhereCurses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes.And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name,That grew a flameAbove the world, and said, "Give heed! give heed!See how they bleed!My wounds! my wounds! – Was it for this I came?"Where is the love for which I shed my blood?And where the goodI preached and died for? – Lo! ye have deniedAnd crucifiedMe here again, who swore me brotherhood!"Then overhead the vault of night was rent:The firmamentWinged thunder over of aerial craft;And Battle laughedTitanic laughter as its way it went.

THE END OF SUMMER

The rose, that wrote its message on the noon'sBright manuscript, has turned her perfumed faceTowards Fall, and waits, heart-heavy, for the moon'sPale flower to take her place.With eyes distraught, and dark disheveled hair,The Season dons a tattered cloak of stormAnd waits with Night that, darkly, seems to shareHer trouble and alarm.It is the close of summer. In the skyThe sunset lit a fire of drift and satWatching the last Day, robed in empire, dieUpon the burning ghat.The first leaf crimsons and the last rose falls,And Night goes stalking on, her cloak of rainDripping, and followed through her haunted hallsBy ail Death's phantom train.The sorrow of the Earth and all that dies,And all that suffers, in her breast she bears;Outside the House of Life she stops and criesThe burden of her cares.Then on the window knocks with crooked hands,Her tree-like arms to Heaven wildly-hurled:Love hears her crying, "Who then understands? —Has God forgot the world?"

THE LUST OF THE WORLD

Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hersAnd saw her vampire beauty, which is lust,All else is dustWithin the compass of the universe.With heart of Jael and with face of RuthShe sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffsHeart's blood and laughsAt all Life calls most noble and the truth.The fire of conquest and the wine of dreamsAre in her veins; and in her eyes the lureOf things unsure,Urging the world forever to extremes.Without her, Life would stagnate in a while. —Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain. —So Life attainHer end, she cares not if the means be vile.She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse. —Hers is to build and then exterminate:To slay, create,And twixt the two maintain an equal course.

CHANT BEFORE BATTLE

Ever since man was man a Fiend has stoodOutside his House of Good, —War, with his terrible toys, that win men's heartsTo follow murderous arts.His spurs, death-won, are but of little use,Except as old refuseOf Life; to hang and testify with rustOf deeds, long one with dust.A rotting fungus on a log, a tree,A toiling worm, or bee,Serves God's high purpose here on Earth to buildMore than War's maimed and killed.The Hebetude of asses, following stillSome Emperor's will to kill,Is that of men who give their lives – for what? —The privilege to be shot!Grant men more vision, Lord! to read thy words,That are not guns and swords,But trees and flowers, lovely forms of Earth,And all fair things of worth.So he may rise above the brute and snake,And of his reason makeA world befitting, as thou hast designed,His greater soul and mind!So he may rid himself of worm and beast,And sit with Love at feast,And make him worthy to be named thy son,As He, thy Holy One! Amen.

NEARING CHRISTMAS

The season of the rose and peace is past:It could not last.There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighsOf sorrow in the rain-lashed plains and skies,While Earth regards, aghast,The last red leaf that flies.The world is cringing in the darkness whereWar left his lair,And everything takes on a lupine look,Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook,And shaking torrent hairAt every little brook.Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and – hark!There in the darkThe ponderous stir of metal, iron feet;And with it, heard around the world, the beatOf Battle; sounds that markHis heart's advance, retreat.With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways;And, screeching, playsThe hell-born music Havoc dances to;And, following with his skeleton-headed crewOf ravening Nights and Days,Horror invades the blue.Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fistAnd writes a listOf beautiful cities on the ghastly sky:And underneath them, with no reason why,In blood and tears and mist,The postscript, "These must die!"Change is the portion and chief heritageOf every Age.The spirit of God still waits its time. – And WarMay blur His message for a while, and marThe writing on His page,To this our sorrowful star.But there above the conflict, orbed in rays,Is drawn the faceOf Peace; at last who comes into her own;Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone,And give her highest placeIn the human heart alone.

A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS