J PS The Testament of William Win dune J. H. Wallis '¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥?¥'^?¥¥¥¥¥¥¥ Class _SS'^J^ Book fi,r ^ ^ :2f' GojpgIi:tK;L___/ COPQUGHT DEPOSm THE TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE The Testament of William Win dune and Other Poems by T. H. Wallis New Haven: Yale University Press London: Humphrey Milford Oxford University Press MDCCCCXVI Copyright, 1916 BY Yale University Press First published, September, 1916 OCT 23 1916 S)CI,A44529G DEDICATION: TO MY WIFE. Dear love, I write but silly songs ; Our daily bread I cannot earn ; To grub amid the money-throngs My restless spirit will not learn. Dear love, I dream but empty dreams ; My gold is hung on fairy trees Or in that West where Phoebus gleams On apples of Hesperides. Yet in thy need each song shall be A naked sword against the press ; Each dream a shield to shelter thee In token of my stedfastness. CONTENTS. PAGE Dedication : To my Wife ..... v The Testament of William Windune 1 Wind Overhead 41 My Lady's Lips 44 A Precautionary Measure 45 Feverish Man . 47 Impartial 49 Yale Revisited . 51 In an old May 53 A Summer Day 54 Tempus Omnia Vincit 56 Acceptable in His Sight 57 On the Hillside 58 Lux Exstincta . 59 Mother's Song 61 A Ballad of John Davidson 62 Winter . 67 Ode to Gaea . 69 The Testament of William Windune Being a Poem in which Windune disposeth of his worldly- Goods, and maketh Mention and Disposition of divers other Matters, all this being modelled after The Greater Testament of Francois Villon THE TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE. INTRODUCTION. Here Windune speaketh of his Purpose, Here in my thirty-second year, The ways of fate considering, Knowing how death is ever near. How youth and life are on the wing And ever faster hurrying As if on some mad frolic bent, I give my pen commissioning To write a will and testament. Pen, we have been good friends enough; The tie that binds us two is strong! Your point has writ some startling stuff And wrought its share of right and wrong. This bodes to be no lover's song. But bear with me till it be done ; If I can see ahead so long 'Twill be a strange and mongrel one. The dictionary I entreat To take its place beside my hand; It holds a goodly store of meat If one can seize and understand. Thence a rich banquet for the grand A master's touch could conjure forth, But what will come at my command May be of very doubtful worth. [1] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE For I am very modest, I Have never claimed a master's touch; My poor, lame verse would hardly try To stand without some kind of crutch. And so I do not hope for much, But only hope I may present My whimsicalities and such. Also, a binding testament. Now will I for a moment tell Of him, my prototype, who knew This transitory world so well His ancient verse to me and you Is just as vital and as new As any of the present time. Would we had one like him to do Some rough, hard work for modern rime! Here followeth the Ballade concerning Frangois Montcorbier, surnamed Villon. BALLADE OF FRANQOIS VILLON. After the Manner of his own Ballad of Things known and unknown as translated into English by John Payne. The lack of bread he knew full well. The empty glass, the cupboard bare. Also the prison's wretched cell. Its vermin foul and meagre fare; [2] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE He knew too well the gallows where Death almost claimed him for its own, Where friends of his blew in the air — He knew all save himself alone. He knew the power of beauty's spell; He knew true love of ladies fair; But more he knew of those who sell Lust's fleeting joys and fleshly ware; He knew the drunkard's bleak despair, The thief's chill fear, the outcast's groan, He knew a dead foe's glassy stare — He knew all save himself alone. From king and court to cockle-shell Of all the world he was aware; But most he used to think and tell How time brings all to disrepair, How youthful breasts and lips and hair By age are soiled and overgrown; He knew how death ends every care — He knew all save himself alone, U Envoi. You poets sour or debonair, I pray you tell if you have known One else of whom you could declare. He knew all save himself alone. [3 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Here Windune craveth Leave to introduce a Digression. Now, Reader, bear with me a time While that I write of him whose way Draws to the bitter, final climb And to the misty end of day; Of one so near I would not say (For father has he been to me) Save that it seems his story may Apply to all humanity. Now Windune writeth of his Uncle. My Uncle lies near death, beside A row of bottles small and great, For lack of which he'd soon have died, (Or would more likely live, some state.) His wasted body has the weight Dead bodies have, his voice that rung So clear can scarce articulate. His tongue is like a dead man's tongue. He wants me near him,* we were such Good friends and comrades, youth with age. But now I cannot help him much In this last fight he has to wage. Nor would I take the pilgrimage He has to take so soon, although With him by motor, rail or stage I ever have rejoiced to go. [4] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE How can It be that he will die And lie forever starkly still And never greet me more, while I Am free to tread each field and hill Which he so loved and never will Once see again? All these will dim And my choked heart with anguish fill Because they were half made of him. Ye hills and vales of his estate, Ye fields that 'neath his guidance grew, Ye forests that the axe's weight Has scarcely touched to thin and hew. Will not a shiver tremble through Crags, slopes and valleys, wailing breath Shriek through the woods, fields weep In dew, When your old master yields to death? Nay, ye will smile beneath the sun, Or drip, as ever, with the rain; Ye will not care when he Is done Nor grieve ye shall not feel again His step In woodland or In plain; Ye care no more that he departs Than for the last year's crop of grain — But what of us, our broken hearts? If It be morn or afternoon He does not know nor care, he lies All day and night In semi-swoon With dullness In his pale blue eyes, The same that, ever kind and wise, [5] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Saw me come into being, then Watched every act and enterprise Until I reached the realm of men. How hard it is to realize That he the years have got at bay Once had two sweet, blue, baby eyes And every cunning baby way; Yea, he, nigh ninety years to-day, Once lay, all pink and warm, inside His tiny crib and crowed in play — A mother's joy, a father's pride. Hard, too, it is to comprehend That he who lies worn-out, supine, Once had the fire that youth can lend When life is fair and fresh and fine. His heart beat fast as thine or mine When his beloved he espied; What pride and joy almost divine He felt the day he claimed his bride! Now the old bride complains that she Can only hobble while there pass With jaunty step full springily The lusty lad and happy lass. No step of all the thoughtless mass Is quick as his, she oft has said; Then with bowed head she groans, "Alas!" — God pity her when he is dead ! O God, if any God there be, Relieve him of this grievous strain, [6] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE O give him back to mine and me In strength and ruddy health again. Life filled him so in every vein That life seems an essential part Of that quick, curious, tireless brain, Of that great, loving, noble heart. Uncle, when you are dead and done And in the yellow, lifeless ground Lies what has loved us, every one. And what we loved beyond all bound, Although we think you nobly crowned With a great goodness, there remains — Aside from hopes and thoughts profound — But grains of dust with other grains. When we, whose love for you is such Our hearts are choked with woe of it, Have joined you where no tongue can touch Our molding minds with shafts of wit. Where never poignant grief can hit Hearts that once mourned but then will not, Your name, which by our love was lit, Will then be nearly quite forgot. If kings who ruled in pomp and fame Are now so far forgotten, men No longer even know the name Of him who shook the nations then. How can you hope to live again In thoughts of one long-distant mind, When all your claim to fame has been That you were always good and kind? [7] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE The breathless centuries will roll Above you in your narrow cell And none will know that once a soul That loved the world exceeding well Lies where the thrifty hucksters dwell Or, haply, in the market-place Or where the argent asphodel Shows to the sun its timid face. Here Windune pauseth a Moment to say Farewell to some who may likely survive him. Perhaps this message will be read In those deep silences that fall About the precincts of the dead When something lies beneath its pall. If so, I ought to say to all Who may remain when I am through With all this noisy beck and call Some word of greeting and adieu. No fancied shadow waits for me. No nightmare of the realm of dreams From which one gains reality, Waked by the sunlight's golden beams. This Thing is Real ; not all our schemes Nor all our subtle modes of thought Can make of it a Thing which Seems Nor change the nature of that Nought. I press my calves and thighs and hips, My arms and back and neck and chest, [8] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE My cheeks and forehead, chin and lips, By a cold panic-fear possessed; Beneath the warmth my hands attest The charnel bones I feel In place And glimpse, in thought, a grinning jest, A fleshless skull, beneath my face. So, since I must, I say farewell To earth and all its pleasant things. And, Ancient Mother, let me tell How much I loved your happenings, Your clowns and workers, thieves and kings, Your glaring scenes of great display, Your homely fireside comfortings. Your gracious night, your golden day. I say farewell, mine enemies. Such as survive me on The Day. (I know I have a host of these, And yet I somehow hope that they Will let Time's whisk-broom brush away Old memories of quarrels done. That I may shift from man to clay With malice from and toward none.) Friends, cover up my worthless corse And waste no time in fruitless tears; Most likely when I've spent my force I shall have had my share of years And said my say amid my peers And know the little joys of men. Weep not for me ; your hour, too, nears, And I shall not be weeping then. [9] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Dear children, whose gay laughter brings, Much more than Phoebus does, the morn, (And you who, 'neath Time's folded wings. May, as I write, be still unborn,) Think not of me, I pray, with scorn When death has left my weakness plain, Think rather how my heart has borne Such love for you it seemed like pain. Here Windune enter cth upon Matter of great Erudition. The stars In their unhuman skies Are hanging, fixed and frigid, whence They watch with white and listless eyes The vision of man's impotence. For what Is man who hurries hence 'Mid tiny throbs of joys and tears To these whose awful consequence Endures of many million years? WTiat of this round of day and night In which the sun the stars doth slay, In which the moon doth put to flight The sun until another day? What does it mean or bode, I pray. Is there no goal, no ultimate. Will Time forever toss and play With worlds caught in the gin of Fate? What Is the use of all this life? Time toys with senseless force and dust, [ 10] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Transmutes them Into man and wife Or into hate or love or lust. Each, as ft is predestined, must Begin and flourish, lastly fall, So that we can but question, just What is the goal or good of all? Time toys with senseless force and dust And by his wondrous wand transmutes The same to baker's dough or crust Or lovely girls in linen suits, To chauffeurs who elude pursuits, To millionaires and motormen. To waving grains or luscious fruits — Then whirls ft all to dust again. There must be some delusion here. Our lives, if finfte, cannot be If there exfsts, as would appear, A temporal fnfinft}\* And yet, none could convince us we Are non-exfstent. Hence a press Of studfes fn philosophy Arise, in number numberless. *By mathematical calculation seventy^ a life's span, is no part of infinity, or seventy divided by infinity /70 \ equals notmng. I ^ — 0* ) [ 11 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Here followeth the Ballade of the true Reality, BALLADE OF THE TRUE REALITY. The Roman ladies sat and spun And gossiped in the knowing way That gentle dames have always done, And sewing circles do to-day. But they by time were swept away Where none can hear them more or see; And we shall last no more than they — What is the true reality? Through five informants we have one Coordinate report; we say Our minds have gained dominion Of suns and planets, air and clay. But changed is all as night from day To one with senses four or three. Who knows what six might not display— What is the true reality? A ship of many a thousand ton When sighted is a speck of gray; Each star, although a flaming sun, Seems but a dot of luminous ray, Less than a puny seed of hay Held overclosely to the £ye. What standard is there to portray What is the true reality? [ 12] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE UEnvoi. Professors, can time make and slay An entity, can senses be. With space, delusion? Tell me, pray, What is the true reality? Here Windune continueth on Matter of great Erudition. The world is full of wonders, all And each Is wonderful to me. In kitchen-vessels on the wall, Hanging on hook or nail, I see Types of materiality, Reminders man and metals fall In the same class with bird and bee As crumbling and ephemeral. The world is full of wonders, none Is more than other wonder-worth; The marvel of the white-hot sun Is no more than the least of earth. A tree of many feet in girth In this Is as a grain of corn; We wonder at the primal birth: Whence was the least or greatest born ? Man In his selfish, finite style Seeks starts and ends in all, because He ends In such a little while; [ 13 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE The universe to human laws He tries to twist; his self-applause Must tickle Fate whose talons bend Man with all else, who knows there was No start and ne'er will be an end. We see such varied forms of life, Such whirling matter thrown and thrust, Such changing and eternal strife Of crumbling dust with other dust, Yet under each deceptive crust Of mind and matter, man and sun. In force and atom bides, we trust, The essential and pervading one. Indeed, I think all men who pry- As man is able, half-aghast, In the Great Deep, must testify To one conclusion at the last: God is the present and the past, The future (without any goal)^ The atom small, the planet vast. The single life, the cosmic whole. If there be anything abstract We cannot ever hope to find Its nature, bound in thought and act By pentagons of sensuous mind. The mysteries that lurk behind Those flimsy walls that never bend To light the soul therein confined, Are mysteries unto the end. [ 14] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Truly, the mystery of things Must be our strongest comfort, for With all our dread imaginings We ne'er are sure what lies in store. Though man with piercing mind explore In nature's ways complex, involved, The One Great Secret, as before, Will ever be unknown, unsolved. Negroes and lower animals Give most disquieting offense To one whose mind despairing calls For proof of human permanence. Does man's imperial eminence Make him eternal? Where and why Can one divide with any sense Immortals from the beasts that die? "We have but faith, we cannot know," For all we know would point our doom. What we can grasp would go to show The fearful meaning of the tomb. One race that fills another's room Is all our minds can help us see. And faith is all that lights the gloom That overhangs our destiny. Yet is it not a privilege To dwell with such great company, Here on the old earth's whirling edge In sight of stars and nebulae? And, to be fair, what rights have we [15] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE To lives of large, eternal scope? Are we not lucky just to be? And further — we can cling to hope. But I must stop my rambling prate And give my gentle readers rest; They'd rather far, I dare to state, That I at once begin to test. So, I shall leave where I think best Certain great grants of varied sort; And, first, the best and costliest To legatees of high import. Here IVindune beginneth to test. THE TESTS THAT WINDUNE MADE. Item, unto my Mother Earth I leave my body, not that she Suffers from such a present dearth That she has need of little me, But that my generosity Extends so far that I would pay At death what, as a life-lessee, I have enjoyed this many a day. My soul, If such a thing I have, I pray the great God take in care And let it not within the grave The fate my body suffers share. [ 16 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE He gave my mind these things to bear: Self-consciousness and longing not To have that self destroyed, unfair 'Twould be to leave that self to rot. These souls distinct and separate Cause all our petulance and fret; We should not rail at death and fate And be so mightily upset, If we, without these egos, met In one eternal union; Death makes us thus, some say, and yet The process is a painful one. Perhaps as beggars give the moon I've offered God this gift of me, I have my doubts that, late or soon, I've ever been an entity; Souls daily change and seem to be The shiftiest of all that shift — This talk is pretty dull, perdie; I'll turn me to some other gift. Item, a home that bears his name I leave unto the god of war; I mean I give him perfect claim Unto the mirky, blood-red star. There let him rule alone, afar From all our nations old and new; Such distance were efficient bar To stop the deeds he's glad to do. [ 17] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Brothers and sisters of the earth, Small, groping creatures who engage In schemes of most aspiring worth, I leave you this rich heritage. Common to all, that while you age, Dwindle and shrivel, you may be Equal before the conquering rage Of One Eternal Chartless Sea. To maids and youths in every land, Of smiling face and footstep light, I grant you may not understand The meaning of time's giddy flight. May days be fair and nights be bright. May life for you its joys unfold. You will need memories in the night Of life's decline when you are old. O happy young folks, here and there. To whom the world is jest and play, Who sleep at night without a care And laugh with the recurring day, I dread to think what heavy way You have to tread, what thorns it hath, And how your feet will wish to stray Back to the sunny, rose-strewn path. For all your smiles and pleasant ways, For all your bodies lithe and new. You cannot halt a whit the days That lay their hea\^ load on you. 'Tis little that a day can do! [ 18] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Light as a leaf it falls upon Your lives ; yet those the years will strew Will crush you with a weight of stone. Item, I leave unto the old, Blind minds^ dull hearts that cannot feel The woe that cometh with the cold Of age, the woe that nought can heal. I leave them wealth, that great appeal Which wins a throng to listen to Old stories that time cannot steal. Old jokes age thinks as good as new. What hope have you, old men and bowed, Who sit, all bent, before the fire? You take no interest in the crowd. Its fresh ideas, its new attire. No common human wants inspire Your outworn flesh and souls, no whit Of tremulous or hot desire Shakes you — you have forgotten it. Your minds are crowded so with things You scarcely know the past has fled; The friends who left 'mid sorrowings You do not feel are done and dead. Old scenes and times revisited By journeys into memories' land Have tangled so your life's long thread That change you cannot understand. Item, I leave a verse to you, Old men who have not far to go, [ 19] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Yea, unto you old women too Who once were fair and young, I know, A verse to prove the overthrow Of all the great the earth has known, That, thinking of your way of woe, You need not then feel so alone. Here followeth the Ballade of Death that Win- dune made for old Men and old Women too, BALLADE OF DEATH. The tender flowers that bloom in spring And set the woods and hills a-glow Are dead and all their blossoming Is gone before the hot winds blow. And all that June is proud to grow: The rose and more of sweeter breath. Are vanished ere the winter's snow — There is no conqueror like death. The gods are dead, from governing Zeus abdicated long ago, And Thor has ceased his thundering, With Western Folk that bide below Osiris sleeps, and Pan is so Silent no man discovereth His den by wood or water-flow — There is no conqueror like death. Philip, the Macedonian king, Who laid the way for him to go [20] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Who wished more worlds for conquering, Fell by one never-beaten foe. And Hannibal and Scipio — All conquerors it conquereth — Came to their final overthrow — There is no conqueror like death. UEnvoi. Sweet ladies and strong men also, What fear is this your pallor saith? — That even you dread death must know? — There is no conqueror like death. To little children I bequeath Indefinite continuance Of failure to see underneath Their parents' sin and ignorance. May never smile nor guilty glance Their gentle credence undeceive; Quite soon enough they'll view askance The world, when childhood's realm they leave. You ministers who preach and pray, I leave to every one and each Ability in every way To know and practice what you preach. Such gems of thought and flowers of speech Our strained, attentive ears receive, I will your own beliefs may reach The things you ask us to believe. [21 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE To politicians sure and swift The popular desire to scent, Whose uttermost convictions shift Whenever It's expedient, Who smell the coming great event While busy blocking Progress' way, Then claim the whole accomplishment — A few sententious words I say. Here followeth a few sententious Words addressed to Politicians in the Form of a Ballade, BALLADE FOR POLITICIANS. For maidens' lips that part and pout, For eyes that stir as well as see, For rains through which the sun comes out And gilds the meadow, stream and tree, For music that has melody All full of mystic, golden notes. For Christmas dinners savory — For such good things I cast my votes. I frown on all the swinish rout Who sneer at honest purity. Whose cheap derision tries to flout All who are clean In some degree. For honor, virtue, decency. And all of evil's antidotes, For God and Immortality — For such good things I cast my votes. [ 22] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Some angel's wit should bring about A record for eternity Of all earth's doings while en route Across the star-strewn cosmic sea. The deeds that mold earth's history, The songs that rise in children's throats, Both filmed and phonographed should be- For such good things I cast my votes. UEnvoi. Vote-seekers all, give heed to me And, 'mid your rush for jobs and groats, Observe most reverentially For what good things I cast my votes. Item, I leave unto the great, Wide city of the central plain The will and power to expurgate Itself of many a nasty stain; I trust it may not fail to gain Full many glories more than size, To help it to them I ordain It see itself with others' eyes. Item, I leave my Mother Yale Stern honor and a stainless name To serve her as a coat of mail 'Gainst all who seek to hurt her fame. I leave her zeal as fierce as flame To tread the way of light and truth. And through immortal age the same Great wisdom and immortal youth. [23] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE To houses that we know have got Distinction in great nature's plan, In that it long has been their lot To shelter most imperial man, I leave what monument I can Of verse, also a warning give That, though they have a lengthy span, E'en they do not forever live. Here followeth the Ballade of Houses. BALLADE OF HOUSES. Proud houses with your towers in air. With winding road and royal gate. In park or lordly thoroughfare. Or crowning some superb estate, Although you shelter rich and great, Be not too lordly, for you must Be made aware, or soon or late, Time lays all houses in the dust. God's houses, you are tall and fair. To life eternal consecrate, Builded with man's extremest care To bear the years' destroying hate. But shrines of many an ancient state Are ruins and their gods out-thrust Can you not see the will of fate: Time lays all houses in the dust? [24] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Want's houses frail with disrepair, With light and air inadequate, With dingy hall and dirty stair, For wreck you have not long to wait; You houses where there congregate Men who rent bodies for their lust, Soon you will feel the edict's weight: Time lays all houses in the dust. L'Envoi, God's houses none would desecrate. Want's houses bare of meat or crust, Lust's houses, houses tall and straight — Time lays all houses in the dust. Sidewalks of stone or of cement On busy street or avenue, You gain of many an event An intimate, peculiar view. 'Mid your humiliations you Deserve some pleasure, therefore I Decree each day you see anew Beauty and youth go passing by. The cripple with beseeching hat Finds you a profitable seat; You hear the plot, the threat, the chat. You feel the city's heart a-beat. The snarl and jangle of the street Is yours, and yours the laugh and sigh, And ever yours the joy to meet With youth and beauty passing by. [25 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE When we whose tramp you feel to-day Have tottered through our Vale of Tears, Humanity's bedecked array Will pass above you through the years; The crowd that surges, fights and cheers, Identical, undoomed to die. Will still be yours, while still appears Youth in its beauty passing by. Windune speaketh of His Mother and maketh a Bequest to her. Item, to her who brought me forth In mother's pain and mother's love. Who gave my genius to the earth (Small gratitude it shows thereof), I grant she may have griefs above Each interested assignee, I have no fear nor question of The sureness of this legacy. For she who, 'neath Death's threatening wings. Gave me the Way of Life to tread, Who weariness and sufferings Bore cheerfully, uncomforted By him who quickly joined the dead. Can hope for only new distress Instead of comfort, and instead Of cheer I cause her loneliness. Such is the fate of all who age; They ever have been left alone. [ 26] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE New scenes arc dropped upon the stage And scenes of eld are all unknown. Youth claims a drama quite his own That each must aid in or attend, And those the years have overgrown Can only have the past for friend. Now Windune speaketh of his own Lady. O Lady I have loved so long, Beloved of the vanished days, Sweet inspiration of the song By which I seek, in fruitless ways, To tell thy grace, so past all praise It must be pleasing e'en to God, I leave thee all my lover's lays, Particularly this ballade: Here followeth the Ballade of Windune*s Sweet- heart. BALLADE OF MY SWEETHEART. A golden pen and ink of gold And golden thoughts should rightly be With him who dares to be so bold As write a poem meant for thee. And who am I who make so free To dabble in the poet's art And sing of thee a melody. Sweetheart sweetheart? [27] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE The winter winds shriek with the cold, The snow is piled above the knee On either side the paths. Behold, The icicles on eave and tree. Then look within my heart and see The fire that never will depart, Because you vowed you loved but me, Sweetheart, (my very own) sweetheart. A golden pen no man could hold Worthy to write thine high degree Of goodness, how thy days enfold The sum of love and purity. No ink of gold could faithfully The total of my love impart. How long I've loved thee utterly. Sweetheart, (I have been true) sweetheart. UEnvot. Lady, how quickly the years flee And many friends must weep and part, (We must from some) but never we, Sweetheart^ (forever true!) sweetheart! O lady, you have been so good, You will not laugh at all my pain? "He did the very best he could," Say to yourself, should you remain When I have joined the ghostly train And lie within my clay-girt hole. And you discover we were twain Who thought we were a single soul. [28 ] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Dear lady, when I think of how The years have fled for thee and me, I am so very glad that thou Art still so full of gaiety, Art still so fair, so good to see, Still eager as thou wert before For all good things earth holds in fee And all that life has got in store. Best take our pleasure while we can And love as strongly as we may; The love of woman and of man, That lives for each one rosy day, Is like the singing of a lay That pierced one so as forth it fled But, after it has sunk away. It is no more than any dead. Windune maketh a Bequest to his Children. Sometimes a man grown old and weak Even forgets the name he bore And heeds not when a friend may speak That word he guarded well of yore; So, since such fate may lie in store For me, my children, I commit My name to you to use once more When I have quite forgotten it. [29] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Windune turneth to his nanut Town and maketh a few Bequests, Item, unto my native town I leave the honor of my birth; Also I give it such renown As is its share upon the earth. And some few citizens of worth I would not leave without bequest; Their secret wish or aching dearth May be allayed by what I test. Item, to Doctor Frank Magee I leave, to keep the wolf outdoors, A liberal annuity Levied upon his creditors. A man whose ample nature soars High over thoughts of paltry gold. Merits some comfort-guarantors Against the time when he is old. Here follow eth the Ballade of Hoarded Wealth, addressed to Doctor Frank Magee. BALLADE OF HOARDED WEALTH. Though we have little, you and I, We love a rich, luxurious air; We do not hesitate to buy, On credit, all we can or dare. Oft the lean, foot-sore millionaire [30] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Has sneered as in our cars we rolled. We thought, as we observed him there, Death- robs the richest of his gold. Do rows of figures satisfy The stomach? Such were gloomy fare! Do coupons make the heart leap high As friendly faces everywhere? For present pleasures we declare! Too soon one lies beneath the mold, Gone buildings, bonds, stocks, every share- Death robs the richest of his gold. Through years of want the frugal try To store up wealth for future wear; But oft before the time comes nigh Which they decreed for pleasure, care And age and sickness, unaware, Have gained an all-tenacious hold; Worn-out they see in their despair, Death robs the richest of his gold. UEnvoi. Doctor, you do not hoard nor spare, Knowing that rich, like poor, grow cold, And, willy nil, are hurried where Death robs the richest of his gold. Item, I leave to him who lost. This winter past, his darling son (What else in life he treasured most He would have given to save this one) [31] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE No gold nor wealth — they ne'er have done A father's heart much good in pain — But this, addressed to him alone, Trusting it is not writ in vain: Heie followeth a Roundel for W. K. in his Sorrow. ROUNDEL FOR W. K. IN HIS SORROW. Without thy son the days turn o'er Like empty pages; nights are one Long, sleepless, wretched sorrow-store Without thy son. Pure as he was I know of none. None was so true and sweet before — His smile was welcome as the sun. Bereaved, I wish thee comfort, for Thy broken life must sweetlier run; Thou knowst, at last, thou'lt be no more Without thy son. Item, unto the magnates that On funeral fare are living high, Who, selling burial lots, wax fat, And fatter caring for them, I Leave an old coin, to typify Their graft, snatched from a dead man's e'e; Perhaps 'twill help to satisfy Their ravenous rapacity. [32] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Little the dead In Woodcrest know What burden falls on son or heir; They cannot answer, yes or no, To swollen bills for little care. "Finance" is none of their affair! The little griefs and troubles too Of us who breathe the vital air, Are now no longer their ado. There on the windy river-bluff, Laid in the sticky yellow clay, They seem of very gentle stuff Who were full hot in former day. The one equality know they: The wealthy in his tomb ha'- not A whit more happiness to-day Than John Doe in the public lot. If we be rich and strong and tall Or poor and wasting in a bed, Let us rejoice we live at all And do not furnish worms their bread. Yea, think on what poor Villon said, "Better to live and rags to wear Than to have been a lord, and dead Rot in a splendid sepulchre." Each day brings forth an added grief Or some new task with which to cope. We long for ultimate relief, To brush aside these cares; we hope To reach a land of grassy slope [33] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE And sun, where woes are left behind. Ere such we gain the earth will ope For us — as these, deaf, dumb and blind. Here Windune entereth upon his Conclusion. CONCLUSION. O little gnats of flickering breath! Since the first parts of this I penned My Uncle lost his fight with death, My Aunt, too, came unto her end. Against old age can none defend! His stomach failed him without pain, Her heart no more its charge could tend- Worn out by eighty years of strain. They both have reached the final stage Which is the goal of low and high^ Where there is nought of youth or age — And may be nought of "it" or '*!." Though, haply, de^ith doth unify Their spirits, haply it will keep Their souls as ages hurry by In sweetness of a dreamless sleep. None knows Death's sudden, ghastly ways Or what fell time he will arrive, Although determined are the days We have to spend on earth, alive. [ 34] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE What use to labor and to thrive, To win what race, to gain what prize, If, flushed with triumph, while we strive We meet Death's awful, placid eyes? No doubt a person's term of life Depends, as does its good and ill, Upon the knowledge that his wife May have of culinary skill. Poor man has neither time nor will His stomach's fare to regulate; It's luck if he can pay the bill — The rest he's got to leave to fate. Since the first parts of this I penned My thirty-second year has fled. And as I bring this to its end I write "my thirty-third" instead. Time in his dizzy whirl has sped And drunkenly his days has flung. Changing the living to the dead And making old folks out of young. Now, Reader, if you come to this Where I would make an end of ends, Perhaps I do not hope amiss That we may go our ways as friends. Let your good nature make amends For all the faults that crowd my verse ; Wish me such fortune as fate sends — Be sure I shall not wish you worse. [35] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE Here follow eth the Ballade that Windune made by Way of Ending, concerning his Verse, his Tests and his Jims. WINDUNE'S EXPLANATORY BALLADE. As to my verse, I know it's lame ; I cannot go the fiery pace That Byron went, nor light the flame That Swinburne flung in the world's face. I would a very modest place Amid the poets' gatherings; My own small thoughts I try to trace — I do not seek for higher things. As to my tests, if your own name Gains neither gift nor any praise, I ask you openly what claim You have that I must needs erase? My poor bequests were my disgrace Compared with millionaires' or kings*; I only hope they fit the case — I do not seek for higher things. As to the final goal or aim I strive for ere the years efface My little light, unknown to fame, That sheds its beams a narrow space. It is to join the endless chase Pursuing truth with eager wings. To raise the lowly and the base — I do not seek for higher things. [36] TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE U Envoi. Friends, after life's impatient race, False quests and barren offerings, I hope to enter in God's grace — I do not seek for higher things. Here endeth the Testament of William Windune, [ 37] OTHER POEMS. WIND OVERHEAD WIND OVERHEAD. The wind goes roaring overhead And the great, gaunt branches snap and sway At this sorrowful end of an empty day — Some of us live hut most are dead. Here we sit hugging the end of day, Watching the red West bubble and burn With a glory of gold we cannot earn, With a flicker of fire that fades away, Watching the great, warm sun expire In the hideous night that streams sinfully by While the day we loved slips out with a sigh, Wondering, each with a brain a-fire, Which of us here will be next to die. The great wind swelling overhead Carries the night in its terrible grip. While a sentence hides beneath each lip — Some of us live but most are dead. We belong to that pitiful sect That is subject to chance's wild caprice, To the ravage of years and the plot of disease. We are creation's most select, The acme or the apogee Of Nature's infinite brotherhood; Ours is the knowledge of evil and good. Since Eve did eat of that mystical tree! (And the fruit was death in that orchard-wood.) [41] WIND OVERHEAD The black limbs clutching the skies overhead Must have been born in a giant birth — \]p to the heavens — deep in the earth — Fart with the living and part with the dead, "What does it mean to die?" one said; "Is it to rest in perfect peace? Will the body live again as trees Or flesh, and the soul be totally dead? Is there a soul of any sort Save that quintessence of flesh, the brain, Which is just as subject to change and pain As the legs and arms and as much the sport Of Fate's abuse and of Death's disdain?" Into the night one thrusts his head. Saying, "The wind grows hungry again. Sweeping the immemorial plain. Searching the living and stilling the dead" One with white hair and face grown grey Shiftily states that there may be hope Of a future life of limited scope Through a separation of spirit and clay. And spirit, perhaps, in a manner merged With a great, composite, general soul Which is all in all of the Cosmic Whole — A union with God, as some have urged, With man extinct in that final goal. [42] WIND OVERHEAD What is it worth, says the wind overhead. Screaming like myriad souls in pain. Nirvana-nullity to attain. If the individual lieth dead? Off in the distance a tolling bell Swings on the wind like the pulse of a world; The bayonetteers of the night are hurled Forward fearfully, fast and well. The West is black and the East the same, The satirical stars are hidden from sight — It is better so, for their hostile light Would burn to the quick with a caustic flame — White as the leper's sores are white. The wind never ceases overhead The fatal, menacing message it cries To the mind that trembles, the flesh that dies- Some live but all, in the end, are dead. [43 ] MY LADY S LIPS MY LADY'S LIPS. Red lips my lips have clung unto Until your blood had vanished quite And left you pale with pink and white, Young lips whose life is ever new, Whose sweet desire is never done, Consider all the amorous lips Whose sweetness now no lover sips Beneath the hot and fervid sun. Hot lips that seem almost my own, Cling closer, for the evil night Will come to stifle our delight; Lips that are soft rose-petals blown Where winds in balmy skies expire. Kiss me as only young flesh can, For the night cometh when no man Can kiss or clasp his heart's-desire. Yea, straining lips, we cannot doubt That you and I may come to be Dust the street winds blow carelessly Before the sprinklers get about. [44] A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE. Suggested to my Lady before she takes up her Residence in the Spirit-World. Perhaps when you reside above With saints and I with sinners dwell. You'll stop your golden song of love An hour, to think of me in Hell. "Perhaps he might have sung as well As any seraph here with me, Perhaps he shakes the depths of Hell With song of singular melody." Such may your thoughts be; you may say, "If I but make a sacrifice And go to meet him half the way, My song may gain some fire from his. "Some of its burning interest May help the song in Heaven as well, And I, who thrive among the blest. Have felt so sad for him in Hell, "And fain would meet with him again To give a little joy anew." Angel, there is no meeting then But a deep gulf between us two. [45 ] A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE So while upon the earth you dwell In a Heaven of joy, in this tangible star, You had better visit my terrene Hell Before that gulf has come as a bar. You had better take some fire of my song For your heavenly dwelling that is to be, Than strain your ears near that gulf of wrong For a snatch of my singular melody. [46] FEVERISH MAN FEVERISH MAN. Man thinks himself final, eternal, Believing the elements love him, While around him are forces supernal And the stars may be laughing above him. Feverish man, Engrossed in his planning and straining, His loving and stealing and gaining, Speeds through his span. So busy with seeding and reaping He lives, that he leaves unregarded The many forms nature discarded In aeons of genital creeping; He reads not the moon's message clear Whose white face is paler than fear In feverish man. Feverish man. Consumed with his wilful endeavor Presumes his way forward forever Passes all ban. Unthinking that changes colossal Will reck not of him and his pleading, That earth growing colder, unheeding. Will roll him with coal-field and fossil, Untouched by the endless desire, The pulse-beats, the maddening fire, Of feverish man, [47] FEVERISH MAN The great, stalwart suns will be swinging In their courses unheeded, unheeding, The strange sound of spheres will be ringing, The nebulae twisting and breeding. [48 ] IMPARTIAL IMPARTIAL. Our hearts rejoice at skies of blue, At sparkling sun and balmy air When springtime wakes the earth anew — To Him is neither foul nor fair. But when the heavens overhead, Corpse-color, drip with ooze, we scowl, Thinking of dreary things and dead — To Him is neither fair nor foul. We have our standards ethical Of manhood and of womanhood (Unconscious of the cause of all) — To Him is neither bad nor good. The harlot and the murderer To us (though also strange and sad) Are wicked, loathsome, sinister — To Him is neither good nor bad. Through summer days of sun and rain Men wait till certain signs are seen Then reap, for human use, the grain — To Him is neither ripe nor green. The fruit above the weathered wall Shows sunburnt cheek or crimson stripe Ere we anticipate its fall — To Him is neither green nor ripe. [49] IMPARTIAL Through microscopes we strain our eyes Atom or germ to designate — Infinitesimal in size — To Him is neither small nor great. While from another glass in awe We turn and in our wonder call Unmentionable what we saw — To Him is neither great nor small. Life's blessing lies in golden hair And lissome youth we oft have sung And age means death and dark despair — To Him is neither old nor young. Astronomers find ancient, worn, Wandering worlds long dead and cold, Then nebulae or worlds unborn — To Him is neither young nor old. [ 50] YALE REVISITED YALE REVISITED. Mother, the years have been so long And worthless things have laid me low. I thought to place upon thy brow Sweet garlands of immortal song. But now the hands that dared aspire To bless thee with such gifts as these Can scarcely reach unto thy knees To clasp thy robe with palms of fire. Yea, for my hands are hot with shame That I who hoped for things so high Am fallen in such a way that I Can add no honor to thy name. Thy sturdy sons in victory Have brought thee many a goodly gift And paid with products of their thrift The ancient debts they owed to thee. But I, whose debt is very great, Have not the smallest gift to bring Of fame or golden offering. But come, a poor unfortunate, Whose tongue must ever beg for more Of strength and guidance, ask of thee To steer me o'er the weary sea To some new haven on the shore. [ 51 ] YALE REVISITED Mother, I am not fit to cope With giants of this modern strife, So I have lost my grip on life And lost my courage and my hope. The weight of failure overwhelms My heart and makes me turn my face Homeward and ask thee of thy grace To shelter me beneath the elms. [ 52] IN AN OLD MAY IN AN OLD MAY. Launcelot sings: Gold hair is bright in youth and May But soon the winter turns it white. Sweet love, so gold is yours to-day I would God never sent the night; But while the day is in your hair Let me be strong and you be fair. Guenevere sings: A little time in youth and play For lady fair and lordly knight ! True love, so strong you seem to-day I would God never sent the night; Would day were many lifetimes long While I am fair and you are strong. Launcelot sings: A little time are lovers gay And all the world is lit with light; Gold love, so bright it is to-day I would God never sent the night, Would all things ever golden were, I ever strong, you ever fair. Guenevere sings: Great lord, my beauty will decay And years will quite destroy your might; Howe'er we love the sweet To-day And wish God never sent the Night, Years hence alone in tale and song Shall I be fair and you be strong. [ 53 ] A SUMMER DAY A SUMMER DAY. Somehow ft seemed the open air Might cleanse her of her first disgrace. And so she found a sunny place And stretched herself in silence there. Her body she had loved to touch And tend and gaze on and control, And even her inmost private soul Felt soiled with an enduring smutch. Although there had seemed nothing true But passion when she yielded, yet She shut her eyes to help forget And — lest the sun might stare her through. Then, with a little moan of pain, She turned upon her side and saw The hot, grey clouds that strove to draw Rare moisture for the blessed rain. She felt the burnt grass with her palm And thought that it was blasted too And yearned for rain or healing dew As she for death or changeless calm. The very air seemed choked with shame. In the high trees no frail leaf stirred, Only a little scarlet bird Shot through the air, a shaft of flame. [ 54] A SUMMER DAY Hearing at length a whistle shrill, She loosed her clenched hands from the dirt And wearily arranged her skirt As he came slouching up the hill. [55] TEMPUS OMNIA VINCIT TEMPUS OMNIA VINCIT. Beloved, all In all to me, Dearer than sight of sun and sea And leaves of spring and leaves of fall, Whose little mouth was made to kiss — Sweeter than honey-comb It Is — How can we stand against it all? How can we put our little sweet Against the worlds beneath our feet And many million worlds above? In love a little day we spend But they will crush us in the end For all our little strength Is love. How can the feeble shore withstand The wash of the sea against the land? The wash of time the earth will mar And change it to some other thing, And we who kiss and love and sing Will be the dust of a dead star. Beloved, all in all to me, Dearer than sunlight on the sea, Clasp both thine arms about me tight, Press to my lips thy clinging lips — Sweeter than honey the bee sips — That we may both forget the Night. [ 56] ACCEPTABLE IN HIS SIGHT ACCEPTABLE IN HIS SIGHT. God has not seen a sight more fair, My lady^ than your wistful face Crowned with a halo of gold hair That glorifies the dreariest place. What is it you are longing for? What Is your mouth so wistful of ? It seems your heart Is straining sore For something — Is it God or love? If God has looked upon the earth While many million years have rolled Since Its hot, vaporous time of birth. His eyes must now be very old. And it must be so good to Him, After the sights that meet His gaze Of horror and hate and famine grim, To see your gentle face and ways. To see you doing His commands, Spreading His sweetness everywhere, Living as If His loving hands Were lightly laid upon your hair. O lady of the shining face, Is all that you are wistful of Simply the spreading of His grace — Or do you yearn for human love? [57] ON THE HILLSIDE ON THE HILLSIDE. Waken her, dear, as we used to do, Calling, "Sweet, sweet," as she lay asleep ; This morn when the branch-buds burst and leap Certainly she will waken too. She who was motion, life and song. Now, as the cordial sunbeams play Cheerfully over the grass to-day. Surely can not be quiet long. Let us await till day be fled, By this grassy hill, her coming through, Praying to see those eyes of blue Shining out of that curled gold head. [58] LUX EXSTINCTA LUX EXSTINCTA. The light of heaven in her face Illumed the mirky way I fared — She seemed a little, golden-haired Angel endowed with God's own grace. Her childish ways were my delight; Out of my depths I smiled to say That surely God had made the day For her, although for me the night. Her little body was not made For pain or any evil thing Such as that fearful withering Which left her great blue eyes afraid. — And how with all my worthless might I prayed her light should never wane And whispered oft and oft again, "For her the day, for me the night!" Yet though we labored, prayed and cried, The piercing pain that made her gasp Gathered her child's heart in its grasp, And, with a little shriek, she died. At first I had no word to say ; I could not feel she would not come To fight the shadows of my home And smooth my troubles all away. [ 59] LUX EXSTINCTA But now I know that there will be Sunlight no more upon my way, And sometimes mockingly I say, 'Tor her what night, what day for me?" What sorrow would God's great heart nurse If, of the countless worlds a-fire, He saw the last huge sun expire And darkness whelm the universe! [ 60] MOTHERS SONG MOTHER'S SONG. From The Ephemera. Sweet little life, sweet part of me. That makes me mother more than wife, My heart is all bound up in thee, Sweet little life. Sweet little eyes that cannot see The woe of this great world and wise, I would that ye might ever be Sweet little eyes. Sweet little mouth that holds in fee My being's best to slake thy drouth, Take what thou wilt of me, of me. Sweet little mouth. [61] A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON. Out of a grimy Scottish town Where Holy Writ was daily bread, Up to the great, grey Babylon With heart a-fire the rebel fled. With genius piercing through the mirk, Gasping, he saw the secret plan. The beauteous horror of God's work, The glory and the doom of man. The gloomy hopefulness of doubt His black conviction hurled behind — While Heaven and Hell were tossed about In windy caverns of his mind. Yet times there were when even he Breathed joy from every springtime flower; On summer nights he loved to see The stars burst in a silver shower. The bitter magic of his soul Transmuted words to poets' gold; As swift as light from source to goal His thought in fearful vision rolled. Although he dipped his pen in flame But little bread and meat he earned; The fever shook his burning frame. His lips with cynic laughter burned. [ 62] A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON His blood was brazen fire within, His heart a molten mass of fire, A field of fever was his skin And every nerve a singing wire. In Hinnom's Vale, a man accursed, He delved in frantic depths of pain ; Sometimes it seemed his skull would burst With the fierce pressure of his brain. Sometimes at Ancient Wrong he railed And his weak, zealous arrows hurled ; Sometimes his heart on fire exhaled Sweet incense for a sinful world. In a red riot Space and Time With bludgeon blows his soul assailed; At times his hands were black with slime And then the sun before him paled. He cried, when twisting with the strain That seemed about to burst its bars, "If poetry is born of pain My verse should scrape the nadir stars. "The purest notes that critics hail Out of some broken heart are torn — The swan at death, the nightingale Sings best, pierced by a thorn." [63] A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON He struck his brow, he clenched his teeth, And spoke through lips in pain compressed, "What matter one more laurel wreath, Thrown on the dung-hill with the rest!" Sick of the Babylonian stews. Of dwelling with the living dead, Crushed by the drain of wound and bruise. From Babylon the victim fled. Hoping for solace and relief. For Lethe from Fate's steely sport, He sought to bury thought and grief In quiet of a Cornish port. Yet little different he found Huge London and minute Penzance, When all the wild world whirling 'round Could break no bonds of circumstance. Flee as he would, his fiery mind Fled with him ; goaded night and day, He could not leave himself behind Nor turn Death's stealthy step away. "Why live in Hell," he questioned, "why Not try the brave, old-fashioned crime? It is not difficult to die And cheat my snarling captor. Time. [64] A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON "If life snuffs out, at least I gain A quick escape from horror's mesh; And there's a blessed end of pain In being nothing but dead flesh." Then suddenly he disappeared, And it was thought that he had died Seeking the nothingness he feared, Until one day the restless tide Bore, bobbing up and down upon Its breathing breast, a sodden shape. 'Twas he whose hair had brushed the sun, Whose hands had wrapped the stars with crape. "Poor Davidson!" the papers said; "His corpse was picked up in the sea; His books, not very widely read, Are marked by their intensity." In some fantastic spot of space Suited to that perfervid soul Does he view cosmos face to face And watch the tumbling aeons roll ? Perhaps with transcendental sight He sees, in fringes of the sky. Old suns go reeling into night. Great winds of chaos billowing by. [65] A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON With genius piercing through the mirk, Haply he grasps an inner plan, The mighty marvel of God's work And some escape for fruitless man. At least that brazen blood within, That heart that flamed all white with fire, Are cool as is that fevered skin And quiet as those nerves of wire. At least, though he be putrid meat, He knows no horror nor distress. E'en though he tread with ghostly feet Pale seas and shores of Nothingness. Though earth applaud and critics praise, Though many of his books be sold, He recks no more of nights or days — The flame is quenched, the ash is cold. [ 66 1 WINTER WINTER. One speaks: We sleep within soft sheets, we lie In comfortable warmth, nor weep That winter crawls so slowly by — Knowing nought else so good as sleep. Another answers: But what of those who, thin and cold. Huddle in doorways in the rain. Or envy jewelers the gold Fenced from them by a window-pane? Who knows what squalor they are in? Who knows what horrid haunts they keep, What woe they feel from want or sin, Within what sheets they go to sleep? The bitter wind that shrieks and moans About our houses, gust on gust. Cuts through their garments to the bones With savage glee at every thrust. And what of those who, finely dressed. All winter long lie side by side, Arrayed in all their Sunday-best, As a bridegroom that greets his bride? Is it not very cold for them. Yea, for the poor dead ladies too Who do not sit to knit or hem In warm rooms as they used to do? WINTER Though we who sleep in tender sheets May never feel the bite of cold, Nor starve for want of sumptuous meats, Nor covet any other's gold, Yet in some winter we shall lie Superbly dressed and side by side, But not with joy or longing sigh A bridegroom has who greets the bride; Yea, without sound of song or mirth, Or savory smells of Living Land, Or taste of all the sweets of earth. Or sight of face or touch of hand. [ 68] ODE TO G^A ODE TO G^A. O mother, marvellous mother, Out of you, the eternal source, With many a lesser brother Came man, in his due course; Out of you plain and river. Mountains v^^here white streams quiver, Forests the forked fires sliver, And every form of force. Born of a fierce communion, Daughter of Time and Space, Whose vast, primeval union Bore the w^orld-Titan race, After your mighty yearning, Such dire and desperate burning. How can you now be turning So bland and bright a face? Wild fruit of fiery passion, You blew and shrunk and glowed. Reeling in drunken fashion On the celestial road. From film to fire transmuted. On chaos' whirlwinds bruited. How can you now be suited For a frail child's abode? O mother, ancient mother. Your youth has long been spent. Ages your white fires smother, You smile in fond content. [ 69] ODE TO G^A Your surface basks so sweetly, So gently and so meetly, You have forgot completely Whither your flame days went. Your breasts have suckled nations That grew to glorious might. Then, swept from rent foundations, Plunged to an utter night. Wild winds wail Susa's story. Dead books tell Athens' glory, And ruins dank and hoary Mark Babylon the bright. Within your womb that bore them Lie the colossal dead; Desire can not restore them. Nor Battle bright and red, Nor Art the ones who sought her, Nor Fame the great who bought her, Nor love of wind and water Those whom Poseidon led. Grave minds with wisdom gifted Say man will stay not still, But, through the years uplifted, A perfect plan fulfill, To stand at last not mirthless, But flawless, radiant, earth-less, Purged of all waste and worthless Dead leaves of Igdrasil. [70] ODE TO G^A But you, O mother mournful, Must know these thoughts are vain; Exulting man grown scornful, Waxing — will also wane! When your hot heart grows colder, Art, virtue, mind will moulder, All man's might fearful, bolder, Will fight the cold and pain. Then, toy of blind conditions. Your petted child will cease, Conquered by harsh transitions, Lastly in silent peace. Instead of height supernal. Life perfect, bright, eternal, Turned in your course diurnal With mountains and with seas. Souls without name or number, Unharassed, undistressed. Will lie in utter slumber. One in that final rest; And guardian gods whose keeping Was prayed with groans and weeping Will also then be sleeping Soundly as curst or blest. Hot hearts that burst with beating, Cold hearts no grief could mar. Brains that grew white with heating. Soft flesh without a scar, [71] ODE TO GJEA Will He in one united — The fortunate, the slighted, The righteous, the benighted — Dust of a dying star. Lonely and cold and rigid You will tour the tenuous waves Of ether frail and frigid. Your dead breast full of graves; Thus will your heat have ended, All life that j^ou befriended — Your offspring — long since wended Where nothing damns or saves. [72]