SPINDRIFT MILTON UAISON "Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying ..." MASEFIELD. Engraved by John Sla PORTRAIT OF A SAILOR What is the saving grace that made him loved, Written about, and praised where er he roved? Truly, I do not know, but seeing there, His figure by the rail, his eyes to sea, His red face crinkled, and wind in his hair, I do not dare deny his majesty. S PI N D RIFT BY MILTON RAISON WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY WILLIAM McFEE AND A FRONTISPIECE BY JOHN SLOAN NEW ^SSr YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY. SPINDRIFT. I PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA f* TO VIOLE ^ r I have the simple need of you, I have of meat and drink, Of freedom, beauty, faith and friends, And lovely thoughts to think. But you are everything I need, Faith and food and friend, And you are fused with beauty In my thoughts without an end. I need of nothing on this earth, Yet I go off to sea, To seek the freedom that you steal In dominating me. INTRODUCTION BY WILLIAM McFEE If memory, backed by the conven tional criticism of twenty, thirty, and even forty years ago, be accepted as a guide, the invariable defect of youthful poetry was a lack of simplicity and a sense of direction. One had a tendency, it is remorsefully remembered now, to write of things of which one knew noth ing and in a style entirely foreign to the experience and temper of one s age. This, no doubt, was to be expected of young people who lived, for the most part, very secluded lives without tele phones, automobiles, magazines, or cine mas ; their actual knowledge was micro scopic, and the demesnes of their fancy untraversed by the highroads of modern learning. It was the first duty of every guide, philosopher and friend of youth to warn them against writing of distant places and far-off romantic periods, in imitation of Scott and his school. Write of what you know, was the ceaseless cry of the sage seniors to dreamy-eyed youth, who of course knew nothing and so could not profit by this valuable advice, but went on dreaming and constructing impossible romances (like Shelley s "Zastrozzi") until in most cases they fell in love and discovered things for themselves. Today, youth knowing everything, the problem is not the same. For them there is no longer any danger of loiter ing palely in the anterooms of romance. They do not need recalling from fan tastic journeys into preposterous prin cipalities, nor are they discovered ap ing Keats, with his "magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn." There is even a doubt in the present writer s mind whether they ever fall in love any more (in the old foolish, dreamy, meal-miss ing sense) .... And herein lies the interest in modern verse. It may not tell us very much about art or life, but it ought to tell us something about the young people who write it. Whether they know it or not, they are living in a very remarkable age. How remarkable, only those of us know who can remember the eighties XI and the nineties. And while their reac tions to this age are not necessarily en tirely embodied in verse, there is suffi cient demand and encouragement for poets nowadays to accept their efforts as authentic manifestations of the Time Spirit. For this reason it is to be regretted that so few of these young people reveal any appreciation of the technical prob lems involved in poetry. So far from resembling a company of polite young romantics gathering posies in a beauti ful garden, they convey, in their modern vers libre, an unhappy impression of a gang of hoodlums smashing and uproot ing, and sinking their heavy heels in the choicest flower beds as they bawl to one another their favorite aesthetic anthem: that they know not where they are going, but they are on their way. If one does not know that, there is nothing to be gained by making a virtue of it. The sleep walker and the anarchist have the same justification for their behavior. One has only to imagine the votaries of any other art proclaiming the same im pudent doctrine, to perceive the unwis dom of it. It is highly desirable in all the arts to know where one is going, and Xll it may even prove a sound policy to halt a while and find out. In the verses now under consideration the young author has advanced no such foolish contentions. If many modern poets remind one of a noisy syncopating orchestra, these brief pieces are like the clear melodious whistle of a boy on a fine summer evening. It was early dis covered by the present writer that one of the most difficult things to accomplish in any art is outline. And here you have it. There is a Latin sharpness of men tality manifested in these clearly, sar donically etched portraits of a ship s crew. The whimsical humor revealed in final lines is a portent, in the present writer s opinion, of a talent which will probably come to maturity in a very dif ferent field. Indeed it may be though it is too early to dogmatize that these poems are but the early efflorescence of a gift for vigorous prose narrative. This is scarcely the place to go into the intri cate and interesting question of literary origins. Some men begin, as did Shel ley, by designing enormous and macabre romances and find their true metier in great verse. Some, like Thomas Hardy, achieve fame as novelists and develop Xlll late as minor poets. Others, and these form the main body of literature, sing in lusty minor verse for a year or two, and then, ceasing as suddenly as though their poetic voices had broken, use the prose form for the rest of their lives. The opinions of men diverge sharply upon the question of the best environ ment for the development of a man of letters. Milton Raison has settled for himself, with engaging promptitude, that a seafaring career provides the in spiration he craves. The influence of Masefield is strong upon him, and some of his verses are plainly derivative. As already hinted, it is too early to say defi nitely how this plan will succeed. In his diary, kept while on a voyage to South America, a document remarkable for its descriptive power and a certain crude and virginal candor, one may dis cover an embryo novelist struggling with the inevitable limitations of youth. But in his simple and naive poems, whether they give us some bizarre and catastrophic picture of seamen, or depict the charming emotions of a sensitive adolescence, there is a passion for ex periment and humility of intellect which XIV promises well enough for a young man in his teens. The story is told of one of our greatest living writers, that at the height of his spectacular career, his father could not be induced to voice the almost universal praise. When pressed, the latter ad mitted laconically that his son s achieve ment was "creditable." From this po sition of extreme moderation he refused to be moved. Here is a very valuable anecdote. There is too much meaningless and un- authenticated enthusiasm in evidence these days. It is highly desirable that the young be protected from dangerous adulation. Let it stand, therefore, in this case as "creditable," and neither poet nor panegyrist will have occasion in future years to regret his modest claims. W. McF. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For permission to reprint some of these verses thanks are due Munsey s Magazine, The Eve ning Post, The Century, Scribner s, Vanity Fair, The New York Call and The Bookman and to John Sloan for the use of his illustration for Portrait of a Sailor. CONTENTS SEA SKETCHES PORTRAIT OF A SAILOR, 21 THE LOOKOUT, 23 THE APPRENTICE, 24 THE MESSBOY, 2$ THE CAPTAIN, 26 THE OLD WIPER, 2J THE CHEATED MATE, 28 THE CHIEF STEWARD, 2Q THE CREW S COOK, 30 THE SHIP S BUTCHER, 31 THE CHIEF ENGINEER, 32 THE NIGHT WATCHMAN, 34 BAFFLED, 35 THE BEACHCOMBER, 36 THE SAILOR SINGS, 37 AT SEA, 38 THE HOLD, 39 SEARCH, 41 SEA MOOD, 42 THE MOON AND THE SHIP, 44 THE GOBLET OF LETHE, 46 VALPARAISO, 47 CERRO AZUL, PERU (FROM THE SHI?), 48 xvii xvm THE LAST NIGHT, 50 FOG, 51 VISION, 52 PEOPLE, PLACES AND THINGS H. M. L., 55 BROTHERS, 57 TO A FRIEND, 58 THE SILENT, 5Q THE CABIN PASSES, 6l SONGS, 63 TWILIGHT MOOD, 66 SPRING STEPS, 67 RHYTHMS, 68 MY LADY S LIPS, 70 PEERS, 71 THE DEATH OF A MISTRESS. 72 CLAIR DE LUNE, 73 THE MAD BARBER, 74 BLACK SHEEP, 75 TO VIOLE IN ANSWER TO HER SONNET, 76 "THESE BE THE LOVELY THINGS", 77 RONDEAU, 78 TO SOPHIE, 79 MY LADY LOVE, 80 FEAR, 8l TO MY LADY, 82 PEACE, 83 XIX EARLY VERSES I REVERIES OF A VIOLEAN NIGHT, 87 FORGET-ME-NOT, 9<D SONNETS TO A YOUNG LOVE, 9! SYLVIA, 97 AGE, 98 PROTEST, 99 SPRING LUXURY, 1OO II Perversities SNEERS, 1O3 LUNI-COMIC, 1O4 PLAY-THOUGHTS, 1OJ AN ATTEMPT AT THE MASEFIELDIAN MANNER, 1O8 LOSS, 112 SOMEONE, 113 QUERY, 114 WISE, 115 SEA SKETCHES PORTRAIT OF A SAILOR HUMPED o er the rail, eyes on the sea he stands, A filling figure of a man whose hands Have never touched an object light enough To do it reverence; the sacred stuff Of love, forbearance, faith, he never knew. And he is cruel in his sportive way, And cunning in his mischief-making too; He has no further use of any day, But take it as it comes and live it through. Grumbling at sea, carousing in a port, And so again that circle s his retort To all the beauty molded out for him Strange his keen eyes should be so sadly dim! 22 What is the saving grace that made him loved, Written about and praised where er he roved? Truly I do not know, but seeing there, His figure by the rail, his eyes to sea, His red face crinkled, and the wind in his hair I do not dare deny his majesty. 23 THE LOOKOUT HE D been to sea for thirty years, And he was tired of tasting spray, Carried by every wind that veers Through night and day. This stuff that salted up his lips, And even the marrow in his bone, Had wet the decks of all the ships He d ever known. It quenched the sun, and threatened stars, And filled his world with steady din. What grander grave for weary tars? So he slipped in. 24 THE APPRENTICE SOME men can find a magic in the sea, And he is one, I know it by his eyes, Sweet with beauty as they turn to me From gazing ocean-wise. Yet he s the sort of man the sea will cheat, And for his love and trust will bite his hand, By mustering her vice for his defeat But he ll not understand. 25 THE MESSBOY E had contempt that was divine, For every sailor that he fed, For while they talked of girls and wine He read. H For while they lived the pain and strife Their dull imagination brooks, He could appreciate their life In books. He washed the dishes, made the bed, And did their errands with fair grace, Nor could their insults on his head Erase That fine, immobile pride of his Which brushed against their baser sod, And was as different as a kiss Of God. 26 THE CAPTAIN THE captain was a silent man Who never said an extra word, He d watch the sea for quite a span, Nor let himself be heard. It s queer that such a man as he Should find himself so strange a friend, And be companion of a sea That talked without an end. 2? THE OLD WIPER HE doesn t know a thing about The engines that he wipes and cleans ; The ships he d been on sailed without Machines. For all, he hopes they ll never make Until he leaves the human race, Some sort of engine that would take His place. 28 THE CHEATED MATE THE captain was so deadly drunk, He wanted to caress a wave, And so they strapped him to his bunk, And left him there to rave. The mate who wished the captain died, So his command the ship would be, Thought that the captain if untied Would jump into the sea. He loosed the cords that held him down, The captain though, was crazy-strong, And as he climbed the rail to drown, He took the mate along. 29 THE CHIEF STEWARD THE seamen hated him because He sent back aft the rotten meat, And all the half-cooked food there was The passengers refused to eat. So since he wasn t fit to live, And anxious for the common weal They threw him overboard to give The sharks at least, a decent meal. 30 THE CREW S COOK THE smallest man among the crew, And yet the one most looked up to. We help him coal his fire and peel The vegetables for every meal; We listen to his tastes, nor voice Among us a dissenting choice. We hate his foe, and love his friend, And lock his secrets in our hearts, Praying Davy Jones to lend Us solemness to play our parts. There is a reason for our fear: With heat, or rage or too much beer, And carving knives so close at hand Cooks have been known to run amuck; And those they didn t like would stand A likely chance of being stuck. The smallest man among the crew Is thus, the one most looked up to. 31 THE SHIPS BUTCHER HE is preposterous, yet he is sym bolic This thin, bald figure strutting in his striped Apron and jacket that he boasts "I swiped"; And his appearance turns the crew to frolic; "Just look at him, the bloody fool who wears That piebald rig-out to his bloody work, Bleeding the pretty colors when his dirk Cuts through the rotten meat put ting on airs!" But through this mocking, he maintains a face Defiant with smiles; at each insult he bows With most elaborate courtesy and grace. And though this clash of mockery al lows A mutual exchange of "Go to hell!", The more effective is not hard to tell. 32 THE CHIEF ENGINEER HE was aristocratic, tall and grim, And had a distant, uncon cerned air That made us think he really didn t care About the things life brought in touch with him. We never saw him read, nor write nor talk, Nor listen, for that matter, all he did Was lend his person as a silent bid Unto our company. At times he d walk Timidly on the deck, deep in a thought Apparently, that made his footsteps halt, As though his very motion were at fault, And out of tune with one so calmly wrought. He didn t seem to care about the ship, And for the sea he never watched it twice ; Nor was he bothered by a single vice, Or worry that would make him bite his lip. 33 Such a person set our wonder free, And we were undecided whether he Was merely stupid, or a mystery. 34 THE NIGHT WATCHMAN WHAT does he know of the sea, this ancient man Who spent a scattered life time on her ships ? Who trod her ports, where fellowship began On hearty footing mid her sons, on sips Of liquor, and her daughter s painted lips. What does he know of the sea, and the storms that lashed Their course of fury with a million whips, And the waves that slid beneath the rays and dashed Themselves to spume against the wind and hull? Surely he must know unf orgotten scenes When painter-skies mixed color in the sea. But when I see him seated, bent and dull, Small, gleaming eyes upon the shoes he cleans For passengers- it stays a mystery! 35 BAFFLED THERE was a dreamer and he knew no jest, His mind was dull to banter ing and quips But those black eyes of his that flashed like whips, Curled out to beauty; he was beauty- blest, And his two feet could only find a rest When they had brought him out to watch the ships, To lick the salt that clustered on his lips, And breathe the ocean-wind with newer zest. So he went off to sea to flee the laughter On land, and soon on ship there spread a rumor, "The new kid hasn t got a sense of hu mor, Let s fool with him" And teasing fol lowed after; And so the dreamer, baffled at his duty, Jumped overboard in search of mirthless beauty. 36 THE BEACHCOMBER HE fell upon us as we came ashore To spend our money with the feel of land Again beneath our feet and almost tore Our clothes in his delight to clasp a hand. We were the first white men upon the sand Of this damned beach, he purpled as he swore, He d seen for half a year; then !he grew bland, Suggested drinks, and steered us to the door Of some dive where the finest whiskey sold, He said, and where the fun at night be gan. It gave him keenest pleasure to grow bold On drinks and yell to all he was a man; Meanwhile the barkeep smiled and thought of when He d have to throw him out of doors again. 37 THE SAILOR SINGS WHAT do I want of a home and love, When I have the sea, and the sky above, And a smiling woman wherever I rove? What do I want of faith and peace, Or the mellow to age as the years in crease, When I d rather my youth would sud denly cease? For what is life when youth is over, And what is love to a faithless lover, And death to a careless rover? 38 AT SEA THIS is the scene, laid out for splendid things: The night is tropical, the moon is veiled, A soft wind fans our ship on, and we sailed Through velvet seas; a languid billow swings Against our hull, and trickles back to sea, The stars shake like a wind-tossed can opy. The seamen line the hold where I sit too, Expecting some adventure I could tell, Some deviltry let loose among the crew, The memory of which would serve me well. . . . But passively we listen to a bore Who prattles on the merits of a whore. 39 | THE HOLD THERE is a treasure trove aboard all ships, That gathers beauty to its ample fold, Like a huge goddess with kind, smiling lips: We sailors know it as the after-hold. The sun spreads on its top a cloth of gold, And there, the spare hours in the day we spend ; We play our games, and have our fun, and lend A mortal aspect to the silent hold. At night we gather on its boards and sing, And sprawl around and talk of life and death; And what a wealth of narrative we bring ! What song rides forth on agitated breath ! 40 And there are wondrous cargoes in its deeps, From silks and furs to simple ballast sand. The air of musty memories it keeps Is opened to us every port we land. Somehow I feel, when we re asleep be low, The stars come down to dance upon the hold, A ghastly moon makes whiter than the snow That covers it like fur when it is cold. I like to lie upon the hold and watch The lovely squirmings of a restless sky And see a star go out, just like a match, And wish my soul went that way when I die. SEARCH I KNOW there is a harbor in the dusk Where beauty is inseparable from all The seemly aspect; in the gentle fall Of evening there s a strangely pungent musk From faery creatures quartered in a stall Behind the battered quays that mourn fully Lie mouldering in the foothills of the sea. Llamas, gnus and lions, and elephants tall, These phantom beasts of my desire will be, Subjects of the most ornately wild Equestrian visions that ever came to me, To grace the fancy of a dreamer-child. Yet everywhere I come, I cannot find This harbor that I somehow leave be hind. 42 SEA MOOD I SHUT my eyes, and I can see How once we all sat on the hold, And sang the songs that memory Had not permitted to grow old. We sang in seven different tongues, And each tongue had its separate tears, While some would sigh to clear their lungs Breaking the harmony for our ears. And when we d stop, some Swede or Dane Would swing into his own folk song, Then clear his throat, and tell again Why he left home, and just how long. Or looking at the sea, with eyes That saw none of the swells and spray, The scullery-kid who grew man-size Amid us, told about the day 43 He ran away from home to find What greater things the earth con tains Than cities filling throats with grind, Slit through with narrow, crooked lanes. Then as the hours grew late, we d take Our last look at the milky way That sprawled across the sky, to break The blue, to something one could pray, So great it seemed, and we would gaze A length upon that holy sight, Then go below in separate ways To clinch the silence of the night. 44 THE MOON AND THE SHIP THE night was a woman with stars in her hair, And the crescent moon was her mouth; While her breath was the wind from the south, That came from those smiling lips so rare, So brazen, so arch, as to cause one de spair Of ever appeasing his drouth For such beauty that followed one everywhere. The ship was a giant with curly, white hair That gnarled on his chin and cheek, And his breath had a salty reek. Limbs now in the water, and now in the air, He swam for the joy of it, not caring where, Nor anything did he seek But followed the wind with a snort and a flare. 45 The night shook her hair and the stars fell out, (You could dip them up with a spoon) And to make the round, red moon, She puckered her lips in a charming pout. . . . Then the giant looked up with a startled shout, And he turned to the maddest loon ! He put all the frolicking waves to rout By his rushing, careening and pitching about, To kiss that mouth . . . nearer . . . soon! . . . Like a seagull that flies . . . and flies . . . and flies . . . It had scenes with clouds before his eyes Brushed back the stars from its velvet way, And disappeared at the break of day. Lo ! I found myself standing by the rail, And the ship was beneath me as hearty and hale As ever it seemed, So I knew I had dreamed. 4 6 THE GOBLET OF LETHE THE sea is a huge philtre where is blended Poisons, compounded out of vice, extended To all the men for whom the world has ended. Yet far from being noxious, there is beauty In this dread mixture, beauty beyond reason, Subtle, as the coming of a season, Stately, as the dying of a day, That passes o er the waters, paying duty For all the splendor that it leads away. There is the tang the smell cannot resist, And to the eye, the shades look exquisite, The senses tingle to a dewy mist That rises from some under-water moor ing, And sets one wondering what spell is it That makes the proffered philtre so al luring . . . To find that those who drink of this love-potion, Forever seek the bosom of the ocean. 47 VALPARAISO rTT^HE mountains are like crouching camels * And you, a toy between their feet, And though your insolence untrammels The anxious confines of the street You have no other way to creep, So on the hills your climbing s done. You ll never find the sea asleep Like crouching camels in the sun. CERRO AZUL, PERU (From the Ship) ONE would dismiss you with a shrug and smile, Quite scornful of your specu lative worth Call you a God-forsaken bit of earth, But I would pause to watch you for a while. What do I see? The ocean s fingers clutch Frantically at your cliffs, hand after hand, But grasping only bits of trickling sand That must feel puny to so grand a touch. Your mountains suck the color from the sky At twilight, when the ocean loses hers And merge majestically amid the blurs Of clouds and mists that swirl before the eye. The sun is lost at sea, after it had Foundered on the horizon for a space; It sank with such a well-attended grace, I knew clean wonder like a little lad. 49 And where it sank, a sword of light ap peared, That floated on the water as we rolled, The virgin moon then slipped her veil and cold White stars into the shaded heavens steered. There is sufficient beauty here for me, To keep me humble an eternity. 50 THE LAST NIGHT I SHALL be lonesome for you, ships and sea, And many are the nights I ll lie awake, Straining my ears to hear the water break Against the hull that kept it back from me. Watching the ship s nose split the wind that bled Fine spray on deck and me and every thing; The daring moon dance up the sky and shed Her many-colored veils in clambering; The nude sun, shorn of rays dive in a wave; The burly clouds swinging their hordes to storm These things I may not see before the grave Again, but certain I shall ever warm To their remembered beauty yet not above The beauty of the one who waits my love. FOG FLOWING in its sombre, sluggish beauty, The river lay under the spell of the mist; Squatting barges, squarely-built and sooty, Lost their angles in the amethyst That veiled the ancient, long-enchanted sun. Bridges spanned the stream like things untrue, Or spiders webs glittering with the dew. A ship returning from its far-flung run Crept up the river as though it had been snared; Doleful sirens sounded through the haze As though the fog had crept into their throats, Why does this beauty come so unpre pared To break into the pattern of the days Forgetting men, to drift among the boats ? 52 VISION HAVE I forgotten beauty, and the pang Of sheer delight in perfect visioning? Have I forgotten how the spirit sang When shattered breakers sprayed their ocean-tang To ease the blows with which the great cliffs rang? Have I forgotten how the fond stars fling Their naked children to the faery ring Of some dark pool, and watch them play and sing In silent silver chords I too could hear? Or smile to see a starlet shake with fear Whenever winds disturbed the lake s re pose, Or when in mocking mood they form in rows, And stare up at their parents so se date Then break up laughing neath a ripple s weight? PEOPLE, PLACES AND THINGS 55 H. M. L. THERE is no other man I know, Resembling a schooner so, Staunch and slight with grace ful spars That sway against the steady stars. He has as keen a scent for beauty As the schooner has for wind, And as noble sense of duty As a sailor who has signed On a ship he loves so much, There is a softness in his touch. Like a schooner in these things : There s the sense of peace he brings, Like the witching hour at sea When the tangled dusk flies free; Then a sweet security He would reluctantly go down Letting those who loved him drown; He would never lose a mast, Or be ungraceful in his acts, Nor would he hold you down to facts, Nor your imagination fast Like the kindly ships that seem The rendezvous for truth and dream. 56 There is no other man I know, Resembling a schooner so. 57 BROTHERS I NEVER saw your face before, And probably will not again, Yet in the glance, I saw that more Was given you than other men. I recognized your like to me, The troubled eyes, the pallid skin, Yet more of you I would not see Because we are so much akin. 58 TO A FRIEND WHAT will you know of me when I am dead? I do not ask because I am con cerned, Nor yet with sudden wisdom is that said To puzzle you, who are profoundly learned ; But just half-humorously as I ve lived, And with a crooked smile upon my lips, For how this startling query is received And what remorse or sympathy it grips In you, who ve known me through these many years. And then you ll think: you ve never known my tears, My thirsts, my loves, my little tragedies, My little colored days of grey and blue- All that you ve known of me did but appease The calm, unruffled, thoughtless side of you. S 59 THE SILENT HE was as fragile as silence, And her beauty was as far-reach ing. Her wiles were profound as the quiet That creeps on the city at midnight Her very presence was formless, Intangible, confidence-breeding. But one felt all this could be shattered With a single resonant word. 6o ii She, being woman, was subtle ; Speech, she claimed was futile So walking the longest while, We did not say a word That would provoke a smile Or bring us quiet fears. She thought such talk absurd, There was no need to jest, No need to probe to tears; Silence between us was best, The pregnant silence that hovers In the eyes of lovers. But I know, being wise, If we do not use our breath On talk, but just our eyes We will soon be bored to death. But she, being woman, was subtle, And that was sufficient rebuttal. 61 THE CABIN PASSES BEAUTY and love and tenderness and joy; These things our Cabin knew. Why, it was dressed With such an eye for seemliness, ca ressed With such solicitude, decked for scope In such a lovely manner ! Heaven and hope, And wistful f umblings for the truth and right, Grew out of day to crown a perfect night. This room contained our souls, our thoughts that rose In questioning; and how we searched for those Elusive things called love and wealth and art ! This room that knew our secrets of the heart, That felt our pulse-beats on its airy breast, That measured our footsteps, gave the body rest, Contained all kindly things to give us ease Passes now into a long decease. 62 And we have many memories to keep: The magic of a love-consorted sleep; The mellow music clinging round its walls ; The breathless waiting for the other s knock, The running to the door, the opened lock, The swift embrace, the happiness, the peace, The love that watched the jealous hours increase, And begged the deep-toned clock its striking cease. So beauty fades, and so the days grow cold The nights grow lonely; all we built, destroyed. And we ephemeral mortals who have toyed With such elusive things as love and art Take these passings woefully to heart. I 63 SONGS F I could win you back with song, I d write you verse the whole day long; Or win your favor on my knee, I d stay so for eternity; If daring acts would please your eye, I would devise brave ways to die; And if you wanted me your slave, I d curl my backbone like a wave; But if you tired of all these thing, And all my petty pamperings, My heart would flutter like a dove, I d lay my lips upon your glove, And try to win you back with love. 6 4 II My parting with you seemed to me like this: While I was walking in a sunny street, I heard a tempting tune, so wondrous sweet, I straightway pursed my lips as if to kiss And poured my whistle with the music s flow. And there were times it seemed to me as though I only, made that music; what a bliss To think that I was harmonizing so! But suddenly the music stopped, and left With my poor, puny whistle, so undef t, So purposeless, I halted quite bereft Of fantasy and sound. And now I know You were the lovely music that I heard, And my companionship with you, the whistling, And when we parted I was like a bird Who has discovered that he cannot sing, And has been doomed to be forever dumb, With tragic eyes to watch the springtime come. 65 in My lady s face is like the moon, Her laughter like the sun at noon; Her hair is thick and long and sleek Where sullen lights play hide and seek; My lady s teeth are like the spray That scampers from a billow s way, Her form is graceful as a ship s That rides the waves then stately dips, And curving like a schooner s bows, Her lips smile neath a dainty nose. Her breasts as round as melon s rind Are soft as sails filled out with wind; Her skin is softer than the feel Of corn-floss that we used to steal To smoke in barns, (now I must see To touch her skin as stealthily) My lady s eyes are like a cat s That is compassionate to rats ; Her voice enfolds the sweetest trill I ve ever heard or ever will. I tell you that my lady love Is rarer than a purple dove. 66 TWILIGHT MOOD I THINK there is no greater thing than dusk That steals shamefacedly around the town, And peeps between the buildings, look ing down Upon a world grown dim. It doesn t frown, Nor does it gather grandly as would musk Upon men s senses; just a slender tusk Of color, curving silently between The day and night; a droop of wings scarce seen. I - 6 7 I SPRING STEPS THE sun came up and set the street A-clatter with a thousand feet, Some purposeful, some hurrying, Some too judicious, some too fleet, Some eager what the day would bring Perhaps a birth or burying, Perhaps the first spring bird would sing And set good fellowship a-swing; Perhaps some youth would lose his dreams, Perhaps some two should never meet To stage their little act of Spring Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . and all this seems A-clatter in a thousand feet. 68 RHYTHMS UPON the pillow lies my head, Under the blankets lies my torso; The one seems motionless and dead, The other more so. I do not move my limbs nor flick An eyelash as I wait for sleep, But slowly, subtly, tick on tick, The rhythms creep. The east wind rattles on the panes With an uneven sort of beat, And I must listen how it rains With pattering feet. The clock ticks loudly in the room, Incessantly and manifest; Like darts of sound shot through the gloom, It pricks my rest. My heart beats on its ribbed wall, Thump thump thump thump And does not seem to cease at all Its rhythmic jump. 6 9 My breast heaves with my steady breath, In and out, in and out, In goes life and out comes death (O turn about!) Then I remember if I prick My heart, my breath will also cease, My ears will deafen to the tick, And I ll have peace. But thinking of a way to die, I quite forgot that rhythms creep To twist my rest and mind awry And fell asleep ! 70 MY LADY S LIPS MY lady s lips are like a wander ing bee That does not know where next it will alight; My face, the flower s poised expectancy Watching this breathless, undecided flight. Then suddenly your lips swoop from their height, To kiss me in some unexpected place, Till languid thrills, increasing in their might Tingle through my hot, bewildered face. Then like a laden bee that drowsily Has had his fill of nectar from the flower, Your lips creep from my mouth reluc tantly; Only to seek again within the hour This respite from a passion that in creased So subtly, when the magic contact ceased. PEERS PIERROT and Pierrette, I ve never heard your legend yet; I ve watched you dance at mas querades With less romantic men and maids ; And your caprices on the stage, Your heartbreak on the printed page Has always been a mystery With an alluring history I ve never traced unto the end, And never shall, for I intend To ever let myself coquette With Pierrot and Pierrette. 72 THE DEATH OF A MISTRESS SLOWLY she sips the poison from the cup And flings it crashing to the marble floor; That is her last insult to Fate, no more These graceless outbursts at the sum ming up. Then languidly she lies back on the bed And most adroitly bares her knee and breast, Sets a coquettish angle to her head So those who find her in her final rest Shall feel the lure of living flesh, the breath Of breathless possibilities not death. Then artfully she takes great pains to close Her lips like petals on a drooping rose. She shuts her eyes, and curls her arms about her So even after death no one may doubt her. 73 CLAIR DE LUNE MALIGNANT moonlight flows across the trees, And burns a golden circle in the grass While crouching back in fear to let it pass, The shadows harbor black monstrosities. The sky pants with the stars hot things to hold And broods his vengeance on the mother moon: To twine his clouds around her neck of gold, And fling her fainting in some dark la goon, Where taunting waves can scar her per fect face, Or to the winds, where like a toy bal loon, A sportive breeze can blow from place to place. But no, she is triumphant in her grace, And holds the strongest wind for but a tune, The blackest pool a spot to flick her lace. 74 THE MAD BARBER WHEN he came home that night, his throat was choked, And prickly with the bits of inhaled hair; His hands though scrubbed, would mer cilessly bear Up visions of the greasy heads he stroked. He sat and thought of how his patrons joked Upon his silence and his dreamy stare Coarsely jibed his silence, he could tear Their scalps apart for that ! and straight he poked His fist into the air, and clenched his teeth. How he hated all the men he shaved! And anger crowned his forehead like a wreath That grew more crinkled as he cursed and raved. He thought an hour, then began to gloat . To-morrow, he would cut his boss s throat. 75 BLACK SHEEP I AM the black sheep of my family, And why I am, I never really knew, Although I half suspect at times, it s true But still it seems a bit of mystery. The things that keep me so are hard to see; Not concrete facts like one and one make two, But subtleties that scarcely came, but grew Enough to send me over hills and sea. Of course I am not understood, for when I try to stammer what my reasons are Before the questioning of sober men I am not clear, as if my thoughts were far. And though at times I cry before I sleep, I m rather proud the folks call me black sheep. 7 6 TO VIOLE IN ANSWER TO HER SONNET DEAREST, I wander long, and you long wait, Until my eyes are visioned with the grace That lies enchanted in a foreign place, Where beauty poses massively in state, Where skies are weighed so low with golden freight, They lean against the mountains for a mace; Where stately trees wear leaves like ruffled lace, And life s a byplay with the sisters Fate. Yet everywhere I drift, you keep a- pace Your face peers from each lovely thing I see, The lovelier the thing, the sweeter face Unfolds to lure me back . . . but it may be At some too poignant beauty I shall start For home, too late and find an empty heart. 77 "THESE BE THE LOVELY THINGS" THE flight of formless beauty through the grass, The sudden gleam of silver on a blade, The dancing golden motes that slowly pass Deathward the final plunge into the shade ; The rustling trees like far-off tinkling glass, Or sounding temple bells of tempered brass, The last gleam of the sun against a cloud, Or at the dawning, when it slips its shroud ; The full-blown sails on swiftly gliding ships, With prows as shapely as a woman s lips; Or caught in stone through long, immo bile years The attitude of some immortal daugh ter A woman s body built like curving water ; These be the lovely things that grace the spheres. RONDEAU I WOULD not care about the things That life in passing by us flings In cynic mood, those bits that make Us scramble in their scattered wake Important to our saunterings Throughout this world; and what it brings Is simple meat and drink. Where sings The beauty of the hill and lake, I would not care. I d be content to tear my wings, And to soft music s echoed rings I d dull my ears if I could take Your body softer than a flake Of snow; let after fall the stings, I would not care. 79 TO SOPHIE THERE might not be a single thing That comes up in the life of men, Old truths, new depths, I wouldn t bring To you, and muse them out again. I would be certain of your thought, Unswerving, clean and womanly Save when soft, sudden hours wrought You pliant, and more humanly. And then I would be thrilled with you, Made more elusive with your doubts, While all the woman in you knew I loved your puckered brow and pouts. 8o MY LADY LOVE MY lady love is like a rambling house In this: where, like black- hooded brooding mourners, Squat a scattered horde of nooks and corners ; My hand steals like a hesitating mouse To seek those cozy places; some are warm Like her pockets, hair or rounded form, Some are cool and tingling like her cheeks ; In some, a separate, familiar odor reeks, Like her breath, perfuming both her lips, More stimulating than the smell of ships ; Or in her hair where musky odors lie, Like the smouldering incense in those tombs Where ancient queens were buried when they die Keeping their romance young with such perfumes. 8i I FEAR I SHALL come to you in the dark some lonely night, And lie down by your side and look toward where Your head should rest in the pillow of your hair. Then shall I know that you are out of sight, And no matter with what fear and with what might I strain my eyes I shall not see your grace; I shall not see, though I shall know what white Petals your breasts are, above which blooms your face On the lovely white stalk of your form ; but though Your untouched beauty urges me to stay, I shall arise quite silently and go For you in the dark will be too far away. And I who know you so well in the light, Shall be afraid to seek you in the night. 82 TO MY LADY THERE is more comfort in your slightest touch Than in soft-colored, placid sceneries, Or in the gentle motion of the seas Rocking the ships like cradles of tired men. The peace your cool skin brings to me is such That robbed of you I shall not feel again There is more beauty in your curving lips Than ever lingered in the poise of ships, Than ever grew in music or in flowers; And I can sit and watch your face for hours, Listening as you raise your voice from where Amid deep, soothing harmonies it lies, Touching your hand and playing with your hair, Finding new lights and colors in your eyes. T 8 3 PEACE HERE S no eternal peace on hill, There s no eternal peace at sea, And I shall seek for peace until I shall no longer be. I ll clamber up the mountainside, I ll turn my vision oceanwise, I ll search the country far and wide, Until I shut my eyes. I ll see the silent river run, I ll watch the stately forests burn Their twilight moment with the sun, But I shall only learn There s no eternal peace on land, There s no eternal peace on wave, The only peace I could command Is in a narrow grave. EARLY VERSES I 8? REVERIES OF A VIOLEAN NIGHT HOW soft she is, so soft it seems She would be crushed against my breast, So standing by, I crave and fear, And let my eyes convey the rest. ii O wind ! Shake not that form which cowers from you; Hold to your trees, And blend your reeds to kiss the river s bank. But her pass her by, For I may be tempted To grasp her from you, And let her quake against me, In my arms. in A sweet, sweet face mid a mass of hair As dark as a starless eve, And the plead of an eye, to stifle a sigh With a kiss in tender retrieve. The plead of an eye, and the world seems fair, Though the winds blow bitter and cold, And I give the truth of the love of a youth, When love is all that I hold. IV O shapeiess one, Why do you flit before my eyes, And mock me with a thousand forms? Your face which freezes then which warms, And takes an arch surprise, To see me plunge bewildered on To trail one fleeting form of thine, But find mirages, bright, divine, To soothe the tears that realize You are gone. You try to chat in care-free tone, Yet every jest conceals a moan. 8 9 VI I asked to know you, As well as other knew, To make your thoughts in jealousy my own. Still, How sweet it is to ask and not to know, To crave and not to grasp, And place you more in mystery With dreams as I would have you, In eternal doubt. VII I fold you with my gaze and muse, Perhaps some night I ll hear you play, And thrilling notes with banner hues Shall clothe me in enthralled array. But shall that music equal you, A clinging serenade of love That peals from out the night and dew, The wind and trees and clouds above? 90 FORGET-ME-NOT THE love that died has never died at all, Forgotten nights can never be forgot, While ivy leaves still cling upon the wall By which we plucked that lone for get-me-not. The world has given judgment past re call, "He has forgotten as we all forgot." But still I see an ivy-softened wall, With red lips on a blue forget-me-not. 91 SONNETS TO A YOUNG LOVE NIGHT after night, I ve sat here all alone, Striving to form a poem out of you My thoughts of you, that gradually grew As wildly lovely as an archbacked roan, Against the sky, nose quivering, mane wind-blown ; But I have never seen that poem through, Ncr penned the glad-eye worship that I knew, Which you may have suspected, but not known. At times I lose you totally, at times I have the insolence to grow annoyed But when I think you over in the night, And strive to put my thoughts to lyric rhymes, Remembered beauty leaves me over- enjoyed And I feel much too futile then to write. 92 II There is one sonnet that you ll never see, Though countless pages in your praise I scrawl, That sonnet is the loveliest of all, So sweet, that it is painful unto me. I hide it from you not through jealousy, (Nothing is too sublime for your pur- sual) Nor yet because it shames me does a wall Loom over it in full security. But it may cause your anger or your smile, A poor wan smile that pities me, a fool ! Or it may cause you pain, or tears to start From out your eyes, like white ducks from a pool ; So I keep it hidden for the while, Written in blue veins upon my heart. 93 in In all my drifting through the years to come, In all my loving and my being loved, Amid strange women, where my fancy roved To smoke my thoughts with their kiss- opium One picture, like a precious art of Rome, Carved in ivory in my brain removed, Shall prove again as it has often proved : New loves are fickle, newer kisses foam ! Though it reveal us bodily apart, That picture is the holiest of all, Where seated on the hill, your bended thrall, Sun-sprinkled by the shaken leaves that dart Dark shadows on your hair, and while I sprawl Beside, you read and build a worded wall. 94 IV Your face peers from each lovely thing I see, Plucked flower, or pink-painted eve ning sky, Sun-powdered pool, or rainbowed but terfly, Dew-drenched, and frightened from a shaken tree; Or purple passages of poetry, That lead to where the hidden temples lie, Reveal the altars where men weep and die, Self-sent for women to eternity. And then I think how futile Nature is, And Man in striving now to reproduce The masterpiece she aided him to mold ; She, the mere model who had posed for his Sculptoring of you, Her hair blown loose, And wind-poised while her face was beauty-bold. 95 v Because you thrust my heart into my throat By your unconscious presence in the street, Whereon the gutter sun and shadow meet, And float up buildings as the hours float No more my love shall hem you like a moat, Where castle-like you stand and drench your feet, Nor trace your moods with ever-restless heat To learn your whims and fancyings by rote! For one day you may draw a trifle near To where I am, and touch me with your hand, And look at me half-boldly and half- shy And then may happen what I greatly fear : My heart may leap from me to where you stand, And blood will clog my veins, and I shall die. 9 6 VI My loving is beyond you far beyond. I did not know that you were but the gate To that far land my dreams would vi- sionate, Until one moment like a silver wand Revealed you, and with half-closed eyes I found You in your proper unenglamoured state. Now I must seek again my endless fate New lips to kiss, new waists to clasp around. It seemed through all the music that you played, You were more holy, more to be adored, Till suddenly your ivory fingers strayed, And harmonized a wondrous-sounding chord, Too vague to grasp, too deep for any word, But you were lost amid what I had heard. Y 97 SYLVIA OU came from an unforgotten past, And swept my thoughts to their knees In wonder and awe. You left them gazing into the haze-grey river of memory, And plumbing deeper. You sent your radiant coolness through my body And made me shudder, and shake off my nonchalance ; You shimmering, silver-surfaced sylph, Reflecting heat of other things, I wonder if your cold, white depths Conceal a scarlet spark. O sylvan nymph, in your hair Cool forest glens, cool autumn leaves Echo back their rustlings; In your grey-green eyes, forgotten oceans roll, And sweep upon the person you regard Old oriental wreckage, musky-scented, Curious carvings, queer receptacles, That bring back the glamour of ancient centuries, Yet ice-bergs seem to hover in the dis tance Odd guardians of your warmth ! 98 AGE THERE are old things that we have done, Which come back in peculiar ways When the horizon cuts the sun, Or even at the break of days; Sometimes when we lie sleepless in Our beds, and stare up at the wall, Tracing some long-forgotten sin That s unf orgotten after all ; Or when we look up from a book, Whose words pricked some long-hidden act Of old, full-measured days that took Their span of years adventure-racked. It s then we have a feeling that We re growing old, and somewhat bare, That later years have grown too fat, And taken on too much of care ; Contented to sit idly by And think of things that we have done- Gathering our younger years more nigh Unto us, like a restless son. I 99 PROTEST WHY do people hide their hands On such a mellow day? In pockets, gloves or under capes, Or make them a display Of purses, canes or circling gems? Must fingers always be, If not imprisoned, burdened slaves Of people s vanity? 10O SPRING LUXURY THE day is too languid and lux urious, And, I like a weary monarch scowl At the trees that bend down to me, And the bird-flutes that play for me, And the ceaseless rustling censer going before me, Strewing spring-scent in my path, And seeming to say: "Bow down to him, he is king." Forever does my treasure keeper Count his gold before my eyes And pour the splendor out before me, And blind me. And I am weary of the brook, That, like a sultan s favorite Flashes her silver-silken robes, And tinkles laughter at each pebble- jest, He throws at her, So she may beg gold pieces from his treasure hold And wear them near her heart, While her white teeth gleam wantonly. EARLY VERSES .- . .V r .J| ..:;:: ., ;;,.;., PERVERSITIES 103 SNEERS I TELL you, The World is made of dust. Even blood dries into dust, And the ocean to salt, While the night shrivels to dust before the dawn. Men are so much like lice. They creep over the face of the earth And through her hair, And even burrow underground; Then wonder at earthquakes. 104 LUNI-COMIC THE sky is lousy with stars to night, The moon is a running sore On the body of heaven, that gleams as white As the face of a cowardly cloud in flight At the wind s remotest roar. The damned trees branches are palsied bones In a weird, spasmodic dance, Which jumble and hiss in the fiercest of tones, That even the moss bristles up on the stones, While the ghosts of dawn advance. 105 PLAY-THOUGHTS I AM confusion Oh, not the confusion of ordi nary things But stay, Are things ordinary ? I am so great a confusion that I doubt even my saying. I am the enormous confusion, The great chaotic confusion of life So immense a confusion, that I doubt myself, And my confusing. io6 ii And I am the question The huge, eternal, infinite question. I call life a fact and then question: Why is life a fact when the very fun damentals And future of it are unknown? Then I say : life is a dream But if so, who dreams the dream of life? And so I answer life is darkness, Stretching, black-born darkness, And the thoughts and dreams of life Are but the stars, the little lamps that shine In the darkness, And only accentuate it, For do the stars light up the sky? Oh, I am the question! And I question men who question me, And I even question my own question ing, And ponder at my infinitude. 107 in But I am life I question the confusion of myself, And confuse the questioning. I am the liquid elusive, For I take the form of my container, And fit into each mold of thought men make for me, Imperfect molds That allow me to drip, Until I form pools of protest and con troversy. I am the paradox, And I am the axiom, And I am neither. io8 AN ATTEMPT AT THE MASE- FIELDIAN MANNER WHEN I met her, I wasn t sure Whether or not she was a whore. Her lips looked like an open wound, As livid, and as ugly-red, The only live thing in her head, But badly done and out-of-tuned. The only other striking thing Was just the shortness of her skirt. She looked as though she had been hurt By destiny; her face was girt By ancient sadness, and the science Of ever harboring defiance. Her eyes were dead, no luster there, Just ashes, cold and feathery, The pencil on her lashes looked Inartful and unweathery, And dull as if she didn t care. I watched a while and then decided That as yet she wasn t booked For that night, so I confided That I should like to know her cause I d show her what a good time was. And never while I pace this earth, Shall I forget the hate that blazed Into her face; she looked half-crazed; And with those lips she uttered birth To a hysteric-frozen mirth. . . . And when that awful laugh was done, Her voice talked in a bleeding tone. Excuse me for my laugh, you re not To blame, you re not the cause of that. Twas that my thoughts were far away, Thinking of another day, When I was young, and didn t think I d sell myself to every wink; When innocently I d no thought I d ever be so lightly bought; Of when I loved young Driver Jack Who always drove me in his hack When he d no trade, and how alone He d kiss my flesh hot to the bone; And how with kisses, vows and all Was soon accomplishing my fall ; How I left home with bastard in me With all the parish hot agin me. He died in gaol where I was sent When I, on getting food was bent And stole a bun from a baker s shop, Stale, and only fit for slop, But still enough to kill a life, And make me every bounder s wife. "I thought of all the fields in May, The scent and sun that filled the day no With peace and loveliness and light That furled supremely into night. Then the lone cabin by the well Where nightly, witches rose from hell, And burned a circle in the grass, Dancing in a frantic mass, Riding broomsticks, breathing fire, Having feasts in peat and mire, Shrieking curses that so dire, Scorched the fields around for miles, And burned down fences, pens and stiles. And how we children watched the harm That had been done with great alarm. (It s true some called it fault of gypsies, But those were looked upon as tipsies, For didn t John McGully tell Wards He had seen them flying hell wards?) "I thought of me so cute a child, So sweet, so gay, so pure, so mild, The teacher d kiss me on the cheek, And how with rum his breath would reek; Twas wondrous grand I did allow (Those kisses sell for tuppence now, And now it s mixing rum and rum, My breath with some unlearned bum) I thought of all those olden days, The childhood days, the golden days, Ill And for a while forgot that I Was waiting an inviting eye; With dreams so sweet, I thought no more That I was standing here a whore. When you accosted me it seems, You shook me rudely from my dreams, And for the moment I had felt As if an insult had been dealt. Thus is my tale, if you ll forgive, I ll go with you for beer, and live The night with you, if you ll agree." She got more money out of me Than I d have given any dame, Just for a tale that sounded lame. 112 LOSS YESTERDAY the world was fairly bright, And somewhat crisp and biting to the touch ; To-night the world is just as any night, And any night does not amount to much. But that is not what hurts. It is the fact That brisker days put brisker blood in me, And brisker blood is what I ve always lacked, And what we lack, we gather painfully. SOMEONE HE knew that he was doomed, and so he coursed Through life a trifle loosely, and too gay; But yet his laughter sounded somewhat forced, And he grew sad too often in his play. When those who watched him through the changing day, Once asked why he should throw his life to bad, He smiled and said, "How can I throw away What you have lost, and I have never had?" QUERY I WONDER why We take the flower she has given us, Whether it be forget-me-not, Or rose, which it usually is, And crush its petals in a book, The more ponderous the better, And bleed the flower on its pages, So in later years, We may sniff the crumbled petals up our nostrils, And murmur, "What sweet memories," As we sneeze. WISE HE does not know, and therefore writes The detailed ecstasy of love, Of passion-kisses, perfumed nights, Of Cupid and the dove. But I who felt the common kiss Where common-scented flowers grow, On such a common night as this, I cannot write I know.