Town down the river : a book of poems / by Edwin Arlington Robinson [electronic text]

MISCELLANEOUS

PASA THALASSA THALASSA

"The sea is everywhere the sea."

I

Gone—faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember? Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign. Gone with his hard red face that only his laughter could wrinkle, Down where men go to be still, by the old way of the sea.

Never again will he come, with rings in his ears like a pirate, Back to be living and seen, here with his roses and vines; Here where the tenants are shadows and echoes of years uneventful, Memory meets the event, told from afar by the sea.

Smoke that floated and rolled in the twilight away from the chimney Floats and rolls no more. Wheeling and falling, instead, Down with a twittering flash go the smooth and inscrutable swallows, Down to the place made theirs by the cold work of the sea.

Roses have had their day, and the dusk is on yarrow and wormwood— Dusk that is over the grass, drenched with memorial dew; Trellises lie like bones in a ruin that once was a garden, Swallows have lingered and ceased, shadows and echoes are all.

II

Where is he lying to-night, as I turn away down to the valley, Down where the lamps of men tell me the streets are alive? Where shall I ask, and of whom, in the town or on land or on water, News of a time and a place buried alike and with him?

Few now remain who may care, nor may they be wiser for caring, Where or what manner the doom, whether by day or by night; Whether in Indian deeps or on flood-laden fields of Atlantis, Or by the roaring Horn, shrouded in silence he lies.

Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage, Drawn by the scene as it was—met by the chill and the change; Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember, More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea.

"Where is he lying?" I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer; Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men. Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another— Down where he lies to-night, silent, and under the storms.

MOMUS

"Where's the need of singing now?"— Smooth your brow, Momus, and be reconciled, For King Kronos is a child— Child and father, Or god rather, And all gods are wild.

"Who reads Byron any more?"— Shut the door, Momus, for I feel a draught;

Shut it quick, for some one laughed.— "What's become of Browning? Some of Wordsworth lumbers like a raft?

"What are poets to find here?"— Have no fear: When the stars are shining blue There will yet be left a few Themes availing— And these failing, Momus, there'll be you.

UNCLE ANANIAS

His words were magic and his heart was true, And everywhere he wandered he was blessed. Out of all ancient men my childhood knew I choose him and I mark him for the best. Of all authoritative liars, too, I crown him loveliest.

How fondly I remember the delight That always glorified him in the spring; The joyous courage and the benedight Profusion of his faith in everything! He was a good old man, and it was right That he should have his fling.

And often, underneath the apple-trees, When we surprised him in the summer time, With what superb magnificence and ease He sinned enough to make the day sublime! And if he liked us there about his knees, Truly it was no crime.

All summer long we loved him for the same Perennial inspiration of his lies; And when the russet wealth of autumn came, There flew but fairer visions to our eyes— Multiple, tropical, winged with a feathery flame, Like birds of paradise.

So to the sheltered end of many a year He charmed the seasons out with pageantry, Wearing upon his forehead, with no fear, The laurel of approved iniquity. And every child who knew him, far or near, Did love him faithfully.

THE WHIP

The doubt you fought so long, The cynic net you cast, The tyranny, the wrong, The ruin, they are past; And here you are at last, Your blood no longer vexed. The coffin has you fast, The clod will have you next.

But fear you not the clod, Nor ever doubt the grave: The roses and the sod Will not forswear the wave. The gift the river gave Is now but theirs to cover: The mistress and the slave Are gone now, and the lover.

You left the two to find Their own way to the brink: Then—shall I call you blind?— You chose to plunge and sink. God knows the gall we drink Is not the mead we cry for, Nor was it, I should think— For you—a thing to die for.

Could we have done the same, Had we been in your place?— This funeral of your name Throws no light on the case.— Could we have made the chase, And felt then as you felt?— But what's this on your face, Blue, curious, like a welt?

There were some ropes of sand Recorded long ago, But none, I understand, Of water. Is it so? And she—she struck the blow, You but a neck behind... You saw the river flow— Still, shall I call you blind?

THE WHITE LIGHTS

(BROADWAY, 1906)

When in from Delos came the gold That held the dream of Pericles, When first Athenian ears were told The tumult of Euripides, When men met Aristophanes, Who fledged them with immortal quills— Here, where the time knew none of these, There were some islands and some hills.

When Rome went ravening to see The sons of mothers end their days, When Flaccus bade Leuconoë To banish her Chaldean ways, When first the pearled, alembic phrase Of Maro into music ran— Here there was neither blame nor praise For Rome, or for the Mantuan.

When Avon, like a faery floor, Lay freighted, for the eyes of One, With galleons laden long before By moonlit wharves in Avalon— Here, where the white lights have begun To seethe a way for something fair, No prophet knew, from what was done, That there was triumph in the air.

EXIT

For what we owe to other days, Before we poisoned him with praise, May we who shrank to find him weak Remember that he cannot speak.

For envy that we may recall, And for our faith before the fall, May we who are alive be slow To tell what we shall never know.

For penance he would not confess, And for the fateful emptiness Of early triumph undermined, May we now venture to be kind.

NORMANDY

(From the French of Bérat)

When all the land's alive again With winter far away, And heaven over France again Is fairer than to-day, When spring puts off her gray for green, And swallows all return— Then I'll go back to Normandy, The land where I was born.

I know the fields of Switzerland, The peaks and icy meres; I know the skies of Italy, I know the gondoliers; But let me wander where I will, I say that I'll return To Normandy, my Normandy, The land where I was born.

At last there comes a time to us When all dreams lose their glow; There comes a time when in our souls We need the long ago; So when my songs are cold in me, And love will not return— Then I'll go back to Normandy, The land where I was born.

LEONORA

They have made for Leonora this low dwelling in the ground, And with cedar they have woven the four walls round. Like a little dryad hiding she'll be wrapped all in green, Better kept and longer valued than by ways that would have been.

They will come with many roses in the early afternoon, They will come with pinks and lilies and with Leonora soon; And as long as beauty's garments over beauty's limbs are thrown, There'll be lilies that are liars, and the rose will have its own.

There will be a wondrous quiet in the house that they have made, And to-night will be a darkness in the place where she'll be laid; But the builders, looking forward into time, could only see Darker nights for Leonora than to-night shall ever be.

THE WISE BROTHERS

FIRST VOICE

So long adrift, so fast aground, What foam and ruin have we found— We, the Wise Brothers? Could heaven and earth be framed amiss, That we should land in fine like this— We, and no others?

SECOND VOICE

Convoyed by what accursèd thing Made we this evil reckoning— We, the Wise Brothers?

And if the failure be complete, Why look we forward from defeat— We, and what others?

THIRD VOICE

Blown far from harbors once in sight, May we not, going far, go right,— We, the Wise Brothers? Companioned by the whirling spheres, Have we no more than what appears— We, and all others?

BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD

"There, but for the grace of God, goes. . ."

There is a question that I ask, And ask again: What hunger was half-hidden by the mask That he wore then?

There was a word for me to say That I said not; And in the past there was another day. That I forgot:

A dreary, cold, unwholesome day, Racked overhead,— As if the world were turning the wrong way, And the sun dead:

A day that comes back well enough Now he is gone. What then? Has memory no other stuff To seize upon?

Wherever he may wander now In his despair, Would he be more contented in the slough If all were there?

And yet he brought a kind of light Into the room; And when he left, a tinge of something bright Survived the gloom.

Why will he not be where he is, And not with me? The hours that are my life are mine, not his,— Or used to be.

What numerous imps invisible Has he at hand, Far-flying and forlorn as what they tell At his command?

What hold of weirdness or of worth Can he possess, That he may speak from anywhere on earth His loneliness?

Shall I be caught and held again In the old net?— He brought a sorry sunbeam with him then, But it beams yet.

AU REVOIR

(MARCH 23, 1909.)

What libellers of destiny Are these who are afraid That something yet without a name Will seize him in the shade?

Though fever-demons may compound Their most malefic brew, No fever can defeat the man Who still has work to do;

Though mighty lions walk about, Inimical to see, No lion yet was ever fed On things that are to be.

Wherefore, and of necessity, Will he meet what may come; And from a nation will be missed As others are from home.

FOR ARVIA

ON HER FIFTH BIRTHDAY

You Eyes, you large and all-inquiring Eyes, That look so dubiously into me, And are not satisfied with what you see, Tell me the worst and let us have no lies: Tell me the secret of your scrutinies, And of myself. Am I a Mystery? Am I a Boojum—or just Company? What do you say? What do you think, You Eyes?

You say not; but you think, beyond a doubt; And you have the whole world to think about, With very little time for little things. So let it be; and let it all be fair— For you, and for the rest who cannot share Your gold of unrevealed awakenings.

THE SUNKEN CROWN

Nothing will hold him longer—let him go; Let him go down where others have gone down; Little he cares whether we smile or frown, Or if we know, or if we think we know. The call is on him for his overthrow, Say we; so let him rise, or let him drown. Poor fool! He plunges for the sunken crown, And we—we wait for what the plunge may show.

Well, we are safe enough. Why linger, then? The watery chance was his, not ours. Poor fool! Poor truant, poor Narcissus out of school; Poor jest of Askelon; poor king of men.— The crown, if he be wearing it, may cool His arrogance, and he may sleep again.

DOCTOR OF BILLIARDS

Of all among the fallen from on high, We count you last and leave you to regain Your born dominion of a life made vain By three spheres of insidious ivory. You dwindle to the lesser tragedy— Content, you say. We call, but you remain. Nothing alive gone wrong could be so plain, Or quite so blasted with absurdity.

You click away the kingdom that is yours, And you click off your crown for cap and bells; You smile, who are still master of the feast, And for your smile we credit you the least; But when your false, unhallowed laugh occurs, We seem to think there may be something else.

SHADRACH O'LEARY

O'Leary was a poet—for a while: He sang of many ladies frail and fair, The rolling glory of their golden hair, And emperors extinguished with a smile. They foiled his years with many an ancient wile, And if they limped, O'Leary didn't care: He turned them loose and had them everywhere, Undoing saints and senates with their guile.

But this was not the end. A year ago I met him—and to meet was to admire: Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre, And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream. By questioning I found a man to know— A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.

HOW ANNANDALE WENT OUT

"They called it Annandale—and I was there To flourish, to find words, and to attend: Liar, physician, hypocrite, and friend, I watched him; and the sight was not so fair As one or two that I have seen elsewhere: An apparatus not for me to mend— A wreck, with hell between him and the end, Remained of Annandale; and I was there.

"I knew the ruin as I knew the man; So put the two together, if you can, Remembering the worst you know of me. Now view yourself as I was, on the spot— With a slight kind of engine. Do you see? Like this. . . You wouldn't hang me? I thought not."

ALMA MATER

He knocked, and I beheld him at the door— A vision for the gods to verify. "What battered ancientry is this," thought I, And when, if ever, did we meet before?" But ask him as I might, I got no more For answer than a moaning and a cry: Too late to parley, but in time to die, He staggered, and lay shapeless on the floor.

When had I known him? And what brought him here? Love, warning, malediction, hunger, fear? Surely I never thwarted such as he?— Again, what soiled obscurity was this: Out of what scum, and up from what abyss, Had they arrived—these rags of memory?

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheery, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

THE PILOT

From the Past and Unavailing Out of cloudland we are steering; After groping, after fearing, Into starlight we come trailing, And we find the stars are true. Still, O comrade, what of you? You are gone, but we are sailing, And the old ways are all new.

For the Lost and Unreturning We have drifted, we have waited; Uncommanded and unrated, We have tossed and wandered, yearning For a charm that comes no more From the old lights by the shore: We have shamed ourselves in learning What you knew so long before.

For the Breed of the Far-going Who are strangers, and all brothers, May forget no more than others Who look seaward with eyes flowing. But are brothers to bewail One who fought so foul a gale? You have won beyond our knowing, You are gone, but yet we sail.

VICKERY'S MOUNTAIN

Blue in the west the mountain stands, And through the long twilight Vickery sits with folded hands, And Vickery's eyes are bright.

Bright, for he knows what no man else On earth as yet may know: There's a golden word that he never tells, And a gift that he will not show.

He dreams of honor and wealth and fame, He smiles, and well he may; For to Vickery once a sick man came Who did not go away.

The day before the day to be, "Vickery," said the guest, "You know as you live what's left of me— And you shall know the rest.

"You know as you live that I have comeTo what we call the end. No doubt you have found me troublesome, But you've also found a friend;

"For we shall give and you shall takeThe gold that is in view; The mountain there and I shall make A golden man of you.

"And you shall leave a friend behindWho neither frets nor feels; And you shall move among your kind With hundreds at your heels.

"Now this that I have written hereTells all that need be told; So, Vickery, take the way that's clear, And be a man of gold."

Vickery turned his eyes again To the far mountain-side, And wept a tear for worthy men Defeated and defied.

Since then a crafty score of yearsHave come, and they have gone; But Vickery counts no lost arrears: He lingers and lives on.

Blue in the west the mountain stands, Familiar as a face. Blue, but Vickery knows what sands Are golden at its base.

He dreams and lives upon the day When he shall walk with kings. Vickery smiles—and well he may: The life-caged linnet sings.

Vickery thinks the time will come To go for what is his; But hovering, unseen hands at home Will hold him where he is.

There's a golden word that he never tellsAnd a gift that he will not show. All to be given to some one else— And Vickery shall not know.

BON VOYAGE

Child of a line accurst And old as Troy, Bringer of best and worst In wild alloy— Light, like a linnet first, He sang for joy.

Thrall to the gilded ease Of every day, Mocker of all degrees And always gay, Child of the Cyclades And of Broadway—

Laughing and half divine The boy began, Drunk with a woodland wine Thessalian: But there was rue to twine The pipes of Pan.

Therefore he skipped and flew The more along, Vivid and always new And always wrong, Knowing his only clew A siren song.

Careless of each and all He gave and spent: Feast or a funeral He laughed and went, Laughing to be so small In the event.

Told of his own deceit By many a tongue, Flayed for his long defeat By being young, Lured by the fateful sweet Of songs unsung—

Knowing it in his heart, But knowing not The secret of an art That few forgot, He played the twinkling part That was his lot.

And when the twinkle died, As twinkles do, He pushed himself aside And out of view: Out with the wind and tide, Before we knew.

THE COMPANION

Let him answer as he will, Or be lightsome as he may, Now nor after shall he say Worn-out words enough to kill, Or to lull down by their craft, Doubt, that was born yesterday, When he lied and when she laughed.

Let him find another name For the starlight on the snow,

Let him teach her till she know That all seasons are the same, And all sheltered ways are fair,— Still, wherever she may go, Doubt will have a dwelling there.

ATHERTON'S GAMBIT

The master played the bishop's pawn, For jest, while Atherton looked on; The master played this way and that, And Atherton, amazed thereat, Said "Now I have a thing in view That will enlighten one or two, And make a difference or so In what it is they do not know."

The morning stars together sang And forth a mighty music rang— Not heard by many, save as told Again through magic manifold, By such a few as have to play For others, in the Master's way, The music that the Master made When all the morning stars obeyed.

Atherton played the bishop's pawn While more than one or two looked on; Atherton played this way and that, And many a friend, amused thereat, Went on about his business Nor cared for Atherton the less; A few stood longer by the game, With Atherton to them the same.

The morning stars are singing still, To crown, to challenge, and to kill; And if perforce there falls a voice On pious ears that have no choice Except to urge an erring hand To wreak its homage on the land, Who of us that is worth his while Will, if he listen, more than smile?

Who of us, being what he is, May scoff at others' ecstasies? However we may shine to-day, More-shining ones are on the way; And so it were not wholly well To be at odds with Azrael,— Nor were it kind of any one To sing the end of Atherton.

FOR A DEAD LADY

No more with overflowing light Shall fill the eyes that now are faded, Nor shall another's fringe with night Their woman-hidden world as they did. No more shall quiver down the days The flowing wonder of her ways, Whereof no language may requite The shifting and the many-shaded.

The grace, divine, definitive, Clings only as a faint forestalling; The laugh that love could not forgive Is hushed, and answers to no calling; The forehead and the little ears Have gone where Saturn keeps the years; The breast where roses could not live Has done with rising and with falling.

The beauty, shattered by the laws That have creation in their keeping, No longer trembles at applause, Or over children that are sleeping; And we who delve in beauty's lore Know all that we have known before Of what inexorable cause Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.

TWO GARDENS IN LINNDALE

Two brothers, Oakes and Oliver, Two gentle men as ever were, Would roam no longer, but abide In Linndale, where their fathers died, And each would be a gardener.

"Now first we fence the garden through, With this for me and that for you," Said Oliver.—"Divine!" said Oakes, "And I, while I raise artichokes, Will do what I was born to do."

"But this is not the soil, you know," Said Oliver, "to make them grow: The parent of us, who is dead, Compassionately shook his head Once on a time and told me so."

"I hear you, gentle Oliver," Said Oakes, "and in your character I find as fair a thing indeed As ever bloomed and ran to seed Since Adam was a gardener.

"Still, whatsoever I find there, Forgive me if I do not share The knowing gloom that you take on Of one who doubted and is done: For chemistry meets every prayer."

"Sometimes a rock will meet a plough," Said Oliver; "but anyhow 'Tis here we are, 'tis here we live, With each to take and each to give: There's no room for a quarrel now.

"I leave you in all gentleness To science and a ripe success. Now God be with you, brother Oakes, With you and with your artichokes: You have the vision, more or less."

"By fate, that gives to me no choice, I have the vision and the voice: Dear Oliver, believe in me, And we shall see what we shall see; Henceforward let us both rejoice."

"But first, while you have joy to spare We'll plant a little here and there; And if you be not in the wrong, We'll sing together such a song As no man yet sings anywhere."

They planted and with fruitful eyes Attended each his enterprise. "Now days will come and days will go, And many a way be found, we know" Said Oakes, "and we shall sing, likewise."

"The days will go, the years will go, And many a song be sung, we know," Said Oliver; "and if there be Good harvesting for you and me, Who cares if we sing loud or low?"

They planted once, and twice, and thrice, Like amateurs in paradise; And every spring, fond, foiled, elate, Said Oakes, "We are in tune with Fate: One season longer will suffice."

Year after year 'twas all the same: With none to envy, none to blame, They lived along in innocence, Nor ever once forgot the fence, Till on a day the Stranger came.

He came to greet them where they were, And he too was a Gardener: He stood between these gentle men, He stayed a little while, and then The land was all for Oliver.

'Tis Oliver who tills alone Two gardens that are now his own; 'Tis Oliver who sows and reaps And listens, while the other sleeps, For songs undreamed of and unknown.

'Tis he, the gentle anchorite, Who listens for them day and night; But most he hears them in the dawn, When from his trees across the lawn Birds ring the chorus of the light.

He cannot sing without the voice, But he may worship and rejoice For patience in him to remain, The chosen heir of age and pain, Instead of Oakes—who had no choice.

'Tis Oliver who sits beside The other's grave at eventide, And smokes, and wonders what new race Will have two gardens, by God's grace, In Linndale, where their fathers died.

And often, while he sits and smokes, He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes Uprooting, with a restless hand, Soft, shadowy flowers in a land Of asphodels and artichokes.