Light : a narrative poem / by Joaquin Miller [electronic text]

BOOK SECOND

CANTO I

I

HIS triple star led on and on Led up blue, bastioned Chilkoot Pass To clouds, through clouds, above white clouds That droop with snows like beaded strouds— Above a world of gleaming glass, Where loomed such cities of the skies As only prophets look upon, As only loving poets see, With prophet ken of mystery.

II

What lone, white silence, left or fight, What whiteness, something more than white! Such steel blue whiteness, van or rear— Such silence as you could but hear Above the sparkled, frosted rime,

As if the steely stars kept time And sang their mystic, mighty rune—…And oh, the icy, eerie moon!

III

What temples, towers, tombs of white, White tombs, white tombstones, left and right, That pushed the passing night aside To ward where fallen stars had died— To ward white tombs where dead stars lay— White tombs more white, more bright than they; White tombs high heaped white tombs upon— White Ossa piled on Pelion!

IV

Pale, steel stars flashed, rose, fell again, Then paused, leaned low, as pitying, And leaning so they ceased to sing, The while the moon, with mother care, Slow rocked her silver rocking-chair.

V

Night here, mid-year, is as a span; Thor comes, a gold-clad king of war, Comes only as the great Thor can. Thor storms the battlements and Thor, Far leaping, clinging crowned upon,

Throws battle hammer forth and back Until the walls blaze in his track With sparks and it is sudden dawn — Dawn, sudden, sparkling, as a gem — A jeweled, frost-set diadem Of diamond, ruby, radium.

VI

Two tallest, ice-tipt peaks take flame, Take yellow flame, take crimson, pink, Then, ere you yet have time to think, Take hues that never yet had name. Then turret, minaret, and tower, As if to mark some mystic hour, Or ancient, lost Masonic sign, Take on a darkness like to night, Deep night below the yellow light That erstwhile seemed some snow-white tomb. Then all is set in ghostly gloom, As some dim-lighted, storied shrine— As if the stars forget to stay At court when comes the kingly day.

VII

And now the high built shafts of brass, Gate posts that guard the tomb-set pass, Put off their crowns, rich robes, and all

Their sudden, splendid light let fall; And tomb and minaret and tower Again gleam as that midnight hour. While day, as scorning still to wait, Drives fiercely through the ice-built gate That guards the Arctic's outer hem Of white, high-built Jerusalem.

VIII

To see, to guess the great white throne, Behold Alaska's ice-built steeps Where everlasting silence keeps And white death lives and lords alone: Go see God's river born full grown— The gold of this stream it is good: Here grows the Ark's white gopher wood— A wide, white land, unnamed, unknown, A land of mystery and moan.

IX

Tall, trim, slim gopher trees incline, A leaning, laden, helpless copse, And moan and creak and intertwine Their laden, twisted, tossing tops, And moan all night and moan all day With winds that walk these steeps alway.

X

The melancholy moose looks down, A tattered Capuchin in brown, A gaunt, ungainly, mateless monk, An elephant without his trunk, While far, against the gleaming blue, High up a rock-topt ridge of snow, Where scarce a dream would care to go, Climb countless blue-clad caribou, In endless line till lost to view.

XI

The rent ice surges, grinds, and groans, Then gorges, backs, and climbs the shore, Then breaks with sudden rage and roar And plunging, leaping, foams and moans Swift down the surging, seething stream— Mad hurdles of some monstrous dream.

XII

To see God's river born full grown, To see him burst the womb of earth And leap, a giant at his birth, Through shoreless whiteness, with wild shout — A shout so sharp, so cold, so dread You see, feel, hear, his sheeted dead — 'Tis as to know, no longer doubt,

'Tis as to know the eld Unknown, Aye, bow before the great white throne.

XIII

White-hooded nuns, steeps gleaming white, Lean o'er his cradle, left and right, And weep the while he moans and cries And rends the earth with agonies; High ice-heaved summits where no thing Has yet set foot or flashed a wing— Bare ice-built summits where the white Wide world is but a sea of white— White kneeling nuns that kneel and feed The groaning ice god in his greed, And feed, forever feed, man's soul. The full-grown river bounds right on From out his birthplace tow'rd the Pole; He knows no limit, no control: He scarce is here till he is gone— This sudden, mad, ice-born Yukon.

XIV

Beyond white plunging Chilkoot Pass, That trackless Pass of stately tombs, Of midday glories, midnight glooms, Of morn's great gate posts, girt in brass— This courtier, born to nature's court, This comrade, peer of peaks, still kept

Companion with the stars and leapt And laughed, the gliding sea of glass Beneath his feet in merry sport.

XV

Then mute red men, the quick canoe, Then o'er the ice-born surge and on, Till gleaming snows and steeps were gone, Till wide, deep waters, swirling, blue, Received the sudden, swift canoe, That leapt and laughed and laughing flew.

XVI

Then tall, lean trees, girth scarce a span, With moss-set, moss-hung banks of gold Most rich in hue, more gorgeous than Silk carpetings of Turkestan: Deep yellow mosses, rich as gold, More gorgeous than the eye of man Hath seen save in this wonderland— Then flashing, tumbling, headlong waves Below white, ice-bound, ice-built shores— The river swept a seam of white Where basalt bluffs made day like night. And then they heard no sound, the oars Were idle, still as grassy graves.

XVII

And then the mad, tumultuous moon Spilt silver seas to plunge upon, Possessed the land, a sea of white. That white moon rivaled the red dawn And slew the very name of night, And walked the grave of afternoon— That vast, vehement, stark mad moon!

XVIII

The wide, still waters, sedgy shore, A lank, brown wolf, a hungry howl, A lean and hungry midday moon; And then again the red man's oar— A wide-winged, mute, white Arctic owl, A black, red-crested, screeching loon That knew not night from middle noon, Nor gold-robed sun from lean, lank moon— That crazy, black, red-crested loon.

XIX

Swift narrows now, and now and then A broken boat with drowning men; The wide, still marshes, dank as death, Where honked the wild goose long and loud With unabated, angry breath. Black swallows twittered in a cloud

Above the broad mosquito marsh, The wild goose honked, forlorn and harsh; Honked, fluttered, flew in warlike mood Above her startled, myriad brood, The while the melancholy moose, As if to mock the honking goose, Forsook his wall, plunged in the wave And sank, as sinking in a grave, Sank to his eyes, his great, sad eyes, And watched, in wonder, mute surprise, Watched broken barge and drowning men Drift, swirl, then plunge the gorge again.

XX

Again that great white Arctic owl, As pitying, it perched the bank Where swirled a barge and swirling sank— A drowned man swirling with white face Low lifting from the swift whirlpool. That distant, doleful, hilltop howl— That screaming, crimson-crested fool! And oh, that eerie, ice-made moon That hung the cobalt tent of blue And looked straight down, to look you through, That dead man swirling in his place, That honking, honking, huge gray goose, That solitary, sad-eyed moose,

That owl, that wolf, that human loon, And oh, that death's head, hideous moon!

XXI

And this the Yukon, night by night, The yellow Yukon, day by day; A land of death, vast, voiceless, white, A graveyard locked in ice-set clay, A graveyard to the Judgment Day.

XXII

On, on, the swirling pool was gone, On, on, the boat swept on, swept on, That moon was as a thousand moons!. Two dead men swirled, one swept, one sank— Two wolves, two owls, two yelling loons!' And now three loons! How many moons?How many white owls perch the shore? Three lank, black wolves along the bank That watch the drowned men swirl or sink! Three screeching loons along the brink—That moon disputing with the dawn That dared the yellow, dread Yukon!

XXIII

And why so like some lorn graveyard Where only owls and loons may say And life goes by the other way?

Aye, why so hideous and so hard, So deathly hard to look upon? Because this cold, wild, dread Yukon, Of gold-sown banks, of sea white waves, Is but one land, one sea of graves.

XXIV

Behold where bones hang either bank! Great tusks of beasts before the flood That floated here and floating sank— 'Mid ice-locked walls and ice-hung steep, With muck and stone and moss and mud, Where only death and darkness keep! Lo, this is death-land! Heap on heap, By ice-strown.strand or rock-built steep, By moss-brown walls, gray, green or blue, The Yukon cleaves a graveyard through! Three thousand miles of tusk and bone, Strown here, strown there, all heedless strown, All strown and sown just as they lay That time the fearful deluge passed, Safe locked in ices to the last, Safe locked, as records laid away, To wait, to wait, the Judgment Day.

XXV

He landed, pierced the ice-locked earth, He burned it to the very bone—

Burned and laid bare the deep bedstone Placed at the building, at the birth Of morn, and here, there, everywhere, Such bones of bison, mastodon! Such tusky monsters without name! Great ice-bound bones with flesh scarce gone, So fresh the wild dogs nightly came To fight about and feast upon. And gold along the bedrock lay So bounteous below the bones Men barely need to turn the stones To fill their skins, within the day, With rich, red gold and go their way.

XXVI

"The gold of that place it is good." Lo, here God laid the Paradise! Lo, here each witness of the flood, Tight jailed in ice eternal, lies To wait the bailiff's chorus call: "Come into court, come one, come all!" But why so cold, so deathly cold The battered beasts, the scattered gold, The pleasant trees of Paradise, Deep locked in everlasting ice?

XXVII

Oyez! the red man's simple tale; He says that once, o'er hill and vale, Ripe fruits hung ready all the year; That man knew neither frost nor fear, That bison wallowed to the eyes In grass, that palm trees brushed the skies Where birds made music all day long. That then a great chief shaped a spear Bone-tipt and sharp and long and strong, And made a deadly moon-shaped bow, And then a flint-tipt arrow wrought. Then cunning, snake like, creeping low, As creeps a cruel cat, he sought And in sheer wantonness he shot A large-eyed, trusting, silly roe. And then, exultant, crazed, he slew Ten bison, ten tame bear and, too, A harmless, long-limbed, shambling moose; That then the smell of blood let loose The passions of all men and all Uprose and slew, or great or small— Uprose and slew till hot midday All four-foot creatures in their way; Then proud, defiant, every one, Shook his red spear-point at the sun.

XXVIII

Then God said, through a mist of tears, "What would ye, braves made mad with blood?" And then they shook their bone-tipt spears And cried, "The sun it is not good! Too hot the sun, too long the day; Break off and throw the end away!"

XXIX

Then God, most angered instantly, Drew down the day from out the sky And brake the day across his knee And hurled the fragments hot and high And far down till they fell upon The bronzing waves of dread Yukon, Nor spared the red men one dim ray Of light to lead them on their way.

XXX

And then the red men filled the lands With wailing for just one faint ray Of light to guide them home that they Might wash and cleanse their blood-red hands.

XXXI

But God said, "Yonder, far away Down yon Yukon, your broken day!

Go gather it from out the night! That fitful, fearful Northern Light, Is all that ye shall ever know To guide henceforth the way you go.

XXXII

"You shall not see my face again, But you shall see cold death instead. This land hath sinned, this land is dead; You drenched your beauteous land in blood, And now behold the wild, white rain Shall fall until a drowning flood Shall fill all things above, below, To wash away the smell of blood, And birds shall die and beasts be dumb, When cold, the cold of death shall come And weave a piteous shroud of snow, In graveyard silence, ever so."

XXXIII

The red men say that then the rain Drowned all the fires of the world, Then drowned the fires of the moon; That then the sun came not again, Save in the middle summer noon, When hot, red lances they had hurled Are hurled at them like fiery rain, Till Yukon rages like a main.

XXXIV

With bated breath these skin-clad men Tell why the big-nosed moose foreknew The flood; how, bandy-legged, he flew Far up high Saint Elias: how, Down in the slope of his left horn, The raven rested, night and morn; How, in the hollow of his right, The dove hued moose-bird nestled low Until they touched the utmost height; How dove and raven soon took flight And winged them forth and far away; But how the moose did stay and stay, His great sad eyes all wet with tears, And keep his steeps two thousand years.

XXXV

He heard the half, nude red men say, Close huddled to the flame at night, How in the hollow of a palm A woman and a water rat, That dreadful, darkened, drowning day, Crept close and nestled in their fright; And how a bear, tame as a lamb, Came to them in the tree and sat The long, long drift-time to the sea, The while the wooing water rat

Made love to her incessantly; How then the bear became a priest And married them at last; how then To them was born the shortest, least Of all the children of all men, And yet most cunning and most brave Of all who dare the bleak north wave.

XXXVI

What tales of tropic fruit! No tale But of some soft, sweet, sensuous clime, Of love and lovely maiden's trust—Some peopled, pleasant, palm-hung vale Of everlasting summer time— And, then the deadly sin of lust; Forbidden fruit, shame and disgust!

XXXVII

And whence the story of it all, The palm land, love land and the fall? Was't born of ages of desire From such sad children of the snows For something fairer, better, higher? God knows, God knows, God only knows. But I should say, hand laid to heart And, head made bare, as I would swear, These piteous, sad-faced children there

Knew Eden, the expulsion, knew The deluge, knew the deluge true!

XXXVIII

And what though this be surely so? Just this: I know, as all men know, As few before this surely knew— Just this, and count it great or small, The best of you or worst of you, The Bible, lid to lid, is true!

CANTO II

I

THE year waxed weary, gouty, old; The crisp days dwindled to a span, The dying year it fell as cold As dead feet of a dying man. The hard, long, weary work was done, The dark, deep pits probed to the bone, And each had just one tale to tell. Ten thousand argonauts as one, Agnostic, Christian, infidel, All said, despite of creed or class, All said as one, "As surely as The Bible is, the deluge was, Whate'er the curse, whate'er the cause!"

II

What merry men these miners were, And mighty in their pent-up force! They wrought for her, they fought for her, For her alone, or night or day, In tent or camp, their one discourse The Love three thousand miles away, The Love who waked to watch and pray.

III

Yet rude were they and brutal they, Their love a blended love and lust, Born of this later, loveless day; You could but love them for their truth, Their frankness and their fiery youth, And yet turn from them in disgust, To loathe, to pity, and mistrust.

IV

The Siege of Troy knew scarce such men, Such hardy, daring men as they, The coward had not voyaged then, The weak had died upon the way.

V

They sang, they sang some like to this, "I say risk all for one warm kiss;

I say 'twere better risk the fall, Like Romeo, to venture all And boldly climb to deadly bliss."

VI

I like that savage, Sabine way; What mighty minstrels came of it! Their songs are ringing to this day, The bravest ever sung or writ; Their loves the love of Juliet, Of Portia, Desdemona, yea, The old true loves are living yet; And we, we love, we weep, we sigh, In love with loves that will not die.

VII

Then take her, lover, sword in hand, Hot-blooded and red-handed, clasp Her sudden, stormy, tall and grand, And lift her in your iron grasp And kiss her, kiss her till she cries From keen, sweet, happy, killing pain. Aye, kiss her till she seeming dies; Aye, kiss her till she dies, and then, Why kiss her back to life again!

VIII

I love all things that truly love, I love the low-voiced cooing dove In wooing time, he woos so true, His soft notes fall so overfull Of love they thrill me through and through. But when the thunder-throated bull Upheaves his head and shakes the air With eloquence and battle's blare, And roars and tears the earth to woo, I like his warlike wooing too.

IX

Yet best to love that lover is Who loves all things beneath the sun, Then finds all fair things injust one, And finds all fortune in one kiss.

X

How wisely born, how more than wise, How wisely learned must be that soul Who loves all earth, all Paradise, All people, places, pole to pole, Yet in one kiss includes the whole!

XI

Give me a lover ever bold, A lover clean, keen, sword in hand,

Like to those white-plumed knights of old Whose loves held honor in the land; Those men with hot blood in their veins And hot, swift, iron hand to kill— Those women loving well the chains That bound them fast against their will; Yet loved and lived—are living still.

XII

Enough: the bronzed man launched his boat, A faithful dwarf clutched at the oar, And Boreas began to roar As if to break his burly throat.

XIII

Down, down by basalt palisade, Down, down by bleakest ice-piled isle! The mute, dwarf water rat afraid? The water rat it could but smile To hear the cold, wild waters roar Against his savage Arctic shore.

XIV

But now he listened, gave a shout, A startled cry, akin to fear. The hand of God had reached swift out And locked, as in an iron vise, The whole white world in blue-black ice,

And daylight scarce seemed living more. The day, the year, the world, lay dead. With star-tipt candles foot and head; Great stars, that burn a whole half year, Stood forth, five-horned, and near, so near!

XV

The ghost-white day scarce drew a breath, The dying day shrank to a span; There was no life save that of man And woolly dogs—man, dogs, and death! The sun, a mass of molten gold, Surged feebly up, then sudden rolled Right back as in a beaten track And left the white world to the moon And five-horned stars of gleaming gold; Such stars as sang in silent rune— And oh, the cold, such killing cold As few have felt and none have told!

XVI

And now he knew the last dim light Lay on yon ice-shaft, steep and far, Where stood one bold, triumphant star, And he would dare the gleaming height, Would see the death-bed of the day, Whatever fate might make of it. A foolish thing, yet were it fit

That he who dared to love, to say, To live, should look the last of Light Full in the face, then go his way All silent into lasting night As he had left her, on her height?

XVII

He climbed, he climbed, he neared at last The Golden Fleece of flitting Light! When sudden as an eagle's flight— An eagle frightened from its nest That crowns the topmost, rock-reared crest— It swooped, it drooped, it, dying, passed.

XVIII

As when some sunny, poppy day The Mariposa scatters gold The while he takes his happy flight, Like star dust when the day is old, So passed his Light and all was night

XIX

Some star-like scattered flecks of gold Flashed from the far and fading wings That kept the sky, like living things— Then oh, the cold, the cruel cold! The light, the life of him had past,

The spirit of the day had fled; The lover of God's first-born, Light, Descended, mourning for his dead. The last of light, the very last He deemed that he should look upon Until God's everlasting dawn Beyond this dread half year of night Had fled forever from his sight.

XX

Twas death to go, thrice death to stay. Turn back, go southward, seek the sun? Yea, better die in search of light, Die boldly, face set forth for day, As many dauntless men have done, Than wail at fate and house with night.

XXI

Some woolly dogs, a low, dwarf-chief— His trained thews stood him now in stead — Broad snow-shoes, skins, a laden sled.— That moon was as a brazen thief That dares to mock, laugh, and carouse! It followed, followed everywhere; He hid his face, that moon was there. Such painful light, such piteous pain! It broke into his very brain, As breaks a burglar in a house.

XXII

Scarce seen, a change came, slow, so slow! That moon sank slowly out of sight, The lower world of gleaming white Took on a somber band of woe, A wall of umber 'round about, So dim at first you could but doubt, That change there was, day after day— Nay, nay, not day, I can but say Sleep after sleep, sleep after sleep— That band grew darker, deep, more deep, Until there girt a dense-dark wall, A low, black wall of ebon hue, Oppressive, deathlike as a pall; It walked with you, close compassed you, While not one thread of light shot through. Above the black a gird of brown Soft blending into amber hue, And then from out the cobalt blue Great, massive, golden stars swung down Like tow'rd lights of mountain town.

XXIII

At last the moon moved gaunt and slow, Half veiled her hollow, hungry face In amber, kept unsteady pace

High up her star-set wall of snow, Nor scarcely deigned to look below.

XXIV

Then far beyond, above the night, Above the umber, amber hue, Above the lean moon's blare and blight, One mighty ice shaft shimmered through; One gleaming peak, as white, as lone As you could think the great white throne Stood up against the cobalt blue, And kept companion with the stars Despite dusk walls or umber bars.

XXV

That wall, that hideous prison wall, That blackness, umber, amber hue, It cumbers you, encircles you, It mantles as a hearse's pall. Your eyes lift to the star-pricked sky, You lift your frosted face, you pray That e'en the sickly moon might stay A time, if but to see you die. Yet how it blinds you, body, soul! You can no longer keep control. Your feebled senses fall astray:You cannot think, you dare not say.

XXVI

And now such under gleam of light, Such blazing, flaming, frightful glare; Such sudden, deadly, lightning gleam, Some like a monstrous, mad nightmare— Such hideous light, born of such night! It burst, with changeful interval, From out the ice beneath the wall, From out the groaning, surging stream That breathed, or tried to breathe, in vain, That struggled, strangled, shrieked with pain! 'Twas as if he of Patmos read, Sat by with burning pen and said, With piteous and prophetic voice, "The earth shall pass with rustling noise."

XXVII

Swift out the ice-crack, fiery red, Swift up the umber wall and back, Then 'round and 'round, up, down and back, The sudden lightning sped and sped, Until the walls hung burnished red, An instant red, then yellow, white; With something more than earthly light.

XXVIII

It blinds your eyes until they burn, Until you dare not look or turn, But think of him who saw and told The story of, the glory of,The jasper walls, the streets of gold, Where trails God's unseen garments' hem The holy New Jerusalem.

XXIX

Then while he trudged he tried to think— And then another sudden light, Or red or yellow, blue or white, Burst up from out the very brink Of where he passed and, left or right, It burnished yet again the walls! Then up, straight up against the stars That seemed as jostled, rent with jars! Then silent night. Where next and when? Then blank, black interval, and then— And oh, those blank, dread intervals, This writing on the umber walls!

XXX

The blazing Borealis passed, The umber walls fell down at last And left the great cathedral stars,—

The five-horned stars, blent, burnished bars Of gold, red, gleaming, blinding gold— And still the cold, the killing cold!

XXXI

The moon resumed all heaven now, She shepherded the stars below Along her wide, white steeps of snow, Nor stooped nor rested, where or how, She bared her full white breast, she dared The sun e'er show his face again. She seemed to know no change, she kept Carousal constantly, nor slept, Nor turned aside a breath, nor spared The fearful meaning, the mad pain, The weary eyes, the poor, dazed brain That came at last to feel, to see The dread, dead touch of lunacy.

XXXII

How loud the silence! Oh, how loud! How more than beautiful the shroud Of dead Light in the moon-mad north When great torch-tipping stars stand forth Above the black, slow-moving pall As at some fearful funeral!

XXXIII

The moon blares as mad trumpets blare To marshaled warriors long and loud: The cobalt blue knows not a cloud, But oh, beware that moon, beware Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad stare!

XXXIV

Beware. white silence more than white! Beware the five-horned starry rune; Beware the groaning gorge below; Beware the wide, white world of snow, Where trees hang white as hooded nun— No thing not white, not one, not one, But most beware that mad white moon.

XXXV

All day, all day, all night, all night— Nay, nay, not yet or night or day. Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly white Made doubly white by that mad moon And strange stars jangled out of tune!

XXXVI

At last he saw, or seemed to see, Above, beyond, another world. Far up the ice-hung path there curled

A red-veined cloud, a canopy That topt the fearful ice-built peak That seemed to prop the very porch Of God's house; then, as if a torch Burned fierce, there flashed a fiery streak, A flush, a blush on heaven's cheek!

XXXVII

The dogs sat down, men sat the sled And watched the flush, the blush of red. The little woolly dogs they knew, Yet scarce knew what they were about. They thrust their noses up and out, They drank the Light, what else to do? Their little feet, so worn, so true, Could scare keep quiet for delight. They knew, they knew, how much they knew, The mighty breaking up of night! Their bright eyes sparkled with such joy That they at last should see loved Light! The tandem sudden broke all rule, Swung back, each leaping like a boy Let loose from some dark, ugly school— Leaped up and tried to lick his hand — Stood up as happy children stand.

XXXVIII

How tenderly God's finger set His crimson flower on that height. Above the battered walls of night! A little space it flourished yet, And then His angel, His first-born, Burst through, as on that primal morn!

XXXIX

His right hand held a sword of flame, His left hand javelins of light, And swift down, down, right down he came! His bright wings wide as the wide sky, And right and left, and hip and thigh, He smote the marshaled hosts of night With all his majesty and might.

XL

The scared moon paled and she forgot Her pomp and pride and turned to fly. The ice-heaved palisades, the high Heaved peaks that propped God's house, the stars That flamed above the prison bars, As battle stars with fury fraught, Were burned to ruin and were not.

XLI

Then glad earth shook her raiment wide, And free and far, and stood up tall, As some proud woman, satisfied, Forgets, and yet remembers all. She stood exultant, till her form, A queen above some battle storm, Blazed with the glory, the delight Of battle with the hosts of night. And night was broken. Light at last Lay on the Yukon. Night had passed.

CANTO III

I

THE days grew longer, stronger, yet The strong man grew then as a child. Too hard the tension and too wild The terror; he could not forget. And now at last when Light was, now He could not see nor lift his eyes, Nor lift a hand in any wise. It was as when a race is won By some strong favorite athlete, Then sinks down dying at your feet.

II

The red chief led him on and on To his high lodge by gorged Yukon And housed him kindly as his own, Blind, broken, dazed, and so alone!

III

The low bark lodge was desolate, And deathly cold by night, by day. Poor, hungered children of the snows, They heaped the fire as he froze, Did all they could, yet what could they But pity his most piteous fate And pitying, silent, watch and wait?

IV

His face was ever to the wall Or buried in his skins; the light— He could not bear the light of day Nor bear the heaped-up flame at night— Not bear one touch of light at all There are no pains, no sharp death throes, So dread as blindness of the snows.

V

He thought of home, he thought of her, Thought most of her, and pictured how

She walked in springtime splendor where Warm sea winds twined her heavy hair In great Greek braids piled fold on fold, Or loosely blown, as poppy's gold.

VI

And then he thought of her afar Mid follies, and his soul at war With self, self will, and iron fate Grew as a blackened thing of hate! And then he prayed forgiveness, prayed As one in sin and sore afraid.

VII

And praying so he dreamed, he dreamed She sat there looking in his face, Sat silent by in that dread-place, Sat silent weeping, so it seemed, Sat still, sat weeping silently. He saw her tears and yet he knew, The blind man knew he could not see, Scarce hope to see for years and years. And then he seemed to hear her tears, To hear them steal her loose hair through And gently fall, as falls the dew And still, small rain of summer morn, That makes for harvests, yellow corn.

VIII

He raised his hand, he touched her hair; He did not start; he did not say; It seemed that she was surely there; He only questioned would she stay. How glad he was! Why, now, what care For hunger, blindness, blinding pain, Could he but touch her hair again?

IX

He heard her rise, give quick command To patient, skin-clad, savage man To heap the wood, come, go, and then Go feed their woolly friends at hand, To bring fresh stores, still heap fresh flame, Then go, then come, as morning came.

X

All seemed so real! He dared not stir, Lest he might break this dream of her. How holy, holy sweet her voice, Like benediction o'er the dead! So glad he was, so grateful he, And thanking God most fervently, Forgot his plight, forgot his pain, And deep at heart did he rejoice;

Yet prayed he might not wake again To peril, blindness, piteous pain,

XI

Then, as he hid his face, she came And leaned quite near and took his hand. 'Twas cold, 'twas very cold, 'twas thin And bony, black, just skin and bone, Just bone and wrinkled mummy-skin. She held it out against the flame, Then pressed it with her two warm hands. It seemed as she could feel the sands Of life slow sift to shadow land. Close on his hurt eyes she laid hand, The while she, wearied, nodded, slept. The flame burned low, the wind's wild moan Awakened her. Cold as a stone His starved form, shrunken to a shade, Stretched in the darkness, and, dismayed, She put the robes back and she crept Close down beside and softly laid Her warm, strong form to his and slept, The while her dusk men vigil kept.

XII

That long, long night, that needed rest! Then flames at morn; her precious store

Heaped hard byon the earthen floor While mute brown men, starved men, stood by To wait the slightest breath or sigh Or sign of wakening request— What silence, patience, trust! What rest! Of all good things, I say the best Beneath God's sun is rest, and—rest.

XIII

She slowly wakened from her sleep To find him sleeping, silent, deep! What food for all, what feast for all, To chief or slave, or great or small, Ranged round the flaming, glowing heap— Such lank, lean flank, such hungry zest! Such reach of limb, such rest, such rest!

XIV

Why, he had gone, had gladly gone In quest of his eternal Light, Beyond all dolours, that dread night, Had she not reached her hand and drawn, Hard drawn him back and held him so, Held him so hard he could not go. And yet he lingered by the brink, As dulled and dazed as you can think— Long, long he lingered, helpless lay, A babe, a broken pot of clay.

XV

She made a broader couch, she sat All day beside and held his hand Lest he might sudden slip away. And she all night beside him lay, Lest these last grains of sinking sand Might in the still night slip and pass, With none at hand to turn the glass.

XVI

And did the red men prate thereat? Why, they had laid them down and died For her, those simple dusky sons Of nature, children of the snows, Born where the ice-bound river runs, Born where the Arctic torrent flows. Look you for evil? Look for ill Or good, you find just what you will.

XVII

He spake no more than babe might speak: His eyes were as the kitten's eyes That open slowly with surprise Then close as if to sleep a week; But still he held, as if he knew, The warm, strong hand, the healthful hand, The dauntless, daring hand and true,

Nor, while he waked, would his unfold, But held, as drowning man might hold Who hopes no more of life or land, But, as from habit, clutches hand.

XVIII

Once, as she thought he surely slept, She slowly drew herself aside, He thrust his hand as terrified, Caught back her hand, kissed it and wept. Then she, too, wept, wept tears like rain, Her first warm, welcome happy tears, Drew in her breath, put by her fears And knew she had not dared in vain.

XIX

Yet day by day, hard on the brink He hung with half-averted head, As silent, listless, as the dead, As sad to see as you can think. Their lorn lodge sat the terraced steep Above the wide, wild, groaning stream That, like some monster in a dream, Cried out in broken, breathless sleep; And looking down, night after night, She saw leap forth that sword of Light.

XX

She guessed, she knew the flaming sword That turned which way to watch and ward And guard the wall and ever guard The Tree of Life, as it is writ. The hand, the hilt, she could not see, Nor yet the true, life-giving tree, Nor cherubim that cherished it, But yet she saw the flaming sword, As written in the Book, the Word.

XXI

She held his hand, he did not stir, And as she nightly sat and sat, She silent gazed and guessed thereat. His fancies seemed to come to her; She could not see the Tree of Life, How fair it grew or where it grew, But this she knew and surely knew, That gleaming sword meant holy strife To keep and guard the Tree of Life.

XXII

Oh, flaming sword, rest not nor rust!The Tree of Life is hewn and torn, The Tree of Life is bowed and worn, The Tree of Life is in the dust.

Hew brute man down, hew branch and root, Till he may spare the Tree of Life, The pale, the piteous woman, wife— Till he shall learn, as learn he must, To lift her fair face from the dust.

XXIII

She watched the wabbly moose at morn Climb steeply up the further steep, Huge, solitary and forlorn. She saw him climb, turn, look and keep Scared watch, this wild, ungainly beast, This mateless, lost thing and the last That roamed before and since the flood— That climbed and climbed the topmost hill As if he heard the deluge still.

XXIV

The sparse, brown children of the snow Began to stir, as sap is stirred In springtime by the song of bird, And trudge by, wearily and slow, Beneath their load of dappled skins That weighed them down as weighty sins.

XXV

And oft they paused, turned and looked back Along their desolate white track,

With arched hand raised to shield their eyes— Looked back as if for something lost Or left behind, of precious cost, Sad-eyed and silent, mutely wise, As just expelled from Paradise.

XXVI

How sad their dark, fixed faces seemed, As if of long-remembered sins! They listless moved, as if they dreamed, As if they knew not where to go In all their wide, white world of snow. She could but think upon the day God made them garments from the skins Of beasts, then turned and bade them go, Go forth as willed they, to and fro.

XXVII

Between the cloud-capt walls of snow A wide-winged raven, croaking low,. Passed and repassed, each weary day, And would not rest, not go, not stay, But ever, ever to and fro, As when forth from the ark of old; And ever as he passed, each day Let fall one croak, so cold, so cold It seemed to strike the ice below

And break in fragments hard as fate; It fell so cold, so desolate.

XXVIII

At last the sun hung hot and high, Hung where that heartless moon had hung. A dove-hued moose bird sudden sung And had glad answerings hard by; The icy steeps began to pour Mad tumult down the rock-built steep. The great Yukon began to roar, As if with pain in broken sleep. The breaking ice began to groan, The very mountains seemed to moan.

XXIX

Then, bursting like a cannon's boom, The great stream broke its icy bands, And rushed and ran with outstretched hands That laid hard hold the willow lands, Rent wide the somber, gopher gloom And roared for room, for room, for room!

XXX

The stalwart moose climbed hard his steep, Climbed till he wallowed, brisket deep, In soft'ning, sinking steeps of snow, Then raging, turned to look below.

XXXI

He tossed, shook high his antlered head, Blew blast on blast through his huge nose, Then, wild with savage rage and fright, He climbed, climbed to the highest height, As if he felt the flood once more Had come to swallow sea and shore.

XXXII

The waters sank, the man uprose, A boat of skins, his Eskimo, Then down from out the world of snow They passed to seas of calm repose Where wide sails waited, warm sea wind, For mango isles and tamarind.