They praise him and call him, they do him honor; He is more beautiful, he shines upon them.'

. . . Wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, Over the low roofs white with snow . . .

Wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, One by one they sing and flow;

Over the outstretched lands of days remembered, Over remembered tower and wall, One by one they gather and talk in the darkness, Rise and glimmer and fall . . .

'Ask him why he did the thing he did!

He knows I will understand!'

'It is too late: He will not hear me: I have lost my power.'

'Three times I've asked him! He will never tell me.

G.o.d have mercy upon him. I will ask no more.'

II. DEATH: AND A DERISIVE CHORUS

The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office, And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly Towards the dazzling street.

Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.

The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.

Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry, We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.

She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.

We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.

Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!-- Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .

She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.

Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?

She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.

Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,-- Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . .

She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!

What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?

Don't lie to us--we all know what he said.

He said the one he murdered once still loves him; He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .

But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,-- Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!

That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!

Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?

We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.

Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!

What have you got in an envelope, old lady?

A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?

How do you know the medium didn't fool you?

Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it.

Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.

What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair?

We know your secret! what's done is done.

Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful, Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry?

You don't think you will find him when you're dead?

Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,-- Look at her eyes all red!

We know you--know your name and all about you, All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.

We tear your secret out, we leave you, go Laughingly down the street. . . . Die, if you want to!

Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!--

. . . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?

Was no one with her when she fell? . . .

We eddy about her, move away in silence.

We hear slow tollings of a bell.

III. PALIMPSEST: A DECEITFUL PORTRAIT

Well, as you say, we live for small horizons: We move in crowds, we flow and talk together, Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,-- Yet know so little of them; only seeing The small bright circle of our consciousness, Beyond which lies the dark. Some few we know-- Or think we know. . . Once, on a sun-bright morning, I walked in a certain hallway, trying to find A certain door: I found one, tried it, opened, And there in a s.p.a.cious chamber, brightly lighted, A hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, While one tall woman sent her voice above them In powerful sweetness. . . . Closing then the door I heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,-- And walked in a quiet hallway as before.

Just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, Is all we know of those we call our friends. . . .

We hear a sudden music, see a playing Of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence.

The music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) Goes on forever there, behind shut doors,-- As it continues after our departure, So, we divine, it played before we came . . .

What do you know of me, or I of you? . . .

Little enough. . . . We set these doors ajar Only for chosen movements of the music: This pa.s.sage, (so I think--yet this is guesswork) Will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,-- More brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered And thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork)

The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, Perplexed with implications; he suspects me Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . .

Or else I let him hear a lyric pa.s.sage,-- Simple and clear; and all the while he listens I make pretence to think my doors are closed.

This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this?

Or only mocking?'--There I let it end. . . .

Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it-- When we pursue our thoughts with too much pa.s.sion, Talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open Without intention; and the hungry watcher Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, And laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom.

And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, Our lovers too, only such few clear notes As we shall deem them likely to admire: 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,'

Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,-- Some sinister depth of l.u.s.t or fear or hatred, The sombre note that gives the chord its power; Or a white loveliness--if such we know-- Too much like fire to speak of without shame.

Well, this being so, and we who know it being So curious about those well-locked houses, The minds of those we know,--to enter softly, And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, Breathing deliberately the very air, Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness To learn what ghosts are there,-- Suppose for once I set my doors wide open And bid you in. . . . Suppose I try to tell you The secrets of this house, and how I live here; Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . .

Deceiving you--as far as I may know it-- Only so much as I deceive myself.

If you are clever you already see me As one who moves forever in a cloud Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, Changing such outlines as a light may change, Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained In a world of things that flatter me: a sky Just as I would have had it; trees and gra.s.s Just as I would have shaped and colored them; Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,-- In some deep way I am aware these praise me: Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, They point, somehow, to me. . . . This water says,-- Shimmering at the sky, or undulating In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,-- This water says, there is some secret in you Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive To all that circles you. This bare tree says,-- Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches Flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says, There is some cold austerity in you, A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, Serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, Concealing what reserves of power and beauty!

What teeming Aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves!

These houses say, such walls in walls as ours, Such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, Such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; Motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; Walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; Walls windowless where darkness is desired; Towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,-- Amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,-- All these are like the walls which shape your spirit: You move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, Proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, When you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. .

This deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, Tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, This cool room says,--just such a room have you, It waits you always at the tops of stairways, Withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, Where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . .

And this embroidery, hanging on this wall, Hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings Of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, Coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins Drawing their rainbow wings through involutions Of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,-- This goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,-- This says, just such an involuted beauty Of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, Image to image gliding, wreathing fires, Soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: You need but sit and close your eyes a moment To see these deep designs unfold themselves.

And so, all things discern me, name me, praise me-- I walk in a world of silent voices, praising; And in this world you see me like a wraith Blown softly here and there, on silent winds.

'Praise me'--I say; and look, not in a gla.s.s, But in your eyes, to see my image there-- Or in your mind; you smile, I am contented; You look at me, with interest unfeigned, And listen--I am pleased; or else, alone, I watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending; Saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,-- Dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, Faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,-- But all with one deep meaning: this is I, This is the glistening secret holy I, This silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, This singing ghost. . . . And hearing, I am warmed.

You see me moving, then, as one who moves Forever at the centre of his circle: A circle filled with light. And into it Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, Or huddle in dark again. . . . A clock ticks clearly, A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; And through these things my pencil pushes softly To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.

Snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; Black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; I turn And look one instant at the half-dark gardens, Where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture Above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung Against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky.

'Beauty!' I cry. . . . My feet move on, and take me Between dark walls, with orange squares for windows.