You did not see her pa.s.s So many thousand times from light to darkness, Pausing so many times before her gla.s.s;

You did not see how many times she hurried To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, Pa.s.sionate still for beauty, remembered spring.

You did not know how long she clung to music, You did not hear her sing.

Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely From sound to silence--close, herself, those windows?

Or was it true, instead, That darkness moved,--for once,--and so possessed her? . . .

We'll never know, you say, for she is dead.

VII. PORCELAIN

You see that porcelain ranged there in the window-- Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy?

See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges!

They're works of art--minutely seen and felt, Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure To spend your blood like this?

Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal-- My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting Day after day, close to a certain window, Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . .

Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . .

Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . .

Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days, You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me-- An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves.

On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night Of two soft-patterned toads--I thought them stones, Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,-- Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,-- It crossed the room in one tremendous leap.

Here,--as I coil the stems between two leaves,-- It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, I cried the secret between two universes . . .

A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,-- Though with his eyes wide open,-- And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, Amazing leaves, folding one on another, Voluted gra.s.ses, twists and curves and spirals-- All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, I need no hasheesh for it--it's too easy!

Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, Violets purple as death, dripping with water, And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me.

Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- With scalloped edges gilded--here you have me Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,-- There's something lacking--force, or will, or pa.s.sion, I don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, I get uneasy--just like poplar trees Ruffling their leaves--and I begin to think Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, And that delicious night. Where is she now?

I meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, And then, besides, she might find out I'm married.

Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid-- The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve!

I never strike out boldly as I used to-- But sit here, painting violets, and remember That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were.

Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . .

Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling!

Well, I suppose such days can come but once.

Lord, how happy we were! . . .

Here, if you only knew it, is a story-- Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . .

Who killed himself by diving against a wall.

Here is a recollection of my wife, When she was still my sweetheart, years ago.

It's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,-- A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . .

Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter!

This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, If you look hard enough. This, in its way, Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, Cl.u.s.tered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . .

Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist-- You have my head before you . . . on a platter.

VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE

Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .

The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.

We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.

We are like music, each voice of it pursuing A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, Climbing to fire, receding to hoa.r.s.e despair.

What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .

We pa.s.s each other, are lost, and do not care.

One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.

One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .

Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.

One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.

Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.

A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.

He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.

Death, from street to alley, from door to window, Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching, Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.

But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?

Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?

Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, A drift of wind-torn petals, before him pa.s.ses Down jangled streets, and dies.

The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.

Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; From freezing rooms as bare as rock.

The curtains are closed across deserted windows.

Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.

Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly; Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone; Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;

Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,-- They are blown away like windflung chords of music, They drift away; the sudden music has died.

And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly And sees the shadow of death in many faces, And thinks the world is strange.

He desires immortal music and spring forever, And beauty that knows no change.

IX. CABARET

We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.

You say (but use no words) 'this night is pa.s.sing As other nights when we are dead will pa.s.s . . .'

Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only, 'How deathly pale my face looks in that gla.s.s . . .'

You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .

How many others like ourselves, this instant, Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?

How many others, laughing, sip their coffee-- Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .

'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) When suddenly we have had too much of laughter: And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.

Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?

'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; No pity dims our eyes . . .

How many others, like ourselves, this instant, See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'

Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .