Here come knights armed, But with their arms concealed, And rubber heeled.

Here priests and wavering want are charmed.

And shadows fall here like the shark's In messages received or sent.

Signals are flying from the battlement.

And every president Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks, The receipt of custom knows, without a look, Their meaning as the code is in no book.

The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth Watch for the flags of stealth!

Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks.

Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites, And choke the counsels and symposiacs Of dreamers who have pity for the backs That bear and bleed.

All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal, The church's creed, The city's soul, The city's sea girt loveliness, The merciless and meretricious press.

Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed, Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal.

But nothing of its work in type is hinted: Taxes are high! The mentors of the town Must keep their taxes down On buildings, presses, stocks In gas, oil, coal and docks.

The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man Who holds the taxing bodies through the church, And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search The spider man, the master publican, And for his friendship silence keep, Letting him herd the populace like sheep For self and for the insatiable desires Of coal and tracks and wires, Pick judges, legislators, And tax-gatherers.

Or name his favorites, whom they name: The slick and sinistral, Servitors of the cabal, For praise which seems the equivalent of fame: Giving to the delicate handed crackers Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, The flash and thunder of front pages!

And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate.

And the unilluminate, Whose brows are bra.s.s, Who weep on every Sabbath day For Jesus riding on an a.s.s, Scarce know the a.s.s is they, Now ridden by his effigy, The publican with Jesus' painted mask, Along a way where fumes of odorless gas First spur then fell them from the task.

Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle.

And the angels say to Yahveh looking down From the alabaster railing, on the town, O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack We wish we had our little Sodom back!

EXCLUDED MIDDLE

Out of the mercury shimmer of gla.s.s Over these daguerreotypes The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges With its little figure of flowers.

And the enameled glair of parted hair Lies over the oval brow, From under which eyes of fiery blackness Look through you.

And the only repose of spirit shown Is in the hands Lying loosely one in the other, Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ...

And in the companion folder of this case Of gutta percha Is the shape of a man.

His brow is oval too, but broader.

His nose is long, but thick at the tip.

His eyes are blue Wherein faith burns her signal lights, And flashes her convictions.

His mouth is tense, almost a slit.

And his face is a ma.s.sive Calvinism Resting on a stock tie.

They were married, you see.

The clasp on this gutta percha case Locks them together.

They were locked together in life.

And a hasp of bra.s.s Keeps their shadows face to face in the case Which has been handed down-- (The pictures of n.o.ble ancestors, Showing what strains of gentle blood Flow in the third generation)-- From Ma.s.sachusetts to Illinois. ...

Long ago it was over for them, Ma.s.sachusetts has done its part, She raised the seed And a wind blew it over to Illinois Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated Until one soul comes forth: But a soul all striped and streaked, And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, As it were a tree which on one branch Bears northern spies, And on another thorn apples. ...

Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden, And you Buffon and De Vries, Come with your secrets of sea sh.o.r.e asters Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias, Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog, And show us how they cross and change, And become hybrids.

And show us what heredity is, And how it works.

For the secret of these human beings Locked in this gutta percha case Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions.

Let us lay out the facts as far as we can.

Her eyes were black, His eyes were blue.

She saw through shadows, walls and doors, She knew life and hungered for more.

But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places To feel clouds about his face, and get the lights Of supernal sun-sets.

She was reason, and he was faith.

She had an illumination, but of the intellect.

And he had an illumination but of the soul.

And she saw G.o.d as merciless law, And he knew G.o.d as divine love.

And she was a man, and he in part was a woman.

He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ, And the remission of sins by blood, And the literal fall of man through Adam, And the mystical and actual salvation of man Through the coming of Christ.

And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes To hide her scorn for it all.

She was crucified, And raged to the last like the impenitent thief Against the fate which wasted and trampled down Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill, Which would have piled up gold or honors For a mate who knew that life is growth, And health, and the satisfaction of wants, And place and reputation and mansion houses, And mahogany and silver, And beautiful living.

She hated him, and hence she pitied him.

She was like the gardener with great pruners Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping Just for the dread.

She had married him--but why?

Some inscrutable air Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden-- Some power had crossed them.

And here is the secret I think: (As we would say here is electricity) It is the vibration inhering in s.e.x That produces devils or angels, And it is the s.e.x reaction in men and women That brings forth devils or angels, And starts in them the germs of powers or pa.s.sions, Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses, Till the stock dies out.

So now for their hybrid children:-- She gave birth to four daughters and one son.

But first what have we for the composition of these daughters?

Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor.

Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer.

Love thwarted and becoming acid.

Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity.

Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream under-ground Where only blind things swim.

G.o.d year by year removing himself to remoter thrones Of inexorable law.

G.o.d coming closer even while disease And total blindness came between him and G.o.d And defeated the mercy of G.o.d.

And a love and a trust growing deeper in him As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross, Mocked his crucifixion, And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain, Till at last she is all satirist, And he is all saint.

And all the children were raised After the strictest fashion in New England, And made to join the church, And attend its services.

And these were the children:

Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago, She debated religion with her husband for ten years, Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years Scarcely spoke to her.

She died a convert to Catholicism.

They had two children: The boy became a forgerer Of notorious skill.

The daughter married, but was barren.

Miranda married a rich man And spent his money so fast that he failed.

She lashed him with a scorpion tongue And made him believe at last With her incessant reasonings That he was a fool, and so had failed.

In middle life he started over again, But became tangled in a law-suit.

Because of these things he killed himself.

Louise was a nymphomaniac.