The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  but although I take your meaning,

  ‘tis with such a heavy mind!

  Here you come with your old music,

  and here’s all the good it brings.

  What, they lived once thus at Venice

  where the merchants were the kings,

  where Saint Mark’s is, where the Doges

  used to wed the sea with rings?

  Ay, because the sea’s the street there;

  and ’tis arched by … what you call

  … Shylock’s bridge with houses on it,

  where they kept the carnival:

  I was never out of England

  —it’s as if I saw it all.

  Did young people take their pleasure

  when the sea was warm in May?

  Balls and masks begun at midnight,

  burning ever to mid-day,

  when they made up fresh adventures

  for the morrow, do you say?

  Was a lady such a lady,

  cheeks so round and lips so red,—

  on her neck the small face buoyant,

  like a bell-flower on its bed,

  o’er the breast’s superb abundance

  where a man might base his head?

  Well, and it was graceful of them—

  they’d break talk off and afford

  —She, to bite her mask’s black velvet—

  he, to finger on his sword,

  while you sat and played Toccatas,

  stately at the clavichord?

  What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive,

  sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,

  told them something? Those suspensions,

  those solutions—“Must we die?”

  those commiserating sevenths—

  “Life might last! we can but try!”

  “Were you happy?” —“Yes.” —“And are you

  still as happy?” —“Yes. And you?”

  “Then, more kisses!” —“Did I stop them,

  when a million seemed so few?”

  Hark, the dominant’s persistence

  till it must be answered to!

  So, an octave struck the answer.

  Oh, they praised you, I dare say!

  “Brave Galuppi! that was music!

  Good alike at grave and gay!

  I can always leave off talking

  when I hear a master play!”

  Then they left you for their pleasure:

  till in due time, one by one,

  some with lives that came to nothing,

  some with deeds as well undone,

  death stepped tacitly and took them

  where they never see the sun.

  But when I sit down to reason,

  think to take my stand nor swerve,

  while I triumph o’er a secret

  wrung from nature’s close reserve,

  in you come with your cold music

  till I creep thro’ every nerve.

  Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket,

  creaking where a house was burned:

  “Dust and ashes, dead and done with,

  Venice spent what Venice earned.

  The soul, doubtless, is immortal—

  where a soul can be discerned.”

  “Yours for instance: you know physics,

  something of geology,

  mathematics are your pastime;

  souls shall rise in their degree;

  Butterflies may dread extinction, —

  you’ll not die, it cannot be!”

  As for Venice and her people,

  merely born to bloom and drop,

  here on earth they bore their fruitage,

  mirth and folly were the crop:

  What of soul was left, I wonder,

  when the kissing had to stop?

  “Dust and ashes!” So you creak it,

  and I want the heart to scold.

  Dear dead women, with such hair, too—

  what’s become of all the gold

  used to hang and brush their bosoms?

  I feel chilly and grown old.

  Meeting at Night1

  The grey sea and the long black land;

  and the yellow half-moon large and low;

  and the startled little waves that leap

  in fiery ringlets from their sleep,

  as I gain the cove with pushing prow,

  and quench its speed in the slushy sand.

  Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

  three fields to cross till a farm appears;

  a tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

  and blue spurt of a lighted match,

  and a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,

  than the two hearts beating each to each!

  My Last Duchess2

  That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,

  looking as if she were alive. I call

  that piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

  worked busily a day, and there she stands.

  Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

  “Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

  strangers like you that pictured countenance,

  that depth and passion of its earnest glance,

  but to myself they turned (since none puts by

  the curtain drawn for you, but I)

  and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

  how such a glance came there; so not the first

  are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’t was not

  her husband’s presence only, called that spot

  of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps

  fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps

  over my lady’s wrist too much” or “Paint

  must never hope to reproduce the faint

  half-flush that dies along her throat:” such stuff

  was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

  for calling up that spot of joy. She had

  a heart—how shall I say? —too soon made glad,

  too easily impressed: she liked whate’er

  she looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

  Sir, ’t was all one! My favor at her breast,

  the dropping of the daylight in the West,

  the bough of cherries some officious fool

  broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

  she rode with round the terrace—all and each

  would draw from her alike the approving speech,

  or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

  somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

  my gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

  with anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

  this sort of trifling? Even had you skill

  in speech— (which I have not) —to make your will

  Quite clear to such a one, and say, “Just this

  or that in you disgusts me; here you miss

  or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

  herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

  her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse

  —e’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

  never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

  whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

  much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

  then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

  as if alive. Will ’t please you rise? We’ll meet

  the company below, then. I repeat,

  the Count your master’s known munificence

  is ample warrant that no just pretence

  of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

  though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

  at starting is my object. Nay, we’ll go

  together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

  taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

  which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

  Neve
r the Time and the Place1

  Never the time and the place

  and the loved one all together!

  This path—how soft to pace!

  This May—what magic weather!

  Where is the loved one’s face?

  In a dream that loved one’s face meets mine,

  but the house is narrow, the place is bleak

  where, outside, rain and wind combine

  with a furtive ear, if I strive to speak,

  with a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,

  with a malice that marks each word, each sign!

  O enemy sly and serpentine,

  uncoil thee from the waking man!

  Do I hold the Past

  thus firm and fast

  yet doubt if the Future hold I can?

  This path so soft to pace shall lead

  thro’ the magic of May to herself indeed!

  Or narrow if needs the house must be,

  outside are the storms and strangers: we

  oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she,—

  I and she!

  Porphyria’s Lover1

  The rain set early in tonight,

  the sullen wind was soon awake,

  it tore the elm-tops down for spite,

  and did its worst to vex the lake:

  I listened with heart fit to break.

  When glided in Porphyria; straight

  she shut the cold out and the storm,

  and kneeled and made the cheerless grate

  blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

  which done, she rose, and from her form

  withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

  and laid her soiled gloves by, untied

  her hat and let the damp hair fall,

  and, last, she sat down by my side

  and called me. When no voice replied,

  she put my arm about her waist,

  and made her smooth white shoulder bare,

  and all her yellow hair displaced,

  and, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

  and spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

  murmuring how she loved me—she

  too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,

  to set its struggling passion free

  from pride, and vainer ties dissever,

  and give herself to me forever.

  But passion sometimes would prevail,

  nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain

  a sudden thought of one so pale

  for love of her, and all in vain:

  so, she was come through wind and rain.

  Be sure I looked up at her eyes

  happy and proud; at last l knew

  porphyria worshiped me: surprise

  made my heart swell, and still it grew

  while l debated what to do.

  That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

  perfectly pure and good: I found

  a thing to do, and all her hair

  in one long yellow string l wound

  three times her little throat around,

  and strangled her. No pain felt she;

  I am quite sure she felt no pain.

  As a shut bud that holds a bee,

  I warily oped her lids: again

  laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

  And I untightened next the tress

  about her neck; her cheek once more

  blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

  I propped her head up as before,

  only, this time my shoulder bore

  her head, which droops upon it still:

  the smiling rosy little head,

  so glad it has its utmost will,

  that all it scorned at once is fled,

  and I, its love, am gained instead!

  Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how

  her darling one wish would be heard.

  And thus we sit together now,

  and all night long we have not stirred,

  and yet God has not said a word!

  The Confessional1

  It is a lie—their Priests, their Pope,

  their Saints, their…all their fear or hope

  are lies, and lies—there! through my door

  and ceiling, there! and walls and floor.

  There, lies, they lie—shall still be hurled

  till spite of them I reach the world!

  You think priests just and holy men!

  Before they put me in this den

  I was a human creature too,

  with flesh and blood like one of you,

  a girl that laughed in beauty’s pride

  like lilies in your world outside.

  I had a lover, shame avaunt!

  This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt,

  was kissed all over till it burned,

  by lips the truest love e’er turned

  his heart’s own tint: one night they kissed

  my soul out in a burning mist

  so, next day when the accustomed train

  of things grew round my sense again,

  “That is a sin,” I said: and slow

  with downcast eyes to church I go,

  and pass to the confession-chair,

  and tell the old mild father there.

  But when I falter Beltran’s name,

  “Ha?” quoth the father; “much I blame

  the sin; yet whereof idly grieve?

  Despair not, strenuously retrieve!

  Nay, I will turn this love of thine

  to lawful love, almost divine;

  for he is young, and led astray,

  this Beltran, and he schemes, men say,

  to change the laws of church and state;

  so, thine shall be an angel’s fate

  who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll

  its cloud away and save his soul.”

  “For, when he lies upon thy breast,

  thou mayst demand and be possessed

  of all his plans, and next day steal

  to me, and all those plans reveal,

  that I and every priest, to purge

  his soul may fast and use the scourge.”

  That father’s beard was long and white,

  with love and truth his brow seemed bright;

  I went back; all on fire with joy,

  and, that same evening, bade the boy

  tell me, as lovers should, heart-free,

  something to prove his love of me.

  He told me what he would not tell

  for hope of heaven or fear of hell;

  and I lay listening in such pride!

  And, soon as he had left my side,

  tripped to the church by morning-light

  to save his soul in his despite.

  I told the father all his schemes

  who were his comrades, what their dreams;

  “And now make haste,” I said, “to pray

  the one spot from his soul away;

  to-night he comes, but not the same

  will look.” At night he never came.

  Nor next night; on the after-morn,

  I went forth with a strength new-born.

  The church was empty; something drew

  my steps into the street; I knew

  it led me to the market-place;

  where, lo, on high, the fathers face!

  That horrible back scaffold dressed,

  that stapled block…God sink the rest!

  That head strapped back, that blinding vest,

  those knotted hands and naked breast,

  till near one busy hangman pressed,

  and, on the neck these arms caressed…

  no part in aught they hope or fear!

  No heaven with them, no hell! - and here,

  no earth, not so much space as pens

  my body in their worst of dens

  but shall bear God and man my cry,

  lies—lies, again—and still, they lie!

  The Pied Piper of Hamelin1 />
  A Child’s Story

  Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,

  by famous Hanover city;

  the river Weser, deep and wide,

  washes its wall on the southern side;

  a pleasanter spot you never spied;

  but, when begins my ditty,

  almost five hundred years ago,

  to see the townsfolk suffer so

  from vermin, was a pity.

  Rats!

  They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

  and bit the babies in the cradles,

  and ate the cheeses out of the vats,

  and licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,

  split open the kegs of salted sprats,

  made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,

  and even spoiled the women’s chats,

  by drowning their speaking

  with shrieking and squeaking

  in fifty different sharps and flats.

  At last the people in a body

  to the Town Hall came flocking:

  “Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;

  and as for our Corporation—shocking

  to think we buy gowns lined with ermine

  for dolts that can’t or won’t determine

  what’s best to rid us of our vermin!

  You hope, because you’re old and obese,

  to find in the furry civic robe ease?

  Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking

  to find the remedy we’re lacking,

  or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”

  At this the Mayor and Corporation

  quaked with a mighty consternation.

  An hour they sate in council,

  at length the Mayor broke silence:

  “For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;

  I wish I were a mile hence!

  It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—

  I’m sure my poor head aches again

  I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.

  Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”

  Just as he said this, what should hap

  at the chamber door but a gentle tap?

  “Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”

  (with the Corporation as he sat,

  looking little though wondrous fat;

  nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

  than a too-long-opened oyster,

  save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

  for a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

  “Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

  Anything like the sound of a rat

  makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

  “Come in!” —the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

  and in did come the strangest figure!

  His queer long coat from heel to head

  was half of yellow and half of red;