Like fever-laden wine? 25
What ruinous tavern-shine
Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars
And women that were mine?
Where do I say it is
That Time has made my bed? 30
What lowering outland hostelry is this
For one the stars have disinherited?
An island, I have said:
A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires
Are rained on, like old fires: 35
A vermin region by the stars abhorred,
Where falls the flaming word
By which I consecrate with unsuccess
An acreage of God’s forgetfulness,
Left here above the foam and long ago 40
Made right for my duress;
Where soon the sea,
My foaming and long-clamoring enemy,
Will have within the cryptic, old embrace
Of her triumphant arms — a memory. 45
Why then, the place?
What forage of the sky or of the shore
Will make it any more,
To me, than my award of what was left
Of number, time, and space? 50
And what is on me now that I should heed
The durance or the silence or the scorn?
I was the gardener who had the seed
Which holds within its heart the food and fire
That gives to man a glimpse of his desire; 55
And I have tilled, indeed,
Much land, where men may say that I have planted
Unsparingly my corn —
For a world harvest-haunted
And for a world unborn. 60
Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play,
Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday
And think them far away?
Am I to doubt and yet be given to know
That where my demon guides me, there I go? 65
An island? Be it so.
For islands, after all is said and done,
Tell but a wilder game that was begun,
When Fate, the mistress of iniquities,
The mad Queen-spinner of all discrepancies, 70
Beguiled the dyers of the dawn that day,
And even in such a curst and sodden way
Made my three colors one.
— So be it, and the way be as of old:
So be the weary truth again retold 75
Of great kings overthrown
Because they would be kings, and lastly kings alone.
Fling to each dog his bone.
Flags that are vanished, flags that are soiled and furled,
Say what will be the word when I am gone: 80
What learned little acrid archive men
Will burrow to find me out and burrow again, —
But all for naught, unless
To find there was another Island.… Yes,
There are too many islands in this world, 85
There are too many rats, and there is too much rain.
So three things are made plain
Between the sea and sky:
Three separate parts of one thing, which is Pain …
Bah, what a way to die! — 90
To leave my Queen still spinning there on high,
Still wondering, I dare say,
To see me in this way …
Madame à sa tour monte
Si haut qu’elle peut monter — 95
Like one of our Commissioners… ai! ai!
Prometheus and the women have to cry,
But no, not I …
Faugh, what a way to die!
But who are these that come and go 100
Before me, shaking laurel as they pass?
Laurel, to make me know
For certain what they mean:
That now my Fate, my Queen,
Having found that she, by way of right reward, 105
Will after madness go remembering,
And laurel be as grass, —
Remembers the one thing
That she has left to bring.
The floor about me now is like a sward 110
Grown royally. Now it is like a sea
That heaves with laurel heavily,
Surrendering an outworn enmity
For what has come to be.
But not for you, returning with your curled 115
And haggish lips. And why are you alone?
Why do you stay when all the rest are gone?
Why do you bring those treacherous eyes that reek
With venom and hate the while you seek
To make me understand? — 120
Laurel from every land,
Laurel, but not the world?
Fury, or perjured Fate, or whatsoever,
Tell me the bloodshot word that is your name
And I will pledge remembrance of the same 125
That shall be crossed out never;
Whereby posterity
May know, being told, that you have come to me,
You and your tongueless train without a sound,
With covetous hands and eyes and laurel all around, 130
Foreshowing your endeavor
To mirror me the demon of my days,
To make me doubt him, loathe him, face to face.
Bowed with unwilling glory from the quest
That was ordained and manifest, 135
You shake it off and wish me joy of it?
Laurel from every place,
Laurel, but not the rest?
Such are the words in you that I divine,
Such are the words of men. 140
So be it, and what then?
Poor, tottering counterfeit,
Are you a thing to tell me what is mine?
Grant we the demon sees
An inch beyond the line, 145
What comes of mine and thine?
A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze,
Or they may starve in fine.
The Old Physician has a crimson cure
For such as these, 150
And ages after ages will endure
The minims of it that are victories.
The wreath may go from brow to brow,
The state may flourish, flame, and cease;
But through the fury and the flood somehow 155
The demons are acquainted and at ease,
And somewhat hard to please.
Mine, I believe, is laughing at me now
In his primordial way,
Quite as he laughed of old at Hannibal, 160
Or rather at Alexander, let us say.
Therefore, be what you may,
Time has no further need
Of you, or of your breed.
My demon, irretrievably astray, 165
Has ruined the last chorus of a play
That will, so he avers, be played again some day;
And you, poor glowering ghost,
Have staggered under laurel here to boast
Above me, dying, while you lean 170
In triumph awkward and unclean,
About some words of his that you have read?
Thing, do I not know them all?
He tells me how the storied leaves that fall
Are tramped on, being dead? 175
They are sometimes: with a storm foul enough
They are seized alive and they are blown far off
To mould on islands. — What else have you read?
He tells me that great kings look very small
When they are put to bed; 180
And this being said,
He tells me that the battles I have won
Are not my own,
But his — howbeit fame will yet atone
For all defect, and sheave the mystery: 185
The follies and the slaughters I have done
Are mine alone,
And so far History.
So be the tale again retold
>
And leaf by clinging leaf unrolled 190
Where I have written in the dawn,
With ink that fades anon,
Like Cæsar’s, and the way be as of old.
Ho, is it you? I thought you were a ghost.
Is it time for you to poison me again? 195
Well, here’s our friend the rain, —
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine …
Man, I could murder you almost,
You with your pills and toast.
Take it away and eat it, and shoot rats. 200
Ha! there he comes. Your rat will never fail,
My punctual assassin, to prevail —
While he has power to crawl,
Or teeth to gnaw withal —
Where kings are caged. Why has a king no cats? 205
You say that I’ll achieve it if I try?
Swallow it? — No, not I …
God, what a way to die!
Calverly’s
WE go no more to Calverly’s,
For there the lights are few and low;
And who are there to see by them,
Or what they see, we do not know.
Poor strangers of another tongue 5
May now creep in from anywhere,
And we, forgotten, be no more
Than twilight on a ruin there.
We two, the remnant. All the rest
Are cold and quiet. You nor I, 10
Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid,
May ring them back from where they lie.
No fame delays oblivion
For them, but something yet survives:
A record written fair, could we 15
But read the book of scattered lives.
There’ll be a page for Leffingwell,
And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf;
And who knows what for Clavering,
Who died because he couldn’t laugh? 20
Who knows or cares? No sign is here,
No face, no voice, no memory;
No Lingard with his eerie joy,
No Clavering, no Calverly.
We cannot have them here with us 25
To say where their light lives are gone,
Or if they be of other stuff
Than are the moons of Ilion.
So, be their place of one estate
With ashes, echoes, and old wars, — 30
Or ever we be of the night,
Or we be lost among the stars.
Leffingwell
I — THE LURE
NO, no, — forget your Cricket and your Ant,
For I shall never set my name to theirs
That now bespeak the very sons and heirs
Incarnate of Queen Gossip and King Cant.
The case of Leffingwell is mixed, I grant, 5
And futile Seems the burden that he bears;
But are we sounding his forlorn affairs
Who brand him parasite and sycophant?
I tell you, Leffingwell was more than these;
And if he prove a rather sorry knight, 10
What quiverings in the distance of what light
May not have lured him with high promises,
And then gone down? — He may have been deceived;
He may have lied, — he did; and he believed.
II — THE QUICKSTEP
THE DIRGE is over, the good work is done, 15
All as he would have had it, and we go;
And we who leave him say we do not know
How much is ended or how much begun.
So men have said before of many a one;
So men may say of us when Time shall throw 20
Such earth as may be needful to bestow
On you and me the covering hush we shun.
Well hated, better loved, he played and lost,
And left us; and we smile at his arrears;
And who are we to know what it all cost, 25
Or what we may have wrung from him, the buyer?
The pageant of his failure-laden years
Told ruin of high price. The place was higher.
III — REQUIESCAT
WE never knew the sorrow or the pain
Within him, for he seemed as one asleep — 30
Until he faced us with a dying leap,
And with a blast of paramount, profane,
And vehement valediction did explain
To each of us, in words that we shall keep,
Why we were not to wonder or to weep, 35
Or ever dare to wish him back again.
He may be now an amiable shade,
With merry fellow-phantoms unafraid
Around him — but we do not ask. We know
That he would rise and haunt us horribly, 40
And be with us o’ nights of a certainty.
Did we not hear him when he told us so?
Clavering
I SAY no more for Clavering
Than I should say of him who fails
To bring his wounded vessel home
When reft of rudder and of sails;
I say no more than I should say 5
Of any other one who sees
Too far for guidance of to-day,
Too near for the eternities.
I think of him as I should think
Of one who for scant wages played, 10
And faintly, a flawed instrument
That fell while it was being made;
I think of him as one who fared,
Unfaltering and undeceived,
Amid mirages of renown 15
And urgings of the unachieved;
I think of him as one who gave
To Lingard leave to be amused,
And listened with a patient grace
That we, the wise ones, had refused; 20
I think of metres that he wrote
For Cubit, the ophidian guest:
“What Lilith, or Dark Lady”… Well,
Time swallows Cubit with the rest.
I think of last words that he said 25
One midnight over Calverly:
“Good-by — good man.” He was not good;
So Clavering was wrong, you see.
I wonder what had come to pass
Could he have borrowed for a spell 30
The fiery-frantic indolence
That made a ghost of Leffingwell;
I wonder if he pitied us
Who cautioned him till he was gray
To build his house with ours on earth 35
And have an end of yesterday;
I wonder what it was we saw
To make us think that we were strong;
I wonder if he saw too much,
Or if he looked one way too long. 40
But when were thoughts or wonderings
To ferret out the man within?
Why prate of what he seemed to be,
And all that he might not have been?
He clung to phantoms and to friends, 45
And never came to anything.
He left a wreath on Cubit’s grave.
I say no more for Clavering.
Lingard and the Stars
THE TABLE hurled itself, to our surprise,
At Lingard, and anon rapped eagerly:
“When earth is cold and there is no more sea,
There will be what was Lingard. Otherwise,
Why lure the race to ruin through the skies? 5
And why have Leffingwell, or Calverly?” —
“I wish the ghost would give his name,” said he;
And searching gratitude was in his eyes.
He stood then by the window for a time,
And only after the last midnight chime 10
Smote the day dead did he say anything:
“Come out, my little one, the stars are bright;
Come out, you lælaps, and inhale the night.”
And so he went away with Clavering.
Pasa Thalassa Thalassa
“The se
a is everywhere the sea.”
I
GONE — faded out of the story, the sea-faring friend I remember?
Gone for a decade, they say: never a word or a sign.
Gone with his hard red face that only his laughter could wrinkle,
Down where men go to be still, by the old way of the sea.
Never again will he come, with rings in his ears like a pirate, 5
Back to be living and seen, here with his roses and vines;
Here where the tenants are shadows and echoes of years uneventful,
Memory meets the event, told from afar by the sea.
Smoke that floated and rolled in the twilight away from the chimney
Floats and rolls no more. Wheeling and falling, instead, 10
Down with a twittering flash go the smooth and inscrutable swallows,
Down to the place made theirs by the cold work of the sea.
Roses have had their day, and the dusk is on yarrow and wormwood —
Dusk that is over the grass, drenched with memorial dew;
Trellises lie like bones in a ruin that once was a garden, 15
Swallows have lingered and ceased, shadows and echoes are all.
II
WHERE is he lying to-night, as I turn away down to the valley,
Down where the lamps of men tell me the streets are alive?
Where shall I ask, and of whom, in the town or on land or on water,
News of a time and a place buried alike and with him? 20
Few now remain who may care, nor may they be wiser for caring,
Where or what manner the doom, whether by day or by night;
Whether in Indian deeps or on flood-laden fields of Atlantis,
Or by the roaring Horn, shrouded in silence he lies.
Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage, 25
Drawn by the scene as it was — met by the chill and the change;
Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember,
More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea.
“Where is he lying?” I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer;
Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men. 30
Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another —
Works of Edwin Arlington Robinson Page 30
