The Breaking Point

It was not when temptation came,

Swiftly and blastingly as flame,

And seared me white with burning scars;

When I stood up for age-long wars

And held the very Fiend at grips;

When all my mutinous body rose

To range itself beside my foes,

And, like a greyhound in the slips,

The Beast that dwells within me roared,

Lunging and straining at his cord. . . .

For all the blusterings of Hell,

It was not then I slipped and fell;

For all the storm, for all the hate,

I kept my soul inviolate!

But when the fight was fought and won,

And there was Peace as still as Death

On everything beneath the sun.

Just as I started to draw breath,

And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself,

-- The grass began to whisper things --

And every tree became an elf,

That grinned and chuckled counsellings:

Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said,

Beating and dinning at my head.

I could not fly. I could not shun it.

Slimily twisting, slow and blind,

It crept and crept into my mind.

Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed,

Screamed out until my brain was daft. . . .

One snaky word, "What if you'd done it?"

And I began to think . . .

                             Ah, well,

What matter how I slipped and fell?

Or you, you gutter-searcher say!

Tell where you found me yesterday!

Lonely Burial

There were not many at that lonely place,

Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.

The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.

Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race

Unseen by any. Toward the further woods

A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.

-- We were most silent in those solitudes --

Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,

The clotted earth piled roughly up about

The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,

Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout

Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.

Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,

The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.

Dinner in a Quick Lunch Room

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,

Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;

Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars

Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;

Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,

Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;

Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,

A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!

Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;

Then the green silence of many watercresses;

Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;

Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;

Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood

And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!

The Hemp

The Planting of the Hemp.

Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas

(Black is the gap below the plank)

From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees

(Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

His fear was on the seaport towns,

The weight of his hand held hard the downs.

And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black,

For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack

Was all of their ships that might come back.

For all he had one word alone,

One clod of dirt in their faces thrown,

"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

His name bestrode the seas like Death.

The waters trembled at his breath.

This is the tale of how he fell,

Of the long sweep and the heavy swell,

And the rope that dragged him down to hell.

The fight was done, and the gutted ship,

Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip,

Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame,

Back to the land from where she came,

A skimming horror, an eyeless shame.

And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck,

And saw the sky and saw the wreck.

Below, a butt for sailors' jeers,

White as the sky when a white squall nears,

Huddled the crowd of the prisoners.

Over the bridge of the tottering plank,

Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank,

They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank,

Pinioned arms and hands bound fast.

One girl alone was left at last.

Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord.

He sat in state at the Council board;

The governors were as nought to him.

From one rim to the other rim

Of his great plantations, flung out wide

Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride.

Life and death in his white hands lay,

And his only daughter stood at bay,

Trapped like a hare in the toils that day.

He sat at wine in his gold and his lace,

And far away, in a bloody place,

Hawk came near, and she covered her face.

He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave,

And far away his daughter gave

A shriek that the seas cried out to hear,

And he could not see and he could not save.

Her white soul withered in the mire

As paper shrivels up in fire,

And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth,

And her body he took for his desire.

The Growing of the Hemp.

Sir Henry stood in the manor room,

And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom.

And he said, "Go dig me furrows five

Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive --

There at its edge, where the rushes thrive."

And where the furrows rent the ground,

He sowed the seed of hemp around.

And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid

At the furrows five that rib the glade,

And the voodoo work of the master's spade.

For a cold wind blows from the marshland near,

And white things move, and the night grows drear,

And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear.

But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean,

The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen

Veiled with a tenuous mist of green.

And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees,

And many men kneel at his knees.

Sir Henry sits in his house alone,

And his eyes are hard and dull like stone.

And the waves beat, and the winds roar,

And all things are as they were before.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,

And nothing changes but the grass.

But down where the fireflies are like eyes,

And the damps shudder, and the mists rise,

The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies.

And down from the poop of the pirate ship

A body falls, and the great sharks grip.

Innocent, lovely, go in grace!

At last there is peace upon your face.

And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown,

"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

Sir Henry's face is iron to mark,

And he gazes ever in the dark.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,

And the world is as it always was.

But down by the marsh the sickles beam,

Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam,

And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream.

And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees,

Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas.

Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair,

And white as his hand is grown his hair.

And the days pass, and the weeks pass,

And the sands roll from the hour-glass.

But down by the marsh in the blazing sun

The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun,

The rope made, and the work done.

The Using of the Hemp.

Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas

(Black is the gap below the plank)

From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees

(Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).

He sailed in the broad Atlantic track,

And the ships that saw him came not back.

And once again, where the wide tides ran,

He stooped to harry a merchantman.

He bade her stop. Ten guns spake true

From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew,

Lacking his great ship through and through.

Dazed and dumb with the sudden death,

He scarce had time to draw a breath

Before the grappling-irons bit deep,

And the boarders slew his crew like sheep.

Hawk stood up straight, his breast to the steel;

His cutlass made a bloody wheel.

His cutlass made a wheel of flame.

They shrank before him as he came.

And the bodies fell in a choking crowd,

And still he thundered out aloud,

"The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!"

They fled at last. He was left alone.

Before his foe Sir Henry stood.

"The hemp is grown, and my word made good!"

And the cutlass clanged with a hissing whir

On the lashing blade of the rapier.

Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck.

As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck,

Pouring his life in a single thrust,

And the cutlass shivered to sparks and dust.

Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck,

And set his foot on his foe's neck.

Then from the hatch, where the rent decks slope,

Where the dead roll and the wounded grope,

He dragged the serpent of the rope.

The sky was blue, and the sea was still,

The waves lapped softly, hill on hill,

And between one wave and another wave

The doomed man's cries were little and shrill.

The sea was blue, and the sky was calm;

The air dripped with a golden balm.

Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun,

A black thing writhed at a yard-arm.

Slowly then, and awesomely,

The ship sank, and the gallows-tree,

And there was nought between sea and sun --

Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea.

But down by the marsh where the fever breeds,

Only the water chuckles and pleads;

For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat,

And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.

Poor Devil!

Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk,

The tiresome noises, all the common things

I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke.

I longed for the cool quiet and the dark,

Under the common sod where louts and kings

Lie down, serene, unheeding, careless, stark,

Never to rise or move or feel again,

Filled with the ecstasy of being dead. . . .

I put the shining pistol to my head

And pulled the trigger hard -- I felt no pain,

No pain at all; the pistol had missed fire

I thought; then, looking at the floor, I saw

My huddled body lying there -- and awe

Swept over me. I trembled -- and looked up.

About me was -- not that, my heart's desire,

That small and dark abode of death and peace --

But all from which I sought a vain release!

The sky, the people and the staring sun

Glared at me as before. I was undone.

My last state ten times worse than was my first.

Helpless I stood, befooled, betrayed, accursed,

Fettered to Life forever, horribly;

Caught in the meshes of Eternity,

No further doors to break or bars to burst!

Ghosts of a Lunatic Asylum

Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright

As the blank windows set in glaring brick,

When the wind strengthens from the sea -- and night

Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;

By the deserted paths, the vacant halls,

One may see figures, twisted shades and lean,

Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen,

Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.

Turn the knob gently! There's the Thumbless Man,

Still weaving glass and silk into a dream,

Although the wall shows through him -- and the Khan

Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.

A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door --

-- Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod --

Come -- lift the curtain -- and be cold before

The silence of the eight men who were God!

The White Peacock

I.

Go away!

Go away; I will not confess to you!

His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click,

As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;

I will not confess! . . .

Is he there or is it intenser shadow?

Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths,

Black, formless shadow,

Shadow.

Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry of rats.

Orange light drips from the guttering candles,

Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed

Stirring the monstrous tapestries,

Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy

With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold,

Lipping my hands,

Then

Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences

Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer

Who sees before him Horror

Behind him darkness,

Shadow.

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.

Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth,

Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured,

Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.

You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

Over me too steals sleep.

Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods on the ceiling;

Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed,

Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors,

Death.

Father, Father, I must not sleep!

It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner . . .

Is it a shadow?

One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax, that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.

II.

Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me.

It is the white time before dawn.

Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world.

The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky.

The night dew has fallen;

An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken,

Glint on the sighing branches.

All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion.

Suddenly a peacock screams.

My heart shocks and stops;

Sweat, cold corpse-sweat

Covers my rigid body.

My hair stands on end. I cannot stir. I cannot speak.

It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens

And the eyeless face no man may see and live!

Ah-h-h-h-h!

Father, Father, wake! wake and save me!

In his corner all is shadow.

Dead things creep from the ground.

It is so long ago that she died, so long ago!

Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her.

Fiends, do you not know that she is dead? . . .

"Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords on the polished floor.

Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold of candelabra,

From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men . . .

All life was that dance.

The mocking, resistless current,

The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness --

As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals,

Turning, swaying in beauty,

A lily, bowed by the rain, --

Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam,

And her eyes stars.

Oh the dance has a pattern!

But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols,

Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed,

And, as we ended,

She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom --

And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair.

Underneath the window a peacock screams,

And claws click, scrape

Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone.

Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly, divinely appeased!

The aching presence of the beloved's beauty!

The wisdom, the incense, the brightness!

Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon

But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles.

Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box.

Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms,

And embrace her, dear and startled.

By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver

And her head was on his breast.

She did not scream or shudder

When my sword was where her head had lain

In the quiet moonlight;

But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted,

All her satins fiery with the starshine,

Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,

Like the quivering plumage of a peacock . . .

Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair,

Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! --

Bending her white neck back. . . .

Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood. . . .

Stupidly agaze

At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight,

Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted,

Palely, and was still

As the face of chalk.

The buhl clock strikes.

Thirty years. Christ, thirty years!

Agony. Agony.

Something stirs in the window,

Shattering the moonlight.

White wings fan.

Father, Father!

All its plumage fiery with the starshine,

Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,

It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed,

To the tap of little satin shoes.

Gazing with infernal eyes.

Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson . . .

Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy.

The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs;

The wax face lifts; the eyes open.

A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet and spreads to a pool on the floor.

Colors

The little man with the vague beard and guise

Pulled at the wicket. "Come inside!" he said,

"I'll show you all we've got now -- it was size

You wanted? -- oh, dry colors! Well" -- he led

To a dim alley lined with musty bins,

And pulled one fiercely. Violent and bold

A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins

Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold

Of tins and picture-frames. I held my breath.

He tugged another hard -- and sapphire skies

Spread in vast quietude, serene as death,

O'er waves like crackled turquoise -- and my eyes

Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!

"We're selling that lot there out cheap!" said he.