Acanthus and Wild Grape Part 5

Two monsters, Iron and Coal, Sleep in the darkness.

A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them, And they awake hissing and writhing, And spew forth blood-red vomit In streams like fiery serpents.

Then from the reeking pools A monstrous brood is born, Black, strong, beautiful.

But we turn away our tired eyes, And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.

SWISS SKETCHES

I.--AFTER SUNSET ON JURA

The Alps-- A mighty string of pearls Which Day has laid aside-- Flaunt their alluring beauty Upon the purple velvet of deep valleys, Until night, Stretching out black greedy fingers, Steals them one by one.

II.--LUCERNE

From staring eyes Of hotel windows, From flaunting rich And cringing poor, From men and women Drunken with wine, pa.s.sion and money, From tired Cook's tourists Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds, From shrieking steamers Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds, From bands beating out brazen music Under the twisted plane-trees, From all that is poor and rich and ugly, I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills Which are outlined upon orange and crimson By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight, And there my soul finds peace.

III.--LAKE LEMAN

Like the High Priest of Jehovah The lake, for the Festival of Beauty Puts upon its blue garment A gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.

Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire; My eyes can scarcely bear its glory, As it burns crimson and scarlet On jasper and flame-colored sard, On ruby, red as sunset flame, And topaz shot with golden lights.

Like the eternal fire of distant stars-- Blue, green and white, Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire, Jacinth and beryl, Onyx and green-banded agate, And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers.

Morning and evening On the day of the great Festival The High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate, And the chosen people, blinded by its glory, Bow down and worship.

VISIONS

I.

I saw a vision of beauty.

My eyes looked through the mists of ages, Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was G.o.d.

And I saw the waves of the blue aegean, Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled, And I heard the singing of the water, As of playing of distant pipes By slender shepherd lads among the hills.

Then I turned away from the sh.o.r.e And I saw the pediment of a great temple Standing white against the sky, And beneath the pediment rows of marble columns Like giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty.

Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees, Statues of G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, youths and maidens, Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten bra.s.s.

My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway, And I went a worshipper to the great temple, Whose burnished doors stood wide ajar Gleaming like the portal of a dream city; I lifted my arms in adoration, And my soul drank its fill From the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.

II.

I saw a vision of faith.

My eyes were turned to a mediaeval city Of crowded low-roofed houses, From which there rose a great cathedral, With walls of chiselled stone And spires that pierced into the blue.

Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brain Long years in wood and stone, Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their G.o.d.

I entered in,

And saw the walls agleam with painted gla.s.s, More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings; I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea, And the voices of the singing-boys Like soft ripples on the velvet sand.

With golden cross and smoking censers And priests in robes of scarlet and purple, The procession pa.s.sed along; Then the great sweating throng Bowed low upon the stony floor before the Host, And when the echoing music Had vanished in the soaring vault above, The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloom Comforted, into the golden sun-light.

My soul, too, was comforted, For it had drunk deep From the pure mediaeval well of faith.

III.

I saw a vision of love.

Upon the field of battle Amid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapour Red streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground, Generously, Joyfully, That the world might not die from its festering wounds, But might drink health and life From these pure, youthful streams.

Then I stood awed and dumb, For here was love supreme.

IV.

I saw a vision of death.

Silence held my feet with clinging hands, And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes.

Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadows A great night-moth with sable folded wings; It seemed asleep upon a purple flower, But as I watched, Slowly it spread its wings, And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn, And all the world was drenched in showers of light.

Then with his flaming wings outspread The great moth sailed away, Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea, Leaving behind a wake of golden light.

And I know that my vision of death Was only a vision of beauty.

j.a.pANESE PRINTS

I.--THE LADY WITH THE YELLOW FAN

O little lady with the yellow fan Why are you so sad?

Why does a tear stand Like a tea-flower bud upon your cheek?

Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk, Your slippers are embroidered with gems, A gold and emerald b.u.t.terfly has lighted in your hair, Your serving-maid stands near Awaiting your command, And if you lifted but one slender finger A chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace.

Why are you so sad?

It is because the ships beside the sh.o.r.e Spread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze; The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands, And there is a gleam of swords and armour, For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.

II.--CAGED BIRDS

There are yellow birds within the cage; Beside its gilded bars there stand the women Whom the Great Prince loves to honour.

They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair, And live in a pretty pink and yellow house.

But the women look not at the captive singing-birds, Nor listen to their song, Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves, Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.

III.--WISTERIA

Why do you peer at me, old man, With eyes half shut, From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?

Your face is but a mask, Showing neither joy nor sorrow; But I know you bend your head to listen When the wild geese go honking towards the south, And your eyes grow wide with sadness, When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.

You, too, love beauty, Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts, Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?