Songs and Satires Part 1

Songs and Satires.

by Edgar Lee Masters.

SILENCE

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence for which music alone finds the word, And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room.

And I ask: For the depths Of what use is language?

A beast of the field moans a few times When death takes its young: And we are voiceless in the presence of realities-- We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?"

And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away, Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.

It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off."

And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed.

But if he could describe it all He would be an artist.

But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, And the silence of a deep peace of mind, And the silence of an embittered friendship.

There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life.

And the silence of the G.o.ds who understand each other without speech.

There is the silence of defeat.

There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours.

There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.

There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders.

There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth.

And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo.

And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"-- Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.

And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.

If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death?

Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them.

ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE

Antonio loved the Lady Clare.

He caught her to him on the stair And pressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and kissed her hair, And drew her lips in his, and drew Her soul out like a torch's flare.

Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round; Her senses in a vortex swound.

She tore him loose and turned around, And reached her chamber in a bound Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue.

She closed the door and turned the lock, Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and flesh were turned to rock.

She reeled as drunken from the shock.

Before her eyes the devils skipped, She thought she heard the devils mock.

For had her soul not been as pure As sifted snow, could she endure Antonio's pa.s.sion and be sure Against his pa.s.sion's strength and lure?

Lean fears along her wonder slipped.

Outside she heard a drunkard call, She heard a beggar against the wall Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall Struck through the riot like a sword, And gashed the midnight's festival.

She watched the city through the pane, The old Silenus half insane, The idiot crowd that drags its chain-- And then she heard the bells again, And heard the voices with the word:

Ecco il santo! Up the street There was the sound of running feet From closing door and window seat, And all the crowd turned on its way The Saint of Poverty to greet.

He pa.s.sed. And then a circling thrill, As water troubled which was still, Went through her body like a chill, Who of Antonio thought until She heard the Saint begin to pray.

And then she turned into the room Her soul was cloven through with doom, Treading the softness and the gloom Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool, And China's magical perfume.

She sickened from the vases hued In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd Twined dragon shapes and figures nude, And tapestries that showed a brood Of leopards by a pool!

Candles of wax she lit before A pier gla.s.s standing from the floor; Up to the ceiling, off she tore With eager hands her jewels, then The silken vesture which she wore.

Her little b.r.e.a.s.t.s so round to see Were budded like the peony.

Her arms were white as ivory, And all her sunny hair lay free As marigold or celandine.

Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase Of crackled turquoise, in her face Was memory of the mad embrace Antonio gave her on the stair, And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace.

Like pigeon blood her lips were red.

She clasped her bands above her head.

Under her arms the waxlight shed Delicate halos where was spread The downy growth of hair.

Such sudden sin the virgin knew She quenched the tapers as she blew Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw Herself in tears upon her knees, And round her couch the curtain drew.

She called upon St. Francis' name, Feeling Antonio's pa.s.sion maim Her body with his pa.s.sion's flame To save her, save her from the shame Of fancies such as these!

"Go by mad life and old pursuits, The wine cup and the golden fruits, The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes, I would praise G.o.d forevermore With harps of gold and silver lutes."

She stripped the velvet from her couch Her broken spirit to avouch.

She saw the devils slink and slouch, And pa.s.sion like a leopard crouch Half mirrored on the polished floor.

Next day she found the saint and said: I would be G.o.d's bride, I would wed Poverty and I would eat the bread That you for anchorites prepare, For my soul's sake I am in dread.

Go then, said Francis, nothing loth, Put off this gown of green snake cloth, Put on one somber as a moth, Then come to me and make your troth And I will clip your golden hair.

She went and came. But still there lay, A gem she did not put away, A locket twixt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, all gay In shimmering pearls and tints of blue, And inlay work of fruit and spray.

St. Francis felt it as he slipped His hand across her breast and whipped Her golden tresses ere he clipped-- He closed his eyes then as he gripped The shears, plunged the shears through.

The waterfall of living gold.

The locks fell to the floor and rolled, And curled like serpents which unfold.

And there sat Lady Clare despoiled.

Of worldly glory manifold.

She thrilled to feel him take and hide The locket from her breast, a tide Of pa.s.sion caught them side by side.

He was the bridegroom, she the bride-- Their flesh but not their spirits foiled.

Thus was the Lady Clare debased To sack cloth and around her waist A rope the jeweled belt replaced.

Her feet made free of silken hose Naked in wooden sandals cased Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then They housed her in St. Damian And here she prayed for poor women And here St. Francis sought her when His faith sank under earthly woes.

Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme And took to wine and got the lime Of hatred on his soul, in time Grew healed though left a little lame, And laughed about it in his prime; When he could see with crystal eyes That love is a winged thing which flies; Some break the wings, some let them rise From earth like G.o.d's dove to the skies Diffused in heavenly flame.