The House of Dust; a symphony Part 10

'But why perplex ourselves with tedious problems Of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, With all that's in our secret hearts to say!--'

Hearts?--Your pale hand softly strokes the satin.

You play deep music--know well what you play.

You stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, You smile, with faintly perfumed lips, You loose your thoughts like birds, Brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . .

We know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound In tremulous webs of sound.

'How beautiful is intimate talk like this!-- It is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, Stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, To hear a hidden music . . . Our own vast shadows Lean to a giant size on the windy walls, Or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls Echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, Music sings far off, flows suddenly near, And dies away like rain . . .

We walk through subterranean caves again,-- Vaguely above us feeling A shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, Strange half-lit things, Soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . .

And here a beautiful face looks down upon us; And someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . .

Have we seen all, I wonder, in these chambers-- Or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, Where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . '

The question falls: we walk in silence together, Thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . .

This lamp, these books, this fire Are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness.

Deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire.

XII. WITCHES' SABBATH

Now, when the moon slid under the cloud And the cold clear dark of starlight fell, He heard in his blood the well-known bell Tolling slowly in heaves of sound, Slowly beating, slowly beating, Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: Sometimes it swung completely round, Horribly gasping as if for breath; Falling down with an anguished cry . . .

Now the red bat, he mused, will fly; Something is marked, this night, for death . . .

And while he mused, along his blood Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, They rose in the cavern of his brain, Like ghosts they died away again; And hands upon his heart were laid, And music upon his flesh was played, Until, as he was bidden to do, He walked the wood he so well knew.

Through the cold dew he moved his feet, And heard far off, as under the earth, Discordant music in shuddering tones, Screams of laughter, horrible mirth, Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, And the long-drawn wail of one in pain.

To-night, he thought, I shall die again, We shall die again in the red-eyed fire To meet on the edge of the wood beyond With the placid gaze of fed desire . . .

He walked; and behind the whisper of trees, In and out, one walked with him: She parted the branches and peered at him, Through lowered lids her two eyes burned, He heard her breath, he saw her hand, Wherever he turned his way, she turned: Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; Moving her white knees as he moved . . .

This is the one I have always loved; This is the one whose bat-soul comes To dance with me, flesh to flesh, In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . .

The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, Sank down behind a rushing sky.

He heard a sweet song just begun Abruptly shatter in tones and die.

It whirled away. Cold silence fell.

And again came tollings of a bell.

This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind.

In the clear darkness, while the moon hides, They come like dreams, like something remembered . .

Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, Forget these things that trouble your eyes, Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed, Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . .

The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved, What was the word you said?

Something about clear music that sang through water . . .

I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves.

Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead.

Someone lies in the garden and grieves.

Look how the branches are tossed in this air, Flinging their green to the earth!

Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, The moon stares down like a half-closed eye.

The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, Oaks crash down in the darkness, We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone.

The moon was darkened: across it flew The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, The witch! he said. And he heard a cry, And another came, and another came, And one, grown duskily red with blood, Floated an instant across the moon, Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . .

The earth has veins: they throb to-night, The earth swells warm beneath my feet, The tips of the trees grow red and bright, The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat, They press together, they push and sigh, They listen to hear the great bat cry, The great red bat with the woman's face . . .

Hurry! he said. And pace for pace That other, who trod the dark with him, Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands And closed her eyes, the better to see The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, The fire-lit rock, the sarabands.

I am here! she said. The bough he broke-- Was it the snapping bough that spoke?

I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed Cold in starlight among dark leaves, The head thrown backward as he had dreamed, The shadowy red deep jasper mouth; And the lifted hands, and the virgin b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Pa.s.sed beside him, and vanished away.

I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!'

And laughter arose, and near and far Answering laughter rose and died . . .

Who is there? in the dark? he cried.

He stood in terror, and heard a sound Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; They rushed, were still; a silence fell; And he heard deep tollings of a bell.

Look beloved! Why do you hide your face?

Look, in the centre there, above the fire, They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love!

They are playing a piercing music upon him With a bow of living wire! . . .

The virgin harlot sings, She leans above the beautiful anguished body, And draws slow music from those strings.

They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, They trample him with their naked feet, His cries are lost in laughter, Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and beat, They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . .

Have we not heard that cry before?

Somewhere, somewhere, Beside a sea, in the green evening, Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . .

Was it you? was it I?

They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, Look! he has caught one by the hair, She screams and falls, he bears her away with him, And the night grows full of whistling wings.

Far off, one voice, serene and sweet, Rises and sings . . .

'By the clear waters where once I died, In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .'

Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them?

It was long ago.

Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; The treetops tremble and glow.

In the clear dark, on silent wings, The red bat hovers beneath her moon; She drops through the fragrant night, and clings Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds.

The maidens circle in dance, and raise From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; Their knees and b.r.e.a.s.t.s are white and bare, They have hung pale roses in their hair, Each of them as she dances by Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye.

See how the red wing wraps him round, See how the white youth struggles in vain!

The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; He writhes in the soft red veiny wings, But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . .

This is the secret feast of love, Look well, look well, before it dies, See how the red one trembles above, See how quiet the white one lies! . . . .

Wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . .

'By the clear waters where once I died, In the calm evening bright with stars, One among numberless avatars, I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, And lay on the stones and gave my flesh, And entered the hunger of him I loved.

How shall I ever escape this mesh Or be from my lover's body removed?'

Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air And the maenads dance with flying hair.

The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, Rise in the starlight, one by one, They draw their knives on the spurting throats, They smear the column with blood of goats, They dabble the blood on hair and lips And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse.

They stand like stones and stare at the sky Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . .

In the green moonlight still they stand While wind flows over the darkened sand And brood on the soft forgotten things That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . .

Where are the b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the scarlet wings? . . . .

They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . .

And then, as the shadow closes the moon, Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, And rush through the dark, and fill the night With a slowly dying clamor of sound.

There, where the great walls crowd the stars, There, by the black wind-riven walls, In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . .

Who are these pilgrims, who are these, These three, the one of whom stands upright, While one lies weeping and one of them crawls?

The face that he turned was a wounded face, I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . .