The Man Against the Sky Part 7

"Where might I be with him to-day, Could he have known before he heard?

But no--your silence had its way, Without a weapon or a word.

"Because a word was never told, I'm going as a worn toy goes.

And you are dead; and you'll be old; And I forgive you, I suppose.

"I'll soon be changing as all do, To something we have always been; And you'll be old... He liked you, too.

I might have killed you then, Eileen.

"I think he liked as much of you As had a reason to be seen,-- As much as G.o.d made black and blue.

He liked your hair and eyes, Eileen."

Llewellyn and the Tree

Could he have made Priscilla share The paradise that he had planned, Llewellyn would have loved his wife As well as any in the land.

Could he have made Priscilla cease To goad him for what G.o.d left out, Llewellyn would have been as mild As any we have read about.

Could all have been as all was not, Llewellyn would have had no story; He would have stayed a quiet man And gone his quiet way to glory.

But howsoever mild he was Priscilla was implacable; And whatsoever timid hopes He built--she found them, and they fell.

And this went on, with intervals Of labored harmony between Resounding discords, till at last Llewellyn turned--as will be seen.

Priscilla, warmer than her name, And shriller than the sound of saws, Pursued Llewellyn once too far, Not knowing quite the man he was.

The more she said, the fiercer clung The stinging garment of his wrath; And this was all before the day When Time tossed roses in his path.

Before the roses ever came Llewellyn had already risen.

The roses may have ruined him, They may have kept him out of prison.

And she who brought them, being Fate, Made roses do the work of spears,-- Though many made no more of her Than civet, coral, rouge, and years.

You ask us what Llewellyn saw, But why ask what may not be given?

To some will come a time when change Itself is beauty, if not heaven.

One afternoon Priscilla spoke, And her shrill history was done; At any rate, she never spoke Like that again to anyone.

One gold October afternoon Great fury smote the silent air; And then Llewellyn leapt and fled Like one with hornets in his hair.

Llewellyn left us, and he said Forever, leaving few to doubt him; And so, through frost and clicking leaves, The Tilbury way went on without him.

And slowly, through the Tilbury mist, The stillness of October gold Went out like beauty from a face.

Priscilla watched it, and grew old.

He fled, still clutching in his flight The roses that had been his fall; The Scarlet One, as you surmise, Fled with him, coral, rouge, and all.

Priscilla, waiting, saw the change Of twenty slow October moons; And then she vanished, in her turn To be forgotten, like old tunes.

So they were gone--all three of them, I should have said, and said no more, Had not a face once on Broadway Been one that I had seen before.

The face and hands and hair were old, But neither time nor penury Could quench within Llewellyn's eyes The shine of his one victory.

The roses, faded and gone by, Left ruin where they once had reigned; But on the wreck, as on old sh.e.l.ls, The color of the rose remained.

His fictive merchandise I bought For him to keep and show again, Then led him slowly from the crush Of his cold-shouldered fellow men.

"And so, Llewellyn," I began-- "Not so," he said; "not so, at all: I've tried the world, and found it good, For more than twenty years this fall.

"And what the world has left of me Will go now in a little while."

And what the world had left of him Was partly an unholy guile.

"That I have paid for being calm Is what you see, if you have eyes; For let a man be calm too long, He pays for much before he dies.

"Be calm when you are growing old And you have nothing else to do; Pour not the wine of life too thin If water means the death of you.

"You say I might have learned at home The truth in season to be strong?

Not so; I took the wine of life Too thin, and I was calm too long.

"Like others who are strong too late, For me there was no going back; For I had found another speed, And I was on the other track.

"G.o.d knows how far I might have gone Or what there might have been to see; But my speed had a sudden end, And here you have the end of me."

The end or not, it may be now But little farther from the truth To say those worn satiric eyes Had something of immortal youth.

He may among the millions here Be one; or he may, quite as well, Be gone to find again the Tree Of Knowledge, out of which he fell.

He may be near us, dreaming yet Of unrepented rouge and coral; Or in a grave without a name May be as far off as a moral.

Bewick Finzer

Time was when his half million drew The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain When his half million went.

Time pa.s.sed, and filled along with his The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man Whom we had known before.

The broken voice, the withered neck, The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence, The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams Of affluence,--all were there.

Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes, Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task When he looks in the face Of one who might so easily Have been in Finzer's place.