Toward the Gulf Part 16

It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt-- For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed In money matters to another's wrong For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know The world cares more for chast.i.ty and temperance Than for a faultless life in money matters.

No use to dramatize that vital contrast, The world to-day is what it always was.

But you don't call this Hamilton an artist And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler?

Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world As much as any. There is Leonardo-- The point's not here.

I think it's more like this: Some men are t.i.tans and some men are G.o.ds, And some are G.o.ds who fall while climbing back Up to Olympus whence they came. And some While fighting for the race fall into holes Where to return and rescue them is death.

Why look you here! You'd think America Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine Of Thomas Paine, in fiery grat.i.tude.

He's there in France's national a.s.sembly, And votes to save King Louis with this phrase: Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office.

They think him faithless to the revolution For words like these--and clap! the prison door Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter To president--of what! to Washington President of the United States of America, A t.i.tle which Paine coined in seventy-seven Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state!

And Washington is silent, never answers, And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell, Who hears the guillotine go slash and click!

Perhaps this is the nucleus of my drama.

Or else to show that Washington was wise Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas, And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas, Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense."

That may be just the story for my drama.

Old Homer satirized the human race For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian.

But there's not stuff for satire in a war Ensuing on the insult for the rescue Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets, And won a continent for the rescuer.

That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man.

This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate Of England and her power, America's Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama As showing how the more you do in life The greater shall you suffer. This is true, If what you battered down gets hold of you.

This drama almost drives me mad at times.

I have his story at my fingers' ends.

But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands.

I think I'll have to give it up. What's that?

Well, if an audience of to-day would turn From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage What is the use to write it, if they'd turn No matter how you wrote it? I believe They wouldn't like it in America, Nor England either, maybe--you are right!

A drama with no audience is a failure.

But here's this skull. What shall I do with it?

If I should have it cased in solid silver There is no shrine to take it--no Cologne For skulls like this.

Well, I must die sometime, And who will get it then? Look at this skull!

This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend: A man who has a theme the world despises!

RECESSIONAL

IN TIME OF WAR

MEDICAL UNIT--

Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, The altar flame of your love's sacrifice; And even as I bear before the hour the vision, Your little hands in hospital and prison Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes, So do I suffer for splendor of your being Which leads you from me, and in separation Lays on my breast the pain of memory.

Over your hands I bend In silent adoration, Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end, Asking for consolation Out of the sacrament of our separation, And for some faithful word acceptable and true, That I may know and keep the mystery: That in this separation I go forth with you And you to the world's end remain with me.

How may I justify the hope that rises That I am giving you to a world of pain, And am a part of your love's sacrifices?

Is it so little if I see you not again?

You will croon soldier lads to sleep, Even to the last sleep of all.

But in this absence, as your love will keep Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall, So I, though far away, shall kneel by you If the last hour approaches, to bedew Your lips that from their infant wondering Lisped of a heaven lost.

I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving.

Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living Bearing a solace in death.

G.o.d has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,-- You are transfigured Before me, and I bow my head, And leave you in the light that lights your way, And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped, And the hour we must obey-- Look you, I will go pray!

THE AWAKENING

When you lie sleeping; golden hair Tossed on your pillow, sea sh.e.l.l pink Ears that nestle, I forbear A moment while I look and think How you are mine, and if I dare To bend and kiss you lying there.

A Raphael in the flesh! Resist I cannot, though to break your sleep Is thoughtless of me--you are kissed And roused from slumber dreamless, deep-- You rub away the slumber's mist, You scold and almost weep.

It is too bad to wake you so, Just for a kiss. But when awake You sing and dance, nor seem to know You slept a sleep too deep to break From which I roused you long ago For nothing but my pa.s.sion's sake-- What though your heart should ache!

IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR

I arise in the silence of the dawn hour.

And softly steal out to the garden Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.

And a wind moves out of the south-land, Like a film of silver, And thrills with a far borne message The flowers of the garden.

Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them To the south wind as he pa.s.ses.

But the zinnias and calendulas, In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly As the south wind whispers the secret Of the dawn hour!

I stand in the silence of the dawn hour In the garden, As the star of morning fades.

Flying from scythes of air The hare-bells, purples and golden glow On the sand-hill back of the orchard Race before the feet of the wind.

But cl.u.s.ters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim Begin to flutter and glisten.

And in a moment, in a twinkled pa.s.sion, The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed, As he fences the lilac lights of the sky, And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon Is drowned in the waste of morning!

In the silence of the garden, At the dawn hour I turn and see you-- You who knew and followed, You who knew the dawn hour, And its sky like a Favrile goblet.

You who knew the south-wind Bearing the secret of the morning To waking gardens, fields and forests.

You in a gown of green, O footed Iris, With eyes of dryad gray, And the blown glory of unawakened tresses-- A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment, In the silence of the dawn hour!

And here I behold you Amid a trance of color, silent music, The embodied spirit of the morning: Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun Caught in the twinkling oak leaves: Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind; And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas; The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac Turned white for the woe of the moon; And the silence of the dawn hour!