the man against the sky-第5节
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Nothing will help that man。 To make him laugh；
I said then he was a mad mountebank；
And by the Lord I nearer made him cry。
I could have eat an eft then； on my knees；
Tail； claws； and all of him； for I had stung
The king of men； who had no sting for me；
And I had hurt him in his memories；
And I say now； as I shall say again；
I love the man this side idolatry。
He'll do it when he's old； he says。 I wonder。
He may not be so ancient as all that。
For such as he； the thing that is to do
Will do itself； but there's a reckoning；
The sessions that are now too much his own；
The roiling inward of a stilled outside；
The churning out of all those blood…fed lines；
The nights of many schemes and little sleep；
The full brain hammered hot with too much thinking；
The vexed heart over…worn with too much aching；
This weary jangling of conjoined affairs
Made out of elements that have no end；
And all confused at once； I understand；
Is not what makes a man to live forever。
O no； not now！ He'll not be going now：
There'll be time yet for God knows what explosions
Before he goes。 He'll stay awhile。 Just wait：
Just wait a year or two for Cleopatra；
For she's to be a balsam and a comfort；
And that's not all a jape of mine now； either。
For granted once the old way of Apollo
Sings in a man； he may then； if he's able；
Strike unafraid whatever strings he will
Upon the last and wildest of new lyres；
Nor out of his new magic； though it hymn
The shrieks of dungeoned hell； shall he create
A madness or a gloom to shut quite out
A cleaving daylight； and a last great calm
Triumphant over shipwreck and all storms。
He might have given Aristotle creeps；
But surely would have given him his ‘katharsis'。
He'll not be going yet。 There's too much yet
Unsung within the man。 But when he goes；
I'd stake ye coin o' the realm his only care
For a phantom world he sounded and found wanting
Will be a portion here； a portion there；
Of this or that thing or some other thing
That has a patent and intrinsical
Equivalence in those egregious shillings。
And yet he knows； God help him！ Tell me； now；
If ever there was anything let loose
On earth by gods or devils heretofore
Like this mad； careful； proud； indifferent Shakespeare！
Where was it； if it ever was？ By heaven；
'Twas never yet in Rhodes or Pergamon
In Thebes or Nineveh； a thing like this！
No thing like this was ever out of England；
And that he knows。 I wonder if he cares。
Perhaps he does。 。 。 。 O Lord； that House in Stratford！
Eros Turannos
She fears him； and will always ask
What fated her to choose him；
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him；
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years；
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age； were she to lose him。
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him；
And Love； that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him；
Her pride assuages her almost；
As if it were alone the cost。
He sees that he will not be lost；
And waits and looks around him。
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him；
Tradition； touching all he sees；
Beguiles and reassures him；
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed of what she knows of days
Till even prejudice delays
And fades； and she secures him。
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion；
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion；
And home； where passion lived and died；
Becomes a place where she can hide；
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion。
We tell you； tapping on our brows；
The story as it should be；
As if the story of a house
Were told； or ever could be；
We'll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen；
As if we guessed what hers have been；
Or what they are or would be。
Meanwhile we do no harm； for they
That with a god have striven；
Not hearing much of what we say；
Take what the god has given；
Though like waves breaking it may be；
Or like a changed familiar tree；
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven。
Old Trails
（Washington Square）
I met him； as one meets a ghost or two；
Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel。
〃King Solomon was right； there's nothing new；〃
Said he。 〃Behold a ruin who meant well。〃
He led me down familiar steps again；
Appealingly； and set me in a chair。
〃My dreams have all come true to other men；〃
Said he； 〃God lives； however； and why care？
〃An hour among the ghosts will do no harm。〃
He laughed； and something glad within me sank。
I may have eyed him with a faint alarm；
For now his laugh was lost in what he drank。
〃They chill things here with ice from hell；〃 he said；
〃I might have known it。〃 And he made a face
That showed again how much of him was dead；
And how much was alive and out of place；
And out of reach。 He knew as well as I
That all the words of wise men who are skilled
In using them are not much to defy
What comes when memory meets the unfulfilled。
What evil and infirm perversity
Had been at work with him to bring him back？
Never among the ghosts； assuredly；
Would he originate a new attack；
Never among the ghosts； or anywhere；
Till what was dead of him was put away；
Would he attain to his offended share
Of honor among others of his day。
〃You ponder like an owl；〃 he said at last；
〃You always did； and here you have a cause。
For I'm a confirmation of the past；
A vengeance； and a flowering of what was。
〃Sorry？ Of course you are； though you compress；
With even your most impenetrable fears；
A placid and a proper consciousness
Of anxious angels over my arrears。
〃I see them there against me in a book
As large as hope； in ink that shines by night。
For sure I see； but now I'd rather look
At you； and you are not a pleasant sight。
〃Forbear； forgive。 Ten years are on my soul；
And on my conscience。 I've an incubus：
My one distinction； and a parlous toll
To glory； but hope lives on clamorous。
〃'Twas hope； though heaven I grant you knows of what
The kind that blinks and rises when it falls；
Whether it sees a reason why or not
That heard Broadway's hard…throated siren…calls；
〃'Twas hope that brought me through December storms；
To shores again where I'll not have to be
A lonely man with only foreign worms
To cheer him in his last obscurity。
〃But what it was that hurried me down here
To be among the ghosts； I leave to you。
My thanks are yours； no less； for one thing clear：
Though you are silent； what you say is true。
〃There may have been the devil in my feet；
For down I blundered； like a fugitive；
To find the old room in Eleventh Street。
God save us！ I came here again to live。〃
We rose at that； and all the ghosts rose then；
And followed us unseen to his old room。
No longer a good place for living men
We found it； and we shivered in the gloom。
The goods he took away from there were few；
And soon we found ourselves outside once more；
Where now the lamps along the Avenue
Bloomed white for miles above an iron floor。
〃Now lead me to the newest of hotels；〃
He said； 〃and let your spleen be undeceived：
This ruin is not myself； but some one else；
I haven't failed； I've merely not achieved。〃
Whether he knew or not； he laughed and dined
With more of an immune regardlessness
Of pits before him and of sands behind
Than many a child at forty would confess；
And after； when the bells in ‘Boris' rang
Their tumult at the Metropolitan；
He rocked himself； and I believe he sang。
〃God lives；〃 he crooned aloud； 〃and I'm the man！〃
He was。 And even though the creature spoiled
All prophecies； I cherish his acclaim。
Three weeks he fattened； and five years he toiled
In Yonkers； and then sauntered into fame。
And he may go now to what streets he will
Eleventh； or the last； and little care；
But he would find the old room very still
Of evenings； and the ghosts would all be there。
I doubt if he goes after them； I doubt
If many of them ever come to him。
His memories are like lamps； and they go out；
Or if they burn； they flicker and are dim。
A light of other gleams he has to…day
And adulations of applauding hosts；
A famous danger； but a safer way
Than growing old alone among the ghosts。
But we may still be glad that we were wrong：
He fooled us； and we'd shrivel to deny it；
Though sometimes when old echoes ring too long；
I wish the bells in ‘Boris' would be quiet。
The Unforgiven
When he； who is the unforgiven；
Beheld her first； he found her fair：
No promise ever dreamt in heaven
Could then have lured him anywhere
That would have been awa
