_I saw the Piper hanging on a tree,
Leaf-crowned
And crucified.
“Pan! Pan!” I cried._
_The awful eye, still roving, fell on me,
Then sought along the ground._
_I found
The pipes still lying near,
Held them like hyssop to the straining lips--_
_And oh, the sound, the sound,
Forever in my ear,
And in my side
The last note like a spear!_
ITALIAN QUATRAINS
Naples
_PALAZZO_
Lordly amid the rotting houses of the street,
It lifts a marble scorn, while at its carven feet
They crowd in ancient filth. It does not look at them,
These crumbling beggars catching at its stony hem.
_NEAPOLITAN WASHING_
Hellene and Roman bred this race;
Unconsciously these drying rags
Make of the squalid market-place
A conqueror’s city hung with flags!
_HAIR-DRESSING_
There in the littered street she sits and chats with passing friends,
While a deft neighbor combs her hair, pins close the sleek black ends;
She holds her gushing nipple to the child upon her knee,
Plucks vermin from its curls and sells her oranges to me.
_STREET OF STEPS_
(Flower Market)
In the noon shadows milch-goats lie and doze,
The air drips musk, carnation, lilac, rose;
The gutters ooze and spill, one walks with care--
And yet Pan might come leaping down the stair!
“_GABINETTO SEGRETO_”
(Naples Museum)
_Then came the saints, the men of grace_,
(I heard the old god say),
_Destroyed my shameless laughing face_,
Preserved my feet of clay!
Pompeii
_SHE SINGS_
So let us eat and drink, to singing and guitar,
Before we pace the mournful streets where the gray houses are;
Vesuvio, the guilty, leans lazy on the sky.
The very gods are dead, my love--and we have still to die!
_NEW EXCAVATIONS_
A workman with a spade in half a day
Can push two thousand lagging years away.
See, how the tragic villas, one by one,
Like drowsy lizards creep into the sun.
_I EXCAVATE_
They let me play at digging in that place,
Scoop ash from painted walls--a girl’s Greek face
Stared from the frieze! Between her and the skies
I hid the smoking mountain from her eyes.
_GREEK FRAGMENTS_
These arching feet that trip their shattered dance,
This satyr’s mocking mouth, the tumbled scroll,
Straight thigh of boy, strong hand upon the lance:
If these be fragments, tell me, what is whole?
_OLIVE TREE_
Moonlight is always on its leaves;
At noon there is a midnight air
About its branches, that deceives
Lovers who chance to wander there.
Rome
_UNDER THE DOME OF ST. PETER’S_
At last they builded wide enough, O Lord!
Here is no walled confinement of Thy Heart,
No ending to the echoes of Thy Word:
This lifting dome lifts on to where Thou art.
_STATUE OF THE SAINT_
This shining bronze is Peter’s living toe,
Kiss upon faithful kiss have made it so.
Prayer upon prayer hold safe the Heavenly Keys.
Thou who denied! Great Saint, deny not these!
Paganini’s Violins
(_Genoa_)
All April’s larks in her most lavish sky
Know less of song than these. O mournful two,
Birds of Cremona, what shall rouse in you
The jocund venture of your keen-edged cry?
Like carrier-doves, dismissed, unwinged, you lie
In dusty fame, your loosened strings untrue
To any key, hang limp as grasses do
After the long long drought when meadows die.
This is no mood for lordly violins,
These mellow masters in their disarray
Behind museum doors, these gypsy kings!
I’d set them singing, tucked beneath the chins
Of fiddler-folk whose fingers know the way,
Prancing like peacocks up the four gay strings!
Bavarian Roadside
Leave the chicory where it stands,
It will wither in your hands
If you pick it;
All its lovely blue will blacken
To a dull weed dry as bracken,
Leave it leaning by the thicket,
Leave it where it stands.
If your hunger crave for blue
Let the cornflower comfort you.
Where the gray goats browse and bleat,
All along the roadside dusty,
Where the tides of early wheat
Prophesy a golden leaven
Warm and crusty,
Leave the tangled chicory,
Bluer than the windy sky,
Leave the jaunty bit of heaven
Till it choose to die!
If your thirst you cannot bear,
Drink its color sparkling there
Like a blue wine brewed in air.
“Hark! Hark!”
No sight of it, only the song,
Hours long;
Hidden in the sun, yet near--
See, see the tiny trilling dot appear,
To disappear!
As if a pranking star had lowered it
By a thread
Over the listener’s head,
(Scarce swinging),
And then
Had pulled it up again,
Up, up, to the impenetrable blue,
And through--
Still singing!
Bagpipe Player
(_Nuremberg Fountain_)
He plays a sprightly tune in water.
Each note spurts from the bronze pipe-holes;
The piper plays
Four sprays
That mix and make a chord their own,
Bubbling in the bowl of stone.
(I know this tune!
First played
In some deep German wood
Some drowsy June;
Where hoofed and hairy things
Roused from the sleepy shade,
Drew near
To hear;
And nymphs were unafraid!)
Hans Sachs and Dürer passed this fountain,
And Peter Vischer, Martin Luther’s friend;
Passed to their worthy end.
But did they mark the goat-god’s godless ditty?
Or did the dripping little knave
Play drier tunes for them
In the staid street of the red-gabled city?
Oberammergau
Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief,
Over the hills to the mountain folk,
Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,
Across the world they find their way;
Christ will be crucified to-day.
Christ will hang crowned, and we are here.
Villager, are there beds enough?
Soup and bread and a pot of beer?--
Weary Gentile, Turk and Jew,
Lord and peasant, Christian too.
* * *
Who called His Name? What was it spoke?
Perhaps I dreamed. Then my walls dreamed!
I saw them shaking as I woke;
The dawn tuned silver harps, and there
The Star hung singing in the air.
“_Rich man, rich man, drawing near,
Have you not heard of the needle’s eye?
Beggar, whom do you follow here?
Did you give to the poor as He bade you do?
Proud sir, which of the thieves are you?_”
“_Doctor, lawyer, whom do you seek?
Do you succor the needy and ask no fee?
Chief, will you turn the other cheek?
Merchant, there is a story grim
Of money-changers scourged by Him!_”
The Star leaned lower from the sky:
“_Oh men in holy orders dressed,
Hurrying so to see Him die,
Important, as becomes your creed,
Why bring you dogma for His need?_”
* * *
The streets of Oberammergau
Are waking now, are crowding now;
The Star has fallen like a tear;
There is a tree with a waiting bough
Not far from here.
Rich man, poor man, beggar and thief,
Over the hills to the mountain folk,
Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,
Magdalene, Mary great with grief,
And Martha walking heavily--
Doubter--dreamer--which am I?
Lord, help Thou mine unbelief!
One Version
I think that Mary Magdalene
Was just a woman who went to dine,
And her jewels covered her empty heart
And her gown was the color of wine.
I think that Mary Magdalene
Sat by a stranger with shining head.
“Haven’t we met somewhere?” she asked.
_Magdalene!--Mary!_--he said.
I think that Mary Magdalene
Fell at his feet and called his name,
Sat at his feet and wept her woe
And rose up clean of shame.
Nobody knew but Magdalene,
Mary the woman who went to dine,
Nobody saw how he broke the bread
And poured for her peace the wine.
This is the story of Magdalene;
It’s not the tale the Apostles tell,
But I know the woman it happened to--
I know the woman well.
Protest in Passing
This house of flesh was never loved of me,
Though I have known much love beneath its roof,
Always was I a guest who stood aloof,
Loth to accept such hospitality.
When the house slumbered, how I woke! for then
I knew of half-escapes along the night,
But now there comes a safer swifter flight:
I go; nor need endure these rooms again.
I have been cowed too long by closed-in walls,
By masonry of muscle, blood and bone;
This quaking house of flesh that was my own,
High roof-tree of the heart, see how it falls!
I go--but pause upon the threshold’s rust,
To shake from off my feet my own dead dust.
Saul! Saul!
I braced myself in that vast hour,
Marking His mighty nod,
Strange winds directed my poor aim:
I hurled my soul to God.
I saw His casual Hand reach out,
The gaping stars grew dim,
My soul lay weeping in His Palm:
_Well caught!_ I cried to Him.