American Poetry, 1922 Part 2

THE SWANS

The swans float and float Along the moat Around the Bishop's garden, And the white clouds push Across a blue sky With edges that seem to draw in and harden.

Two slim men of white bronze Beat each with a hammer on the end of a rod The hours of G.o.d.

Striking a bell, They do it well.

And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and swell In the Cathedral's carved stone polygons.

The swans float About the moat, And another swan sits still in the air Above the old inn.

He gazes into the street And swims the cold and the heat, He has always been there, At least so say the cobbles in the square.

They listen to the beat Of the hammered bell, And think of the feet Which beat upon their tops; But what they think they do not tell.

And the swans who float Up and down the moat Gobble the bread the Bishop feeds them.

The slim bronze men beat the hour again, But only the gargoyles up in the hard blue air heed them.

When the Bishop says a prayer, And the choir sing "Amen,"

The hammers break in on them there: Clang! Clang! Beware! Beware!

The carved swan looks down at the pa.s.sing men, And the cobbles wink: "An hour has gone again."

But the people kneeling before the Bishop's chair Forget the pa.s.sing over the cobbles in the square.

An hour of day and an hour of night, And the clouds float away in a red-splashed light.

The sun, quotha? or white, white Smoke with fire all alight.

An old roof cras.h.i.+ng on a Bishop's tomb, Swarms of men with a thirst for room, And the footsteps blur to a shower, shower, shower, Of men pa.s.sing--pa.s.sing--every hour, With arms of power, and legs of power, And power in their strong, hard minds.

No need then For the slim bronze men Who beat G.o.d's hours: Prime, Tierce, None.

Who wants to hear? No one.

We will melt them, and mold them, And make them a stem For a banner gorged with blood, For a blue-mouthed torch.

So the men rush like clouds, They strike their iron edges on the Bishop's chair And fling down the lanterns by the tower stair.

They rip the Bishop out of his tomb And break the mitre off of his head.

"See," say they, "the man is dead; He cannot s.h.i.+ver or sing.

We'll toss for his ring."

The cobbles see this all along the street Coming--coming--on countless feet.

And the clockmen mark the hours as they go.

But slow--slow-- The swans float In the Bishop's moat.

And the inn swan Sits on and on, Staring before him with cold gla.s.s eyes.

Only the Bishop walks serene, Pleased with his church, pleased with his house, Pleased with the sound of the hammered bell, Beating his doom.

Saying "Boom! Boom! Room! Room!"

He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind, And very, very pleased with his charming moat And the swans which float.

PRIME

Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn When a bird flies And the sky changes to a fresher color.

Speak, speak, Beloved.

Say little things For my ears to catch And run with them to my heart.

VESPERS

Last night, at sunset, The foxgloves were like tall altar candles.

Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse, my Dear, I should have understood their burning.

IN EXCELSIS

You--you-- Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver; Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies; Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air.

The movement of your hands is the long, golden running of light from a rising sun; It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path.

As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning.

Young horses are not more sudden than your thoughts, Your words are bees about a pear-tree, Your fancies are the gold-and-black striped wasps buzzing among red apples.

I drink your lips, I eat the whiteness of your hands and feet.

My mouth is open, As a new jar I am empty and open.

Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth, Like a brook of water thronged with lilies.

You are frozen as the clouds, You are far and sweet as the high clouds.

I dare reach to you, I dare touch the rim of your brightness.

I leap beyond the winds, I cry and shout, For my throat is keen as a sword Sharpened on a hone of ivory.

My throat sings the joy of my eyes, The rus.h.i.+ng gladness of my love.

How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart?

How have I snared the seas to lie in my fingers And caught the sky to be a cover for my head?

How have you come to dwell with me, Compa.s.sing me with the four circles of your mystic lightness, So that I say "Glory! Glory!" and bow before you As to a shrine?

Do I tease myself that morning is morning and a day after?

Do I think the air a condescension, The earth a politeness, Heaven a boon deserving thanks?

So you--air--earth--heaven-- I do not thank you, I take you, I live.

And those things which I say in consequence Are rubies mortised in a gate of stone.

LA RONDE DU DIABLE

"Here we go round the ivy-bush,"