Toward the Gulf Part 12

Good friends, let's to the fields--I have a fever.

After a little walk, and by your pardon, I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, I pa.s.s you like an orange to a child: I can no more with you. Do what you will.

What should my care be when I have no power To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me As little as I need you: go your way!

Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek And clap their gus.h.i.+ng wounds--but I shall sleep, Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators Shall fulmine over London or America Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters And cut each others' throats when reason fails-- But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed The race of men till Time cries out "How long?"

But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years.

I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep-- Let's walk and hear the lark.

SWEET CLOVER

Only a few plants up--and not a blossom My clover didn't catch. What is the matter?

Old John comes by. I show him my result.

Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, I wanted you to sow it. Now you see What comes of letting Hunter do your work.

The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed Was sown.

But John, who knows a clover field, Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil And studies them.

He says, Look at the roots!

Hunter neglected to inoculate The seed, for clover seed must always have Clover bacteria to make it grow, And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover The roots are studded thick with tubercles, Like little warts, made by bacteria.

And somehow these bacteria lay hold Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil, And make the plants grow, make them blossom too.

When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: He should have hauled some top-soil to this field From some old clover field, or made a culture Of these bacteria and soaked the seed In it before he sowed it.

As I said, Hunter was sick when he was working here.

And then he ran away to Indiana And left his wife and children. Now he's back.

His cough was just as bad in Indiana As it is here. A cough is pretty hard To run away from. Wife and children too Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them Stays with a fellow and cannot be left.

Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you.

He's straightening out his little farm and making Provision for his family. Hunter's changed.

He is a better man. It almost seems That Hunter's blossomed. ...

I am sorry for him.

The doctor says he has tuberculosis.

SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL

To a western breeze A row of golden tulips is nodding.

They flutter their golden wings In a sudden ecstasy and say: Something comes to us from beyond, Out of the sky, beyond the hill We give it to you.

And I walk through rows of jonquils To a beloved door, Which you open.

And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head Nodding to me, and saying: Something comes to me Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty-- I give it to you.

There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, And the freshness of June iris in your hands, And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom.

But your voice is the voice of the robin Singing at dawn amid new leaves.

It is like sun-light on blue water Where the south-wind is on the water And the buds of the flags are green.

It is like the wild bird of the sedges With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed Showering lyrics over the sun-light Between rhythmical pauses When his heart has stopped, Making light and water Into song.

Let me hear your voice, And the voice of Eternal Beauty Through the music of your voice.

Let me gather the iris of your hands.

Against my face.

And close my eyes with your eyes.

Let me listen with you For the Voice.

FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE

How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and posed In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are told, Being better than seventy? How did he manage to stay you From hopping through Europe for long enough time for his work, Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and the nose, The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands, The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so serene.

How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless, You ever so driven by princes and priests? So I stand here Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you, And think of your work--how nothing could balk you Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and turned, Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a laugh, Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear For your eighty-four years!

And they say of you still You were light and a mocker! You should have been solemn, And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truthfully always.

Nay, truthful with whom, to what end? With a breed such as lived In your day and your place? It was never their due!

Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if need be-- A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the hypocrite flashes Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous places.

Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius G.o.d gave you.

And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe-- Why should they not hate you? Why should you not follow your light?

But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place more satiric.

Did France bar her door? Geneva remained--good enough!

Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know.

Would they lay hands upon you? I fancy you laughing, You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one path; You stand at your door and step by another to France-- Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate policeman.

And here you have printers to print what you write and a house For the acting of plays, La Pucelle, Orphelin.

O busy Voltaire, never resting. ...

So England conservative, England of Southey and Burke, The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of State, The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, O Voltaire: The quack gra.s.s of popery flourished in France, you essayed To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil.

It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of laughter, A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the roots, and your breast Was thrown on the handles.

And yet to this day, O Voltaire, They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you did Was to plough up the quack gra.s.s, and turn up the roots to the sun, And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it.

But listen The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and still But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than others, That nation can judge true or false and the judgment abides.

The judgment in English condemns you, where is there a judgment To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or French?

Did you give up three years of your life To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body of Calas?

Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O well, Six lines in an article written in English are plenty To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous gesture, Give the minds of the student your measure, impress them Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was n.o.ble, But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddlesome nature, Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the record Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-gra.s.s, while batting At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes ...

How well did you know that life to a genius, a G.o.d, Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those eyes As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous pomp.

Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds.

Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying.

Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, wors.h.i.+ps.