Selected Poems (Aiken)/Senlin: a Biography
SENLIN: A BIOGRAPHY
I. HIS DARK ORIGINS
I
Senlin sits before us, and we see him . . .
He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him . . .
Is he small, with reddish hair,
Does he light his pipe with a meditative stare,
And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes?
Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? . . .
Did no one see him enter the doors of the city,
Looking about him at roofs and trees and skies? . . .
'I stepped from a cloud,' he says, 'as evening fell,
I walked on the sound of a bell;
I ran with winged heels along a gust;
Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from the dust? . . .
Has no one, in a great autumnal forest,
When the wind bares the trees with mournful tone,
Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? . . .
Has no one, on a mountain in the spring,
Heard Senlin sing?
Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse,
Riding alone from the deep-starred night.
Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music,
Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.'
He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him . . .
Is he small, with reddish hair,
Does he light his pipe with a meditative stare,
And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes?
Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? . . .
Did no one see him enter the doors of the city,
Looking about him at roofs and trees and skies? . . .
'I stepped from a cloud,' he says, 'as evening fell,
I walked on the sound of a bell;
I ran with winged heels along a gust;
Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from the dust? . . .
Has no one, in a great autumnal forest,
When the wind bares the trees with mournful tone,
Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? . . .
Has no one, on a mountain in the spring,
Heard Senlin sing?
Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse,
Riding alone from the deep-starred night.
Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music,
Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.'
He lights his pipe with a streaked and pointed flame . . .
'Yet, there were many autumns before I came,
And many springs. And more will come, long after
'There is no horn from me, or song, or laughter.'
'Yet, there were many autumns before I came,
And many springs. And more will come, long after
'There is no horn from me, or song, or laughter.'
The city dissolves about us, and its walls
Become an ancient forest. There is no sound
Except where an old twig tires and falls;
Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls;
Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground.
Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin?
Is Senlin the wood we walk in,—ourselves,—the world?
Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . No answer,
Only soft broken echoes backward whirled . . .
Become an ancient forest. There is no sound
Except where an old twig tires and falls;
Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls;
Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground.
Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin?
Is Senlin the wood we walk in,—ourselves,—the world?
Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . No answer,
Only soft broken echoes backward whirled . . .
Yet, we would say this is no wood at all,
But a small white room with lights upon the wall;
And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair,
Lights his pipe with a meditative stare.
But a small white room with lights upon the wall;
And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair,
Lights his pipe with a meditative stare.
II
Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms
And turns his head to look at walls and trees.
The wind comes whistling from the shrill stars of winter,
The lights are jewels, the black roots freeze.
'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these,
Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain
To seek, in another air, myself again?' . . .
(Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks
Behold a bewildered oak
With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain! . . .)
'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing,
That crept from the rocks of buried time
And dedicated its holy life to climb
From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain,
Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep
Into the hollow gigantic world of light
Thinking the sky to be its destined shell,
Hoping to fit it well!—'
And turns his head to look at walls and trees.
The wind comes whistling from the shrill stars of winter,
The lights are jewels, the black roots freeze.
'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these,
Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain
To seek, in another air, myself again?' . . .
(Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks
Behold a bewildered oak
With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain! . . .)
'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing,
That crept from the rocks of buried time
And dedicated its holy life to climb
From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain,
Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep
Into the hollow gigantic world of light
Thinking the sky to be its destined shell,
Hoping to fit it well!—'
The city dissolves about us; and its walls
Are mountainous rocks cruelly carved with wind;
Sand streams down their wasting sides, and sand
Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand
We crawl and bleed among them. Is this Senlin?
In the desert of Senlin must we live and die?
We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders,
The snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry.
'Senlin!' again . . . Our shadows revolve in silence
Under the soulless brilliance of blue shy . . .
Are mountainous rocks cruelly carved with wind;
Sand streams down their wasting sides, and sand
Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand
We crawl and bleed among them. Is this Senlin?
In the desert of Senlin must we live and die?
We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders,
The snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry.
'Senlin!' again . . . Our shadows revolve in silence
Under the soulless brilliance of blue shy . . .
Yet we would say these are no rocks at all,
Nor desert of sand . . . for here by a city wall
White lights jewel the evening, black roots freeze,
And Senlin turns his head to look at trees.
Nor desert of sand . . . for here by a city wall
White lights jewel the evening, black roots freeze,
And Senlin turns his head to look at trees.
III
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening,
By a silent shore, by a far distant sea,
White unicorns come gravely down to the water.
In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately,
Stars hang over the purple waveless sea;
A sea on which no sail was ever lifted,
Where a human voice was never heard.
The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water,
The silent stars seem silently to sing.
And gravely come white unicorns down to the water,
One by one they come and drink their fill;
And daisies shine like stars on the darkened hill . . .
By a silent shore, by a far distant sea,
White unicorns come gravely down to the water.
In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately,
Stars hang over the purple waveless sea;
A sea on which no sail was ever lifted,
Where a human voice was never heard.
The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water,
The silent stars seem silently to sing.
And gravely come white unicorns down to the water,
One by one they come and drink their fill;
And daisies shine like stars on the darkened hill . . .
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening
The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light,
Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still.
The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness,
Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.
The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf,
Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound.
Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight
And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing?
Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows?
Has the small moon a ghostly ring? . . .
White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass,
Singing maidens are buried in deep graves,
The stars hang over a sea like polished glass . . .
And solemnly one by one in the darkness there
Neighing far off on the haunted air
White unicorns come gravely down to the water . . .
The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light,
Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still.
The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness,
Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.
The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf,
Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound.
Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight
And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing?
Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows?
Has the small moon a ghostly ring? . . .
White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass,
Singing maidens are buried in deep graves,
The stars hang over a sea like polished glass . . .
And solemnly one by one in the darkness there
Neighing far off on the haunted air
White unicorns come gravely down to the water . . .
No silver bells are heard. The westering moon
Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea.
Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools
Left on the rocks by the receding sea
Starfish slowly turn their white and brown
Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown.
Do sea-girls haunt these caves—do we hear faint singing?
Do we hear from under the sea a thin bell ringing?
Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles
And fallen softly back?
No, these shores and caverns all are silent,
Dead in the moonlight; only, far above,
On the smooth contours of these headlands,
White amid the eternal black,
One by one in the moonlight there,
Neighing far off on the haunted air,
The unicorns come down to the sea.
Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea.
Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools
Left on the rocks by the receding sea
Starfish slowly turn their white and brown
Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown.
Do sea-girls haunt these caves—do we hear faint singing?
Do we hear from under the sea a thin bell ringing?
Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles
And fallen softly back?
No, these shores and caverns all are silent,
Dead in the moonlight; only, far above,
On the smooth contours of these headlands,
White amid the eternal black,
One by one in the moonlight there,
Neighing far off on the haunted air,
The unicorns come down to the sea.
IV
Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight,
Bending his long legs in a peculiar way,
Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe.
His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe,
He is happily conscious of roofs and skies;
And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes
To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse.
Bending his long legs in a peculiar way,
Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe.
His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe,
He is happily conscious of roofs and skies;
And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes
To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse.
The sky is brilliant between the roofs,
The windows flash in the yellow sun,
On the hard pavement ring the hoofs,
The light wheels softly run.
Bright particles of sunlight fall,
Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn,
Honey-like heat flows down the wall,
The white spokes dazzle and turn . . .
The windows flash in the yellow sun,
On the hard pavement ring the hoofs,
The light wheels softly run.
Bright particles of sunlight fall,
Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn,
Honey-like heat flows down the wall,
The white spokes dazzle and turn . . .
Senlin walking before us in the sunlight
Regards the hearse with an introspective eye.
'Is it my childhood there,' he asks,
'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?'
He taps with his trowel against a stone;
The trowel sings with a silver tone.
Regards the hearse with an introspective eye.
'Is it my childhood there,' he asks,
'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?'
He taps with his trowel against a stone;
The trowel sings with a silver tone.
'Nevertheless, I know this well.
Bury it deep and toll a bell,
Bury it under land or sea,
You cannot bury it save in me.'
Bury it deep and toll a bell,
Bury it under land or sea,
You cannot bury it save in me.'
It is as if his soul had become a city,
With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets
Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse
'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head.
But is that Senlin?—or is this city Senlin,—
Quietly watching the burial of its dead?
Dumbly observing the cortege of its dead?
Yet we would say that all this is but madness:
Around a distant corner turns the hearse.
And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight
Happily conscious of his universe.
With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets
Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse
'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head.
But is that Senlin?—or is this city Senlin,—
Quietly watching the burial of its dead?
Dumbly observing the cortege of its dead?
Yet we would say that all this is but madness:
Around a distant corner turns the hearse.
And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight
Happily conscious of his universe.
V
In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden,
The peach-tree grows. Its ugly cruel roots
Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture.
Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits.
Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone!
Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain.
Is she the victim? Or is the tree the victim? . . .
Delicate blossoms opened in the rain,
Black bees flew among them in the sunlight,
And sacked them ruthlessly; and now a bird
Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks at the fruit;
And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word . . .
The peach-tree grows. Its ugly cruel roots
Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture.
Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits.
Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone!
Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain.
Is she the victim? Or is the tree the victim? . . .
Delicate blossoms opened in the rain,
Black bees flew among them in the sunlight,
And sacked them ruthlessly; and now a bird
Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks at the fruit;
And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word . . .
. . . Senlin, tapping his trowel against a stone,
Observes this tree he planted: it is his own . . .
Observes this tree he planted: it is his own . . .
'You will think it strange,' says Senlin, 'but this tree
Utters profound things in this garden,
And in its silence speaks to me.
I have sensations, when I stand beneath it,
As if its leaves looked at me, and could see:
And these thin leaves, even in windless air,
Seem to be whispering me a choral music
Insubstantial but debonair.
"Regard," they seem to say,
"Our idiot root, which going its brutal way
Has cracked your garden wall!
Ugly, is it not?
A desecration of this place . . .
And yet, without it, could we exist at all?"
Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me
To make their apology;
And while they apologize
Ask me a wary question with their eyes.
Yes, it is true their origin is low—
Brutish and dull and cruel . . . and it is true
Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know
The leaves less cruel—the root less beautiful?
Sometimes it seems as if there grew
In the dull garden of my mind
A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves,
Yet cracks the walls with cruel roots and blind.
Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me
That I myself am such a tree . . .
. . . And as we hear from Senlin these strange words
So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree:
And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds
While cruel roots dig downward secretly.
Utters profound things in this garden,
And in its silence speaks to me.
I have sensations, when I stand beneath it,
As if its leaves looked at me, and could see:
And these thin leaves, even in windless air,
Seem to be whispering me a choral music
Insubstantial but debonair.
"Regard," they seem to say,
"Our idiot root, which going its brutal way
Has cracked your garden wall!
Ugly, is it not?
A desecration of this place . . .
And yet, without it, could we exist at all?"
Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me
To make their apology;
And while they apologize
Ask me a wary question with their eyes.
Yes, it is true their origin is low—
Brutish and dull and cruel . . . and it is true
Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know
The leaves less cruel—the root less beautiful?
Sometimes it seems as if there grew
In the dull garden of my mind
A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves,
Yet cracks the walls with cruel roots and blind.
Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me
That I myself am such a tree . . .
. . . And as we hear from Senlin these strange words
So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree:
And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds
While cruel roots dig downward secretly.
VI
Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge
Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds
How Cleopatra and Senebtisi
Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs . . .
Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds:
Delicious, to see our futile modern sunlight
Dance like a harlot among those Times and Dooms!
Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds
How Cleopatra and Senebtisi
Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs . . .
Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds:
Delicious, to see our futile modern sunlight
Dance like a harlot among those Times and Dooms!
First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock
Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this:
A deep-dug cavern, bat-festooned;
And here in rows on rows, with gods about them,
Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins,
Silver-starred and crimson-mooned.
Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this:
A deep-dug cavern, bat-festooned;
And here in rows on rows, with gods about them,
Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins,
Silver-starred and crimson-mooned.
What holy secret shall we now uncover?
Inside the outer coffin is a second,
Inside the second, smaller, lies a third.
This one is carved, and like a human body;
And painted over with fish and bull and bird . . .
Here are men walking stiffly in procession,
Blowing horns or lifting spears;
Where do they march to? Where do they come from?
Soft whine of horns is in our ears . . .
Inside the outer coffin is a second,
Inside the second, smaller, lies a third.
This one is carved, and like a human body;
And painted over with fish and bull and bird . . .
Here are men walking stiffly in procession,
Blowing horns or lifting spears;
Where do they march to? Where do they come from?
Soft whine of horns is in our ears . . .
Inside the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,—
A priest, perhaps?—did most to make resemble
The flesh of her who lies within.
The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling.
The hair is black, the mouth is thin.
A priest, perhaps?—did most to make resemble
The flesh of her who lies within.
The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling.
The hair is black, the mouth is thin.
Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you . . .
The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open,
And the dark air is sweet with musk and myrrh . . .
Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings,
The gilded face and jewelled eyes of her . . .
The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open,
And the dark air is sweet with musk and myrrh . . .
Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings,
The gilded face and jewelled eyes of her . . .
And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly,
And the hollow skull, in which the brains are withered,
Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all? . . .
Something there was we asked that is not answered . . .
Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustred wall . . .
And the hollow skull, in which the brains are withered,
Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all? . . .
Something there was we asked that is not answered . . .
Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustred wall . . .
And all we hear is a sound of ghostly music,
Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown,
And a cry of grief, and men in a stiff procession
Marching away and softly gone.
Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown,
And a cry of grief, and men in a stiff procession
Marching away and softly gone.
VII
'And am I then, a pyramid?' says Senlin,
'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden
Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh? . . .
Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly
Above those stones and times a silver mesh? . . .
Or the dark blade of grass that bravely grows
Between two massive boulders of black basalt
Year after year, and blows and fades and blows?'
'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden
Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh? . . .
Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly
Above those stones and times a silver mesh? . . .
Or the dark blade of grass that bravely grows
Between two massive boulders of black basalt
Year after year, and blows and fades and blows?'
Senlin, sitting before us in the lamplight,
Laughs and lights his pipe. The yellow flame
Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles . . .
Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name? . . .
Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere,
A tiny spear of green beneath the blue,
Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice
With the gigantic fates of frost and dew.
Laughs and lights his pipe. The yellow flame
Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles . . .
Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name? . . .
Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere,
A tiny spear of green beneath the blue,
Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice
With the gigantic fates of frost and dew.
Does a spider come and spin his gossamer ladder,
Rung by silver rung,
Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow
Flung, waveringly, where his is flung?
Rung by silver rung,
Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow
Flung, waveringly, where his is flung?
Does a raindrop dazzle starlike down his length
Trying his futile strength?
A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him?
Through æons of dusk have birds above him sung?
Trying his futile strength?
A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him?
Through æons of dusk have birds above him sung?
Time is a wind, says Senlin; time, like music
Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes,
And leaves behind a shadow recollection,—
A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses.
Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes,
And leaves behind a shadow recollection,—
A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses.
VIII
In the cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise,
One yellow star sings over a peak of snow,
And melts and vanishes in a light like roses . . .
Through slanting mist black rocks appear and glow.
One yellow star sings over a peak of snow,
And melts and vanishes in a light like roses . . .
Through slanting mist black rocks appear and glow.
The clouds flow downward, slowly as grey glaciers,
Or up to pale rose-azure pass.
"The blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders,
From boulders to white grass.
Or up to pale rose-azure pass.
"The blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders,
From boulders to white grass.
Icicles on the pine tree melt
And softly flash in the sun:
In long straight lines the star-drops fall
One by one.
And softly flash in the sun:
In long straight lines the star-drops fall
One by one.
Is a voice heard while the shadows still are long,
Borne slowly down on the sparkled air?
Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence?
Is someone among the high snows there? . . .
Borne slowly down on the sparkled air?
Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence?
Is someone among the high snows there? . . .
Where the blue stream flows coldly among the meadows
And mist still clings to rock and tree
Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight
Looks darkly up, to see
And mist still clings to rock and tree
Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight
Looks darkly up, to see
The calm unmoving peak of snow-white silence,
The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky . . .
Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges,
To nod before the dwindling sun and die.
'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain,
Something forgotten now, that once I knew . . .'
We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence,
Our shadows descend before us, long and blue.
The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky . . .
Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges,
To nod before the dwindling sun and die.
'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain,
Something forgotten now, that once I knew . . .'
We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence,
Our shadows descend before us, long and blue.
II. HIS FUTILE PREOCCUPATIONS
I
'I am a house,' says Senlin, 'locked and darkened,
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind.
Summon me loudly and you'll hear slow footsteps
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind.
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway;
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly,
Pausing above some balcony of the brain . . .
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind.
Summon me loudly and you'll hear slow footsteps
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind.
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway;
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly,
Pausing above some balcony of the brain . . .
I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair;
I am a desolate room . . . a maiden dances
Lifting her pale hands, tossing her golden hair . . .
She combs her hair, the bare white room is darkened,
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep.
It is my pride that starlight is above me,
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair;
I am a desolate room . . . a maiden dances
Lifting her pale hands, tossing her golden hair . . .
She combs her hair, the bare white room is darkened,
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep.
It is my pride that starlight is above me,
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.
I am a door . . . before me rolls the darkness,
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light.
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen—
The crying of violins assails the night . . .
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them;
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange
That I should know so little what means this music,
Hearing it always within me change and change.
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light.
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen—
The crying of violins assails the night . . .
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them;
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange
That I should know so little what means this music,
Hearing it always within me change and change.
Knock on the door,—and you shall have an answer!
Open the heavy walls to set me free,
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,—
And startled then what a strange thing you shall see!
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners,
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere . . .
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.
Open the heavy walls to set me free,
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,—
And startled then what a strange thing you shall see!
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners,
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere . . .
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.
II
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
(And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
(And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains . . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor . . .
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains . . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor . . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know . . .
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know . . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
III
I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street
Superbly hung in space.
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel
I tap them into place . . .
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?
Superbly hung in space.
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel
I tap them into place . . .
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?
These stones are heavy, these stones decay,
These stones are wet with rain,
I build them into a wall to-day,
To-morrow they fall again . . .
These stones are wet with rain,
I build them into a wall to-day,
To-morrow they fall again . . .
Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep,
Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;
And drowsily look from the window at his garden;
And rejoice at the dewdrops sparkling on his lawn?
Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,
The yesterday he left in sleep,—his name,—
Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind
Along which in the dusk he slowly came? . . .
Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;
And drowsily look from the window at his garden;
And rejoice at the dewdrops sparkling on his lawn?
Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,
The yesterday he left in sleep,—his name,—
Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind
Along which in the dusk he slowly came? . . .
I devise new patterns for laying stones
And build a stronger wall.
One drop of rain astonishes me
And I let my trowel fall.
And build a stronger wall.
One drop of rain astonishes me
And I let my trowel fall.
The flashing of leaves delights my eyes,
Blue air delights my face;
I will dedicate this stone to god
As I tap it into its place.
Blue air delights my face;
I will dedicate this stone to god
As I tap it into its place.
IV
That woman—did she try to attract my attention?
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
The clouds pile coldly above the houses,
Slow wind revolves in the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.
Slow wind revolves in the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.
But it is true she tried to attract my attention!
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me,
And turned away, afraid to look too long! . . .
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song . . .
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me,
And turned away, afraid to look too long! . . .
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song . . .
. . . Nevertheless, I will think of work,
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vague god who blows like clouds
Above these dripping lands . . .
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vague god who blows like clouds
Above these dripping lands . . .
But . . . is it sure she tried to attract my attention? . . .
She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way
There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . .
She must have known it, and yet,—she let it stay . . .
Music of flesh! Music of root and sod!
Leaf touching leaf in the wind and the rain! . . .
Impalpable clouds of red ascend,
Red clouds blow over my brain.
She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way
There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . .
She must have known it, and yet,—she let it stay . . .
Music of flesh! Music of root and sod!
Leaf touching leaf in the wind and the rain! . . .
Impalpable clouds of red ascend,
Red clouds blow over my brain.
Did she await from me some sign of acceptance? . . .
I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand.
I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen:
Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstand . . .
Is it to be conceived that I could attract her—
This dull and futile flesh attract such fire?
I,—with a trowel's dulness in hand and brain!—
Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire? . . .
I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand.
I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen:
Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstand . . .
Is it to be conceived that I could attract her—
This dull and futile flesh attract such fire?
I,—with a trowel's dulness in hand and brain!—
Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire? . . .
Incredible! . . . delicious! . . . I will wear
A brighter color of tie, arranged with care;
I will delight in god as I comb my hair . . .
And the conquests of my bolder past return
Like strains of music, weaving some old tune
Recalled from youth and a happier time.
I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more;
Once more we laugh, and hold our breath, and climb
A brighter color of tie, arranged with care;
I will delight in god as I comb my hair . . .
And the conquests of my bolder past return
Like strains of music, weaving some old tune
Recalled from youth and a happier time.
I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more;
Once more we laugh, and hold our breath, and climb
Up the forbidden stairway, floor by floor,
Under the flickering lights, along old railings:
I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more,
I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly,
And softly at last we close the door . . .
Under the flickering lights, along old railings:
I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more,
I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly,
And softly at last we close the door . . .
Yes, it is true that woman tried to attract me:
It is true she came out of time for me,
Came from the swirling and savage forests of earth,
The cruel eternity of the sea.
She parted the leaves of waves and rose from the silence
Shining with secrets she did not know.
Music of dust! Music of web and web!
And I, bewildered, let her go . . .
It is true she came out of time for me,
Came from the swirling and savage forests of earth,
The cruel eternity of the sea.
She parted the leaves of waves and rose from the silence
Shining with secrets she did not know.
Music of dust! Music of web and web!
And I, bewildered, let her go . . .
I light my pipe. The flame is yellow,
Edged underneath with blue.
These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps,
Than thoughts of god are true.
Edged underneath with blue.
These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps,
Than thoughts of god are true.
V
It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano
Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord,
And the universe is suddenly agitated,
And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword.
Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken,
The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble . . .
The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation;
And I, too, will dissemble . . .
Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord,
And the universe is suddenly agitated,
And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword.
Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken,
The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble . . .
The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation;
And I, too, will dissemble . . .
Yet it is sorrow has found my heart,
Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death,
And pain twirls slowly among the trees
And falls like a languid breath.
Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death,
And pain twirls slowly among the trees
And falls like a languid breath.
The street piano revolves its glittering music,
The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn.
Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence;
They ripple and twinkle and lazily burn . . .
The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,
It does not move; my trowel taps a stone,
The sweet note wavers amid derisive music,
And I, in a horror of sunlight, stand alone.
The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn.
Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence;
They ripple and twinkle and lazily burn . . .
The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,
It does not move; my trowel taps a stone,
The sweet note wavers amid derisive music,
And I, in a horror of sunlight, stand alone.
Do not recall my weakness, savage music!
Let the knives rest! . . .
Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters,
And the notes like poniards pierce my breast.
The leaves on the bush are shrivelled and shaken and torn,
The dust is vibrant, the frayed leaves fall;
And I alone in a streaming silence of sunlight
Wait among shafts of sorrow, and recall
Let the knives rest! . . .
Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters,
And the notes like poniards pierce my breast.
The leaves on the bush are shrivelled and shaken and torn,
The dust is vibrant, the frayed leaves fall;
And I alone in a streaming silence of sunlight
Wait among shafts of sorrow, and recall
The face of a friend forgotten, the hands of children,
Leaves on a morning of frost, the bewildered cry
Of a girl who walked in the cool green dawn of beauty
And learned she had to die . . .
And I remember the shadows of webs on stones,
And the sound of rain on tired grass,
And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions
At its image in the glass . . .
Leaves on a morning of frost, the bewildered cry
Of a girl who walked in the cool green dawn of beauty
And learned she had to die . . .
And I remember the shadows of webs on stones,
And the sound of rain on tired grass,
And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions
At its image in the glass . . .
Do not recall my childhood, pitiless music!
The green blades flicker and gleam,
The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming,
In the blue sea above me lazily stream
Cloud upon thin-blown cloud, revolving, scattering,
The mulberry trees rake heaven and drop their fruit,
Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault
On dust and bones and webs; and I am mute.
The green blades flicker and gleam,
The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming,
In the blue sea above me lazily stream
Cloud upon thin-blown cloud, revolving, scattering,
The mulberry trees rake heaven and drop their fruit,
Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault
On dust and bones and webs; and I am mute.
It is noon; the bells let fall soft flowers of sound,
They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon.
It is night, and I lie alone, and watch through the window
The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon.
Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain,
A long wind hurries them whirled and far,
A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened,
I hold my breath and watch a star.
They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon.
It is night, and I lie alone, and watch through the window
The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon.
Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain,
A long wind hurries them whirled and far,
A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened,
I hold my breath and watch a star.
Do not disturb my memories, heartless music!
I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall,
The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight,
And I watch white roses softly fall.
Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself
Drift, a white petal, silently down the sky?
One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence,
Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry.
I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall,
The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight,
And I watch white roses softly fall.
Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself
Drift, a white petal, silently down the sky?
One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence,
Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry.
VI
Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . .
Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . .
I hear the clack of his feet,
Clearly on stones, softly in dust,
Speeding among the trees with whistling breath,
Whirling the leaves, tossing his hands from waves . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat and beat! . . .
Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . .
I hear the clack of his feet,
Clearly on stones, softly in dust,
Speeding among the trees with whistling breath,
Whirling the leaves, tossing his hands from waves . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat and beat! . . .
Death himself in the grass, death himself,
Gyrating invisibly in the sun,
Scattering grass-blades, whipping the wind,
Tearing at boughs with malignant laughter . . .
On the long echoing air I hear him run!
Gyrating invisibly in the sun,
Scattering grass-blades, whipping the wind,
Tearing at boughs with malignant laughter . . .
On the long echoing air I hear him run!
Death himself in the dusk, gathering lilacs,
Breaking a white-fleshed bough,
Strewing the purple spikes on a cobwebbed lawn,
Dancing, dancing,
Drunk with excess, the long red sun-rays glancing
On flourishing arms, skipping with hideous knees,
Cavorting his grotesque ecstasies . . .
I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall,
I hear the scrape of his hands against the wall,
The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them,
And silence falls, and I hear the sound of his breath,
Sharp and whistling, the rhythm of death.
Breaking a white-fleshed bough,
Strewing the purple spikes on a cobwebbed lawn,
Dancing, dancing,
Drunk with excess, the long red sun-rays glancing
On flourishing arms, skipping with hideous knees,
Cavorting his grotesque ecstasies . . .
I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall,
I hear the scrape of his hands against the wall,
The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them,
And silence falls, and I hear the sound of his breath,
Sharp and whistling, the rhythm of death.
It is evening: the lights on a long street balance and sway.
In the purple ether they swing and silently sing,
The street is a gossamer swung in space
And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it,
And the lights, like raindrops, fall and tremble and swing . . .
Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web,
For death approaches!
Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee,
For death approaches!
Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover,
Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves,
For death approaches! . . .
In the purple ether they swing and silently sing,
The street is a gossamer swung in space
And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it,
And the lights, like raindrops, fall and tremble and swing . . .
Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web,
For death approaches!
Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee,
For death approaches!
Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover,
Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves,
For death approaches! . . .
Death, colossal in stars, minute in the sand-grain,
Death himself in the rain, death himself,
Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels . . .
I hear the sound of his feet
On the stairs of the wind, in the sun,
In the forests of the sea . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat and beat!
Death himself in the rain, death himself,
Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels . . .
I hear the sound of his feet
On the stairs of the wind, in the sun,
In the forests of the sea . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat and beat!
VII
It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still . . .
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still . . .
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Yet suddenly, out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling and flings
A lazily coiling vortex of shade on the hill . . .
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! . . . Is there a change? . . .
The hill seems somehow strange.
A cloud comes whirling and flings
A lazily coiling vortex of shade on the hill . . .
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! . . . Is there a change? . . .
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
Yet suddenly, out of nowhere in the wind,
Something ferociously flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth, whirrs amid shadows,
Roars from the grass, rages among the trees,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green like inaudible seas! . . .
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass blades quiver, the bird is still,
The wall seems silently struggling against the sunlight,
Some apprehension stiffens the hill . . .
And the trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
And the blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink . . .
What struggle is this, ferocious and slow and still?
What is it that wars in the sunlight on this hill? . . .
(What is it that creeps to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart? . . .
Something ferociously flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth, whirrs amid shadows,
Roars from the grass, rages among the trees,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green like inaudible seas! . . .
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass blades quiver, the bird is still,
The wall seems silently struggling against the sunlight,
Some apprehension stiffens the hill . . .
And the trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
And the blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink . . .
What struggle is this, ferocious and slow and still?
What is it that wars in the sunlight on this hill? . . .
(What is it that creeps to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart? . . .
It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil . . .
The brilliant sky burns over a green-bright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
And a bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
The brilliant sky burns over a green-bright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
And a bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
VIII
The pale blue gloom of evening comes
Among the quiet of forests and walls
With a mournful and rhythmic sound of drums.
My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing,
Persuasive and sinister, near and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star.
Among the quiet of forests and walls
With a mournful and rhythmic sound of drums.
My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing,
Persuasive and sinister, near and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star.
My work is uncompleted; and yet I hurry,—
Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,—
To enter the luminous walls and woods of night . . .
It is the eternal mistress of the world
Who shakes these drums for my delight . . .
Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust,
The delicious quivering of this air!
The eternal mistress is laughing among the stars,
Yawning in silver amid her hair . . .
I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go
With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos
To the one small room in the void I know . . .
Yesterday it was there,—
Will I find it to-night once more when I climb the stair? . . .
Will she remember me—will she greet me,
And touch my heart with a cool white hand?
Will music crash like a wave about me
As I see her rise and stand,
Solitary and fragrant against the night,
A single lilac tree in a whirl of light? . . .
Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,—
To enter the luminous walls and woods of night . . .
It is the eternal mistress of the world
Who shakes these drums for my delight . . .
Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust,
The delicious quivering of this air!
The eternal mistress is laughing among the stars,
Yawning in silver amid her hair . . .
I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go
With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos
To the one small room in the void I know . . .
Yesterday it was there,—
Will I find it to-night once more when I climb the stair? . . .
Will she remember me—will she greet me,
And touch my heart with a cool white hand?
Will music crash like a wave about me
As I see her rise and stand,
Solitary and fragrant against the night,
A single lilac tree in a whirl of light? . . .
The drums of the street run low and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star . . .
And a thousand images recur
Weaving deliciously in my brain
A tyrannous melody of her:
Hands in the sunlight, threads of the rain
Against her glistening lamplit face,
Snow on a cold black window-pane,
And tears in a leafy place . . .
Stars in a dusk of hair entangled;
And flesh more delicate than fruit;
And a voice that searches among my veins
For a chord to throb and mute . . .
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star . . .
And a thousand images recur
Weaving deliciously in my brain
A tyrannous melody of her:
Hands in the sunlight, threads of the rain
Against her glistening lamplit face,
Snow on a cold black window-pane,
And tears in a leafy place . . .
Stars in a dusk of hair entangled;
And flesh more delicate than fruit;
And a voice that searches among my veins
For a chord to throb and mute . . .
My life is uncompleted: and so I hurry,
Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening
To a certain fragrant room.
Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums,
While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom?
Who is that lifts her hands in the yellow light
Turning a dazzle of shoulders against the night?
She stands at the top of the stair,
With the lamplight on her hair . . .
I will walk through the snarling of streams of space,
And climb the long steps carved from wind
And rise once more towards her face . . .
Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees,
And the mournful drums of seas!
Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening
To a certain fragrant room.
Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums,
While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom?
Who is that lifts her hands in the yellow light
Turning a dazzle of shoulders against the night?
She stands at the top of the stair,
With the lamplight on her hair . . .
I will walk through the snarling of streams of space,
And climb the long steps carved from wind
And rise once more towards her face . . .
Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees,
And the mournful drums of seas!
And out of the evening like a rose
The evenings of my past unfold;
Rain and lilacs, silver and white,
Evenings of stars, purple and gold . . .
Music spins from the heart of silence
And twirls me softly upon the air . . .
It comes from a far-off luminous room
And dark star-tangled hair.
It takes my hand and whispers to me
The melodious mystery of flesh,
It draws the web of the moonlight down
And spins for my heart a mesh.
There are hands, it says, as cool as snow,
The hands of the Venus of the sea,
There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave,—
Come—then—come with me!
Softness and whiteness, cool and sweet,
The flesh of the sea-rose, new and cool,
The wavering image of her who comes
At dusk by a blue sea-pool . . .
Whispers upon the starlit air,
Whispers of foam-white arm and thigh,
And a shower of delicate stars blown down
From the silent sky! . . .
Music spins from a far-off room . . .
Do you remember,—it seems to say,—
The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth,
And kissed you . . . yesterday?
It is your own flesh waits for you,
Come! you are incomplete! . . .
The drums of the universe once more
Morosely beat and beat.
The evenings of my past unfold;
Rain and lilacs, silver and white,
Evenings of stars, purple and gold . . .
Music spins from the heart of silence
And twirls me softly upon the air . . .
It comes from a far-off luminous room
And dark star-tangled hair.
It takes my hand and whispers to me
The melodious mystery of flesh,
It draws the web of the moonlight down
And spins for my heart a mesh.
There are hands, it says, as cool as snow,
The hands of the Venus of the sea,
There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave,—
Come—then—come with me!
Softness and whiteness, cool and sweet,
The flesh of the sea-rose, new and cool,
The wavering image of her who comes
At dusk by a blue sea-pool . . .
Whispers upon the starlit air,
Whispers of foam-white arm and thigh,
And a shower of delicate stars blown down
From the silent sky! . . .
Music spins from a far-off room . . .
Do you remember,—it seems to say,—
The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth,
And kissed you . . . yesterday?
It is your own flesh waits for you,
Come! you are incomplete! . . .
The drums of the universe once more
Morosely beat and beat.
The drum of the white star thrills the sky,
The drum of the moon beats slow and dull:
It is death himself who wearily knocks
A tom-tom on a silvered skull.
It is the harlot of the world
Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums
And disturbs the solitude of my heart
As evening comes!
The drum of the moon beats slow and dull:
It is death himself who wearily knocks
A tom-tom on a silvered skull.
It is the harlot of the world
Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums
And disturbs the solitude of my heart
As evening comes!
I leave my work once more, and walk
Along a street that sways in the wind . . .
Among great trees that grope in space
I search for a woman's face.
Along a street that sways in the wind . . .
Among great trees that grope in space
I search for a woman's face.
Once more in the evening I let fall
The thoughts I builded into a wall.
I leave these stones, and walk once more
Along infinity's shore.
The thoughts I builded into a wall.
I leave these stones, and walk once more
Along infinity's shore.
I climb the golden-laddered stair;
Among the stars in the blue I climb:
I ascend the golden-laddered hair
Of the harlot-queen of time:
Among the stars in the blue I climb:
I ascend the golden-laddered hair
Of the harlot-queen of time:
She laughs from a window in the sky,
Her white arms downward reach to me! . . .
We are the universe that spins
In a dim ethereal sea.
Her white arms downward reach to me! . . .
We are the universe that spins
In a dim ethereal sea.
IX
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening
The throbbing of drums has languidly died away.
The forests and seas are still. We breathe in silence
And strive to say the things flesh cannot say.
The soulless wind falls slowly about the earth
And finds no rest.
The lover stares at the stars,—the wakeful lover
Who finds no peace on his lover's breast.
The snare of flesh that bound us in is broken;
Softly, in sorrow, we draw apart, and see,
Far off, the beauty we thought our flesh had captured,—
The star flesh longed to be but could not be . . .
Clouds blow over us. Rain serenely falls.
Rain in the shaken lamplight, rain on the roof.
Once more, about us, darken our finite walls . . .
Come back! . . . We will laugh once more at the words we said . . .
We say them slowly again, but the words are dead . . .
Come back, beloved! . . . The blue void whirls between.
We cry to each other: alone, unknown, unseen.
The throbbing of drums has languidly died away.
The forests and seas are still. We breathe in silence
And strive to say the things flesh cannot say.
The soulless wind falls slowly about the earth
And finds no rest.
The lover stares at the stars,—the wakeful lover
Who finds no peace on his lover's breast.
The snare of flesh that bound us in is broken;
Softly, in sorrow, we draw apart, and see,
Far off, the beauty we thought our flesh had captured,—
The star flesh longed to be but could not be . . .
Clouds blow over us. Rain serenely falls.
Rain in the shaken lamplight, rain on the roof.
Once more, about us, darken our finite walls . . .
Come back! . . . We will laugh once more at the words we said . . .
We say them slowly again, but the words are dead . . .
Come back, beloved! . . . The blue void whirls between.
We cry to each other: alone, unknown, unseen.
We are the grains of sand that run and rustle
In the wind among old dunes.
We are the grains of sand who thought ourselves
Immortal moons.
You touch my hand, time bears you softly away,—
An alien star for whom I have no word . . .
What are the strange and meaningless things you say? .
I answer you, but am not heard.
In the wind among old dunes.
We are the grains of sand who thought ourselves
Immortal moons.
You touch my hand, time bears you softly away,—
An alien star for whom I have no word . . .
What are the strange and meaningless things you say? .
I answer you, but am not heard.
It is evening, Senlin says; and the darkness crumbles;
And a dream in ruins falls.
Once more we turn in a silent pain, bewildered,
Among our finite walls:
The walls we built ourselves with patient hands
For a god who sealed a question in our flesh:
Obeying a god's commands.
And a dream in ruins falls.
Once more we turn in a silent pain, bewildered,
Among our finite walls:
The walls we built ourselves with patient hands
For a god who sealed a question in our flesh:
Obeying a god's commands.
X
It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
I ascend my stairs once more,
While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,
Crash on a white sand shore.
It is moonlight. The garden is silent.
'I stand in my room alone.
Across my wall, from the far-off moon,
A rain of fire is thrown . . .
It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
I ascend my stairs once more,
While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,
Crash on a white sand shore.
It is moonlight. The garden is silent.
'I stand in my room alone.
Across my wall, from the far-off moon,
A rain of fire is thrown . . .
There are houses hanging above the stars,
And stars hung under a sea:
And a wind from the long blue vault of time
Waves my curtains for me . . .
And stars hung under a sea:
And a wind from the long blue vault of time
Waves my curtains for me . . .
I wait in the dark once more,
Swung between space and space:
Before my mirror I lift my hands
And face my remembered face.
Is it I who stand in a question here,
Asking to know my name? . . .
It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
Nor why, nor whence I came.
Swung between space and space:
Before my mirror I lift my hands
And face my remembered face.
Is it I who stand in a question here,
Asking to know my name? . . .
It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
Nor why, nor whence I came.
It is I, who awoke at dawn
And arose and descended the stair,
Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun,—
In a woman's hands and hair.
It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones
I builded into a wall:
With a mournful melody in my brain
Of a tune I cannot recall . . .
And arose and descended the stair,
Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun,—
In a woman's hands and hair.
It is I whose flesh is grey with the stones
I builded into a wall:
With a mournful melody in my brain
Of a tune I cannot recall . . .
There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss;
And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
I remember a rain-drop on my cheek,—
A wind like a fragrant breath . . .
And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven;
And the heavens are dark and steep . . .
I will forget these things once more
In the silence of sleep.
And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
I remember a rain-drop on my cheek,—
A wind like a fragrant breath . . .
And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven;
And the heavens are dark and steep . . .
I will forget these things once more
In the silence of sleep.
III. HIS CLOUDY DESTINY
I
Senlin sat before us and we heard him.
He smoked his pipe before us and we saw him.
Was he small, with reddish hair,
Did he light his pipe with a meditative stare
And a twinkling flame reflected in blue eyes?
Was he sad and happy and foolish and wise?
'I am alone:' said Senlin, 'in a forest of leaves
The single leaf that creeps and greens and falls . . .
The single blade of grass in a desert of grasses
That none foresaw and none recalls.
The single shell that a green wave flings and shatters
In tiny specks of whiteness on the sands . . .
How shall you understand me with your hearts,
Who cannot find me with your hands? . . .'
He smoked his pipe before us and we saw him.
Was he small, with reddish hair,
Did he light his pipe with a meditative stare
And a twinkling flame reflected in blue eyes?
Was he sad and happy and foolish and wise?
'I am alone:' said Senlin, 'in a forest of leaves
The single leaf that creeps and greens and falls . . .
The single blade of grass in a desert of grasses
That none foresaw and none recalls.
The single shell that a green wave flings and shatters
In tiny specks of whiteness on the sands . . .
How shall you understand me with your hearts,
Who cannot find me with your hands? . . .'
The city dissolves about us, and its walls
Are the sands beside a sea.
We plunge in a chaos of dunes, white waves before us
Crash on the weeds tumultuously.
Gulls wheel over the foam, the clouds blow swiftly,
The sun is swallowed . . . Has Senlin become a shore?
Is Senlin a grain of sand beneath our footsteps,
A speck of shell upon which waves will roar? . . .
Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . no answer,
Only the crash of sea on a shell-white floor . . .
Yet, we would say, this is no shore at all,
But a small bright room with lamplight on the wall;
And the familiar chair
Where Senlin sat, with the lamplight on his hair.
Are the sands beside a sea.
We plunge in a chaos of dunes, white waves before us
Crash on the weeds tumultuously.
Gulls wheel over the foam, the clouds blow swiftly,
The sun is swallowed . . . Has Senlin become a shore?
Is Senlin a grain of sand beneath our footsteps,
A speck of shell upon which waves will roar? . . .
Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . no answer,
Only the crash of sea on a shell-white floor . . .
Yet, we would say, this is no shore at all,
But a small bright room with lamplight on the wall;
And the familiar chair
Where Senlin sat, with the lamplight on his hair.
II
Senlin, alone before us, played a music . . .
Was it himself he played? . . . We sat and listened,
Perplexed and pleased and tired.
'Listen!' he said, 'and you shall learn a secret—
Though it is not the music you desired.
I have not found a music that will praise you! . . .
Out of the heart of silence comes this music,
Quietly sings and quietly dies.
Look! there is one white star above black houses!
And a tiny man who climbs towards far skies!
Where does he walk to? What does he leave behind him?
What was his foolish name?
What did he stop to say, before he left you
As darkly as he came? . . .
"Death?" did it sound like "love, and god, and laughter,
Sunlight, and work, and pain . . .?"
No—it appears to me that these were symbols
Of things he found no words to explain.
He spoke, but found you could not understand him—
You were alone, and he was alone.
His words were whirled and lost in a raging chaos,
On a laughter of wind his tunes were blown . . .
He sought to touch you, and found he could not reach you,—
Flesh was between; and the walls of time and space.
He sought to understand you, and could not hear you.
He sought to know you, but only saw your face . . .
And so this music, which I play before you,
Does it mean only what it seems to mean?
Or is it a dance of foolish waves in sunlight
Above a desperate depth of things unseen? . . .
Listen! Do you not hear the singing of mermaids
Out of the darkness of this sea? . . .
But no: you cannot hear them; for if you heard them
You would have heard and captured me.
Yet I am here, talking of hands and roses.
Laughter and love and work and god;
As I shall talk of these same things hereafter
In wind and wave and grey-webbed sod.
Walk on a hill and call me: "Senlin! . . . Senlin! . . ."
Will I not answer you as clearly as now?
Listen to rain, and you will hear me speaking.
Look for my heart in the breaking of a bough . . .'
Was it himself he played? . . . We sat and listened,
Perplexed and pleased and tired.
'Listen!' he said, 'and you shall learn a secret—
Though it is not the music you desired.
I have not found a music that will praise you! . . .
Out of the heart of silence comes this music,
Quietly sings and quietly dies.
Look! there is one white star above black houses!
And a tiny man who climbs towards far skies!
Where does he walk to? What does he leave behind him?
What was his foolish name?
What did he stop to say, before he left you
As darkly as he came? . . .
"Death?" did it sound like "love, and god, and laughter,
Sunlight, and work, and pain . . .?"
No—it appears to me that these were symbols
Of things he found no words to explain.
He spoke, but found you could not understand him—
You were alone, and he was alone.
His words were whirled and lost in a raging chaos,
On a laughter of wind his tunes were blown . . .
He sought to touch you, and found he could not reach you,—
Flesh was between; and the walls of time and space.
He sought to understand you, and could not hear you.
He sought to know you, but only saw your face . . .
And so this music, which I play before you,
Does it mean only what it seems to mean?
Or is it a dance of foolish waves in sunlight
Above a desperate depth of things unseen? . . .
Listen! Do you not hear the singing of mermaids
Out of the darkness of this sea? . . .
But no: you cannot hear them; for if you heard them
You would have heard and captured me.
Yet I am here, talking of hands and roses.
Laughter and love and work and god;
As I shall talk of these same things hereafter
In wind and wave and grey-webbed sod.
Walk on a hill and call me: "Senlin! . . . Senlin! . . ."
Will I not answer you as clearly as now?
Listen to rain, and you will hear me speaking.
Look for my heart in the breaking of a bough . . .'
III
Senlin stood before us in the sunlight,
And laughed, and walked away.
Did no one see him leaving the doors of the city,
Looking behind him as if he wished to stay? . . .
Has no one, in the forests of the evening,
Heard the sad born of Senlin slowly blown?
For somewhere in the worlds-in-worlds around us
He wanders still, unfriended and alone.
Is he the star on which we walk at daybreak,
The light that blinds our eyes?
'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . no answer . . .
Only the soulless brilliance of blue skies . . .
And laughed, and walked away.
Did no one see him leaving the doors of the city,
Looking behind him as if he wished to stay? . . .
Has no one, in the forests of the evening,
Heard the sad born of Senlin slowly blown?
For somewhere in the worlds-in-worlds around us
He wanders still, unfriended and alone.
Is he the star on which we walk at daybreak,
The light that blinds our eyes?
'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . no answer . . .
Only the soulless brilliance of blue skies . . .
Yet we would say, this was no man at all,
But a dream we dreamed and vividly recall;
And we are mad to walk in wind and rain
Hoping to find, somewhere, that dream again.
But a dream we dreamed and vividly recall;
And we are mad to walk in wind and rain
Hoping to find, somewhere, that dream again.