Nicholas Vachel Lindsay Blanche Sweet—Moving-Picture Actress [After seeing the reel called Oil and Water.] Beauty has a throne-room In our humorous town, Spoiling its hobgoblins, Laughing shadows down. Dour musicians torture Rag-time ballads vile, But we walk serenely Down the odorous aisle. We forgive the squalor, And the boom and squeal, For the Great Queen flashes From the moving reel. Just a prim blonde stranger In her early day, Hiding brilliant weapons, Too averse to play; Then she burst upon us Dancing through the night, Oh, her maiden radiance, Veils and roses white! With new powers, yet cautious, Not too smart or skilled, That first flash of dancing Wrought the thing she willed:— Mobs of us made noble By her strong desire, By her white, uplifting Royal romance-fire. Though the tin piano Snarls its tango rude, Though the chairs are shaky And the drama’s crude, Solemn are her motions, Stately are her wiles, Filling oafs with wisdom, Saving souls with smiles; Mid the restless actors She is rich and slow, She will stand like marble, She will pause and glow, Though the film is twitching Keep a peaceful reign, Ruler of her passion, Ruler of our pain! Girl, You Shall Mock No Longer You shall not hide forever, I shall your path discern; I have the key to Heaven, Key to the pits that burn. Saved ones will help me, lost ones Spy on your secret way— Show me your flying footprints On past your death-bed day. If by your pride you stumble Down to the demon-land, I shall be there beside you, Chained to your burning hand. If, by your choice and pleasure, You shall ascend the sky, I, too, will mount that stairway, You shall not put me by. There, ’mid the holy people, Healed of your blasting scorn, Clasped in these arms that hunger, Splendid with dreams reborn, You shall be mastered, lady, Knowing, at last, Desire— Lifting your face for kisses— Kisses of bitter fire. The Amaranth Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here ... Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns And the tremendous amaranth descends Sweet with glory of ten thousand dawns? Does it not mean my God would have me say:— “Whether you will or no, oh city young Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, Flash and loom greatly, all your marts among?” Friends I will not cease hoping, though you weep. Such things I see, and some of them shall come Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-grey, Though now our youths are strident, or are dumb. Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town shall rise. Naught can delay it. Though it may not be Just as I dream, it comes at last, I know With streets like channels of an incense-sea! An Argument I. The voice of the man who is impatient with visions and Utopias. We find your soft Utopias as white As new-cut bread, as dull as life in cells, Oh scribes that dare forget how wild we are, How human breasts adore alarum bells. You house us in a hive of prigs and saints Communal, frugal, clean, and chaste by law. I’d rather brood in bloody Elsinore Or be Lear’s fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. Promise us all our share in Agincourt. Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death. That future ant-hills will not be too good For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. Promise that through tomorrow’s spirit-war Man’s deathless soul will hack and hew its way, Each flaunting CÆsar climbing to his fate Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. And never a shallow jester any more. Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise, And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain! II. The Rhymer’s reply. Incense and Splendor. Incense and splendor haunt me as I go. Though my good works have been, alas, too few, Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me And future ages pass in tall review. I see the years to come as armies vast, Stalking tremendous through the fields of time. Man is unborn. Tomorrow he is born Flamelike to hover o’er the moil and grime; Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone, Sowing a million flowers where now we mourn— Laying new precious pavements with a song, Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn. I have seen lovers by those new-built walls Clothed like the dawn, in orange, gold, and red; Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head. Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers; Passion was turned to civic strength that day— Piling the marbles, making fairer domes With zeal that else had burned bright youth away. I have seen priestesses of life go by Gliding in Samite through the incense-sea:— Innocent children marching with them there, Singing in flowered robes—“the Earth is free!” While on the fair deep-carved, unfinished towers Sentinels watched in armor night and day— Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream— Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array! Darling Daughter of Babylon Too soon you wearied of our tears. And then you danced with spangled feet, Leading Belshazzar’s chattering court A-tinkling through the shadowy street. With mead they came, with chants of shame, Desire’s red flag before them flew. And Istar’s music moved your mouth And Baal’s deep shames rewoke in you. Now you could drive the royal car: Forget our Nation’s breaking load:— Now you could sleep on silver beds— (Bitter and dark was our abode). And so for many a night you laughed And knew not of my hopeless prayer, Till God’s own spirit whipped you forth From Istar’s shrine, from Istar’s stair. Darling daughter of Babylon— Rose by the black Euphrates flood— Again your beauty grew more dear Than my slave’s bread, than my heart’s blood. We sang of Zion, good to know, Where righteousness and peace abide ... What of your second sacrilege Carousing at Belshazzar’s side? Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands— Your paint and henna washed away. Your place (you said) was with the slaves Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. You were a pale and holy maid Toil-bound with us. One night you said:— “Your God shall be my God until I slumber with the patriarch dead.” Pardon, daughter of Babylon, If, on this night remembering Our lover walks under the walls Of hanging gardens in the spring— A venom comes, from broken hope— From memories of your comrade-song, Until I curse your painted eyes And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. I Went Down Into the Desert I went down into the desert To meet Elijah— Or some one like, arisen from the dead. I thought to find him in an echoing cave, For so my dream had said. I went down into the desert To meet John the Baptist. I walked with feet that bled, Seeking that prophet, lean and brown and bold. I spied foul fiends instead. I went down into the desert To meet my God, By Him be comforted. I went down into the desert To meet my God And I met the Devil in Red. I went down into the desert To meet my God. Oh Lord, my God, awaken from the dead! I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground— I see you there, half-buried in the sand— I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, The carrion birds a-wheeling round your head! Encountered on the Streets of the City The Church of Vision and Dream Is it for naught that where the tired crowds see Only a place for trade, a teeming square, Doors of high portent open unto me Carved with great eagles, and with Hawthorns rare? Doors I proclaim, for there are rooms forgot Ripened through Æons by the good and wise: Walls set with Art’s own pearl and amethyst Angel-wrought hangings there, and heaven-hued dyes:— Dazzling the eye of faith, the hope-filled heart:— Rooms rich in records of old deeds sublime: Books that hold garnered harvests of far lands Pictures that tableau Man’s triumphant climb: Statues so white, so counterfeiting life, Bronze so ennobled, so with glory fraught That the tired eyes must weep with joy to see, And the tired mind in Beauty’s net be caught. Come, enter there, and meet Tomorrow’s Man, Communing with him softly, day by day. Ah, the deep vistas he reveals, the dream Of Angel-bands in infinite array— Bright angel-bands that dance in paths of earth When our despairs are gone, long overpast— When men and maidens give fair hearts to Christ And white streets flame in righteous peace at last! The Stubborn Mouse The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down Began his task in early life, He kept so busy with his teeth He had no time to take a wife. He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain, When the ambitious fit was on, Then rested in the sawdust till A month in idleness had gone. He did not move about to hunt The coteries of mousie-men; He was a snail-paced stupid thing Until he cared to gnaw again. The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down When that tough foe was at his feet— Found in the stump no angel-cake Nor buttered bread, no cheese, nor meat— The forest-roof let in the sky. “This light is worth the work,” said he. “I’ll make this ancient swamp more light”— And started on another tree! The Sword-Pen of the Rhymer I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men The darling few, my friends and loves today. My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen When far off children of their children play. That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire; I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls; And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher Though drunk already with their own love-calls. Still led of love, and arm in arm, strange gold Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black— On tree-trunks black, ’mid orchard-blossoms white— Just as the phospherent merman, struggling home, Jewels his fire-paths in the tides at night While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam. And, in the winter, when the leaves are dead And the first snow has carpeted the street, While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red, And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet— My pen will cut in snow my hopes of yore, Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine— My village gospel—living evermore ’Mid those rejoicing loyal friends of mine.
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