Domine, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu. Leave me now and I will watch here through the night, And I’ll put in new candles, if these fail. I’ll sit here as I am, where I can see His brow, his nose’s tip and thin white hair, And just beyond his brow, above the altar, The red gash in the side of Jesus like A candle’s flame when burning to the socket. Go all of you, and leave me. I don’t care Went to a garret, which was cold, and stripped His feet, and painted till the chill of death Took hold of him, a man just eighty-seven, And I am ninety, what’s the odds?—go now ... Now Jean we are alone! Your very stillness Is like intenser life, as in your brow Your soul was crystallized and made more strong, And nearer to me. You are here, I feel you. I close my eyes and feel you, you are here. Therefore a little talk before the dawn, Which will come soon. Dawn always comes too soon In times like this. It waits too long in times Of absence, and you will be absent soon.... I want to talk about my happiness, My happy life, the part you played in it. There never was a day you did not kiss me Through nearly seventy years of married life. I had two hours of heaven in my life. The first one was the dance where first we met. The other when last fall they brought me roses, Those ninety roses for my birth-day, when They had me tell them of the first Chicago I saw when just a child, about the Fort; The cabins where the traders lived, who worked, And made the fortune of John Jacob Astor. You sat down in your chair, ’twas after dinner, Then suddenly I saw your head fall forward. You could not speak when I went over to you. But afterwards when you were on the bed I leaned above you and you took the ribbon, That hung down from my cap and pressed it trembling Against your lips. What triumph in your death! Your death was like a mass, mysterious, rich Like Latin which the priests sing and the choir— May angels take you and with Lazarus, Once poor, receive you to eternal rest.... Two hours of heaven in my life that’s true! And years between that made life more than good. My first sight of Chicago stands for all My life became for you and all I’ve lived. The year is 1829, you know of course. I’ve told you of the trip in Prairie schooners From Ft. Detroit round the lake, we camped Along the way, the last time near the place Where Gary and the steel mills are to-day. And the next morning what a sky! as blue As a jay’s wing, with little rifts of snow Along the hollows of the yellow dunes, And some ice in the lake, which lapped a little, And purplish colors far off in the north. So round these more than twenty miles we drove That April day. And when we came as far Just sand hills then—I never can forget it— What should I see? Fort Dearborn dazzling bright, All newly white-washed right against that sky, And the log cabins round it, far away The rims of forests, and between a prairie With wild flowers in the grasses red and blue— Such wild flowers and such grasses, such a sky, Such oceans of sweet air, in which were rising Straight up from Indian wigwams spires of smoke, About where now the Public Library stands On Randolph Street. And as we neared the place There was the flag, a streaming red and white Upon a pole within the Fort’s inclosure. I cried for happiness though just a child, And cry now thinking.... I must set this candle To see your pale brow better! What’s the hour? The night is passing, and I have so much To say to you before the dawn.... Well, then The first hour that I call an hour of heaven: Who was that man that built the first hotel?— It stood across the river from the Fort— No matter. But before that I had heard Nothing beside a fiddle, living here And this man for his hotel’s opening Had brought an orchestra from somewhere. Think Bass viols, violins, and horns and flutes. I’m dressed up like a princess for those days. I’m sixteen years of age and pass the door, Enter the ball-room where such candle-light As I had never seen shone on me, they Bored sockets in suspended wheels of wood And hung them from the ceiling, chandeliers! And at that moment all the orchestra Broke into music, yes, it was a waltz! And in that moment—what a moment-full! This hotel man presented you and said You were my partner for the evening. Jean I call this heaven, for its youth and love! I’m sixteen and you’re twenty and I love you. I slip my arm through yours for you to lead me, You are so strong, so ruddy, kind and brave. I want you for a husband, for a friend, A guide, a solace, father to the child That I can bear. Oh Jean how can I talk so In this lone church at mid-night of such things, With all these candles burning round your face. I who have rounded ninety-years, and look On what was sweet, long seventy years ago? Feeling this city even at mid-night move In restlessness, desire, around this church, And saw the Indians in their colored trappings Pour from a bottle of whisky on the fire A tribute to the Spirit of the world, And dance and sing for madness of that Spirit? Well, Jean, my other hour. I’ve spoken before Of our long life together glad and sad, But mostly good. I’m happy for it all. This other hour is marked, I call it heaven Just as I told you, not because they stood Around me as a mystery from the past, And looked at me admiringly for my age, My strength in age, my life that spanned the growth Of my Chicago from a place of huts, Just four or five, a fort, and all around it A wilderness, to what it is this hour Where most three million souls are living, nor Because I saw this rude life, and beheld The World’s Fair where such richnesses of time Were spread before me—not because of these, Nor for the ninety roses, nor the tribute They paid me in them, nor their gentle words— These did not make that hour a heaven, no— Jean, it was this: First I was just as happy As I was on that night we danced together. At ninety years, though in a different way, And for a different cause, that was the thing That made me happy. For you see it proves, Just give the soul a chance it’s happiness Is endless, let the body house it well, Or house it ill, but give it but a chance To speak itself, not stifle it, or hush it With hands of flesh against the quivering strings, Made sick or weak by time, the soul will find Delights as good as youth has to the end. And even if the flesh be sick there’s Heine: Few men had raptures keen as his, though lying With death beside him through a stretch of years. It must be something in the soul as well, Which makes me think a third hour shall be mine In spite of death, yes Jean it must be so! I want that third hour, I shall pray for it Unceasingly, I want it for my soul’s sake: Which will have happiness in its very power And dignity that time nor change can hurt. For if I have it you shall have it too. And in that third hour we shall give each other Something that’s kindred to the souls we gave That night we danced together—but much more!... It’s dawn! Good bye till then, my Jean, good bye! |