Collected Poems (9 page)

The gardens of the air were mine to walk with Thee,

                                        Dewed with the stars,

    Swept with the tinted splendors of the suns.

    Yet was the bliss too blissful to commend,

    And Thou, I knew, wert half divine, no more.

                                        Thro’ the live luxury

                         Of that aerial rapture always

    Crashed the vast battle sounds of earth,

    Where, tho’ the many died, myself died not,

    Where, tho’ the many bled, myself unwounded went.

                         The pagan god, Thyself half-seen,

                                        Is not enough, O God!

    Here, on the breaking verge of youth,

Secureless from the fringes of the forward storm,

    I face the riven grey and call to Thee,

                         O God of righteousness, to Thee!

Must I forswear song and the darling rapture,

Thy gifts, tho’ taintless of the earth, yet beautiful?

And bend me to the living of the life, half-armed,

Lacking not valiance, but the accoutrements wherewith

                         Valiance may save itself from scorn?

    O God, hear Thou my faith which is as rock:

               Thou art! All else is circumstance,

                         Random and unessential incident —

                                        Save this: in me Thou art.

    And so my moment wheels to its sure end

Huge with divinity, its orbit as the sun’s,

               Accounted and accountable as all

    The chaos-floating, golden universe.

                                                  But mine to mar;

                                        Mine to deliver unto death

    True to the disposition of its essence,

    Or in fulfillment bastard utterly.

                                        Eternal Thou; but I

    Swift-passing, in the passing powerful

                         Myself to darken with deliberate choice.

                                        One life, but one, is mine.

                                        I would not have it pass

                         Failing its high, potential utmost,

A quivering of music-shaken strings — no more.

Giver of bliss and pain, of song and prayer,

                                        Thou God that dost demand

Single allegiance of the soul that sees

                         Thee dual only and at enmity —

    Hearken my choice, my supplication hark.

                         Tear out the rapture and the wings —

                                        Take back thy gift of song —

    Take, take the madness of the olive and the vine

                         
With all their ecstasies, unless they be

Not oil for gleaming of the games and clustered gold,

               Not wine for leafy laughter of the feast,

But aid and chrismed healing for the wounds

    Of them that smitten lie on that broad way

               Known to the dusty sandals from Samaria.

Crush Thou, O God, the petalled crimson of my life,

               So Thou but mold the remnant clay

                         To shape not all unworthy of the Thee in me.

G
UIDO
    (
as he descends
). Thou are the knightliest jailer that ever stood

    Betwixt light heart and the free world. Were I

    The Emperor, thou shouldst be seneschal

    Of my Sicilian Joyous Guard, instead

    Of jailer and henchman to the Florentines.

    There lie the fragrant spaces, the glistening air,

    The very troubadour and gypsy time o’ year;

    And here am I, hindered and snared, mewed up,

    Because, forsooth, I sing the Emperor’s songs,

    Set off his colors, bear his pleasantries

    To some adorèd lady of Provence,

    To which your gross and choleric Florentines

    Attach significance and secret import.

    Jailer, the very spring hath need of me,

    And that sweet southward-wending road

    Would fringe itself, I swear, with gayer tulips

    Were I but lilting to its guidance south.

    Couldn’t you let me out, David?

D
AVID
.    No, I could not.

G
UIDO
.    If I should wheedle you; if I should be

    The very most delightfulest young squire

    And love you as my heart’s most boon companion?

    Say, you slept and dreamed of good Saint Peter,

    What harm, if, when you woke, your keys were gone,

    By chance or miracle — or merely me?

D
AVID
.    Were you Lord Jesus I’d not let you out.

G
UIDO
.    I do almost surmise, somehow, I’m still

    This prison’s darling guest, and like to be

    A many a month. Jesu, what waste, what waste!

D
AVID
.    O can’t you see? I must not let you go!

    The Florentines to me are nothing,

    But I made oath to serve them faithfully

    And they believed me.

G
UIDO
.    Indeed, I do see, David.

    Why, if you should accede to my keen urgence,

    I would not go …

    At least, I think I would not go, perhaps.

D
AVID
.    But, truly, are you so unhappy here?

G
UIDO
.    In prison! and not most wretched! … How can you ask?

    Yet now I come to think of it … David,

    That is the loveliest window in my cell!

    Sometimes, when the sky is blurry yellow,

    Just before dawn, you know,

    You’d think there were a thousand birds outside;

    And in my bed I lie, all shimmery,

    Thinking delicious things

    I never can remember afterwards.

    And when, at last, I’m up and washed and wake,

    There is the tender sunlight in long sweeps,

    And the rose-colored hills, and the youthful poplars,

    And the first green, so faint

    You fear to look at it right steadily

    Lest it should mist and melt away.

    It’s splendid, David.

    But — now I know why I am miserable!

    Think of the things I miss cooped up in here.

    Adventures by the thousand wait out there!

    
When we rode up from Sicily, the page and I,

    We killed a robber, saw the Pope,

    Danced in a masquerade, fasted two days,

    Composed ten roundelays (in the vernacular),

    And kissed a princess on the cheek.

D
AVID
    (
impressed
). A brave existence! But I am free

    To take my share of it and never do.

G
UIDO
.    That’s strange — you stay here willingly! But why?

D
AVID
.    Adventures do not wait out there — for me.

G
UIDO
.    Absurd! If we could only go right now —

    Think, lad, of the seas unsailed, the tourneys missed,

    The battles others fight, the roads not cantered on;

    That very road, so plain and real and white,

    Leads out to courts and castles of romance.

    A road like that led to Emmaus once.

    Why, now I think it would not be so hard

    To meet Lord Jesus walking there alone,

    Watching His springtime glisten up,

    And humming to Himself! Yonder He comes!

D
AVID
.    Hush, Guido! Hush, you fool!

G
UIDO
.    But look! The sun is on his hair! He’s very young.

                                        (D
AVID
goes to the edge, looks down, and turns back
.)

                                                  (A
voice singing on the road
.)

                                        God’s lark at morning I would be,

                                        I’d set my heart within a tree

                                        Close to His bed and sing to Him

                                                  Right merrily

                                                  A sunrise hymn.

D
AVID
.    A monk.

G
UIDO
.    He’s stopped by Tonio’s donkey.

D
AVID
.    Means to steal him, likely.

V
OICE
.    Brother Ass, I give you good den. As I came down the road desiring greatly of your company, I did bethink me of the noble part you played, times past, in Holy Writ. Whereon said I, to the next ass I meet I will impart the goodly thoughts vouchsafèd me. But, prithee, Brother Ass, let not thine ears recede upon thy nape, nor thy long face betoken grief of soul! These are
good
tidings that I bear. (
Laughs
.) Harken! Christ’s Father, which is God, once spoke from out the belly of an ass, astounding much the prophet that bestrode him, and honoring your kinsman and his children’s children, even to you. And later, another of your ancestors bore Christ Himself into Jerusalem. Wherefore, say I, you should be prouder than the horse, more praiseful than the bird, more — but that’s enough!

G
UIDO
.    Bravo, Sir Orator!

V
OICE
.    I would have sermoned twice as long had I but known two asses heard.

G
UIDO
.    (
laughing
). Your hermit’s frock mates not with your light page’s tongue.

V
OICE
.    Nay, Francis says the Lord loves best the happy heart.

G
UIDO
.    And who is Francis?

V
OICE
.    God-a-lack!

    Not know the little poor man of Assisi?

    He says he is mere man like us. Perhaps —

    But one in whom the breath of God has not yet cooled.

G
UIDO
.    And you?

V
OICE
.    I am but one of many brethren!

    We teach God’s love and holy poverty,

    But first we love and are ourselves most poor.

    Come with us!

G
UIDO
.    Are all as happy as you look?

V
OICE
.    You should hear Brother Francis sing!

    Bethink you, friend, if this is God’s dear world,

    And we His children, if the years we have

    To do His will are few, so few, O think

    How wasted is all work not done for Him.

    Ponder these things, young heart, and come with us …

    And Jesus keep you — and the woeful ass!

                                        (
Sings as he goes down the road.
)

                                        At night I’d be God’s troubadour.

                                        Beneath His starry walls I’d pour

                                        Across the moat such roundelays

                                                  He’d love me sure,

                                                  And maybe, praise.