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07. Okt 2005, 19:56:08
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
Contents

   
I. The Man Against the Sky (1916): To the Memory of William Edward Butler
Flammonde
The Gift of God
The Clinging Vine
Cassandra
John Gorham
Stafford’s Cabin
Hillcrest
Old King Cole
Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from Stratford
Eros Turannos
Old Trails
The Unforgiven
Theophilus
Veteran Sirens
Siege Perilous
Another Dark Lady
The Voice of Age
The Dark House
The Poor Relation
The Burning Book
Fragment
Lisette and Eileen
Llewellyn and the Tree
Bewick Finzer
Bokardo
The Man Against the Sky
II. The Children of the Night (1890–1897): To the Memory of My Father and Mother
John Evereldown
Luke Havergal
Three Quatrains
An Old Story
Ballade by the Fire
Ballade of Broken Flutes
Her Eyes
Two Men
Villanelle of Change
The House on the Hill
Richard Corey
Boston
Calvary
Dear Friends
The Story of the Ashes and the Flame
Amaryllis
Zola
The Pity of the Leaves
Aaron Stark
The Garden
Cliff Klingenhagen
Charles Carville’s Eyes
The Dead Village
Two Sonnets
The Clerks
Fleming Helphenstine
Thomas Hood
Horace to Leuconoë
Reuben Bright
The Altar
The Tavern
Sonnet
George Crabbe
Credo
On the Night of a Friend’s Wedding
Sonnet
Verlaine
Sonnet
Supremacy
The Chorus of Old Men in “Ægeus”
The Wilderness
Octaves
Two Quatrains
The Torrent
L’envoy
III. Captain Craig, Etc. (1902): To the Memory of John Hays Gardiner
Captain Craig: I, II, III
Isaac and Archibald
The Return of Morgan and Fingal
Aunt Imogen
The Klondike
The Growth of “Lorraine”
The Sage
Erasmus
The Woman and The Wife
The Book of Annandale
Sainte-Nitouche
As a World Would Have It
The Corridor
Cortège
Partnership
Twilight Song
Variations of Greek Themes
The Field of Glory
IV. Merlin: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII (1917): To George Burnham

V. The Town Down the River (1910): To Theodore Roosevelt
The Master
The Town Down the River
An Island
Calverly’s
Leffingwell
Clavering
Lingard and the Stars
Pasa Thalassa Thalassa
Momus
Uncle Ananias
The Whip
The White Lights
Exit
Leonora
The Wise Brothers
But for the Grace of God
For Arvia
The Sunken Crown
Doctor of Billiards
Shadrach O’Leary
How Annandale Went Out
Alma Mater
Miniver Cheevy
The Pilot
Vickery’s Mountain
Bon Voyage
The Companion
Atherton’s Gambit
For a Dead Lady
Two Gardens in Linndale
The Revealer
VI. Lancelot: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX (1920): To Lewis M. Isaacs

VII. The Three Taverns (1920): To Thomas Sergeant Perry and Lilla Cabot Perry
The Valley of the Shadow
The Wandering Jew
Neighbors
The Mill
The Dark Hills
The Three Taverns
Demos
The Flying Dutchman
Tact
On the Way
John Brown
The False Gods
Archibald’s Example
London Bridge
Tasker Norcross
A Song at Shannon’s
Souvenir
Discovery
Firelight
The New Tenants
Inferential
The Rat
Rahel to Varnhagen
Nimmo
Peace on Earth
Late Summer
An Evangelist’s Wife
The Old King’s New Jester
Lazarus
VIII. Avon’s Harvest, Etc. (1921): To Seth Ellis Pope
Avon’s Harvest
Mr. Flood’s Party
Ben Trovato
The Tree in Pamela’s Garden
Vain Gratuities
Job the Rejected
Lost Anchors
Recalled
Modernities
Afterthoughts
Caput Mortuum
Monadnock Through the Trees
The Long Race
Many Are Called
Rembrandt to Rembrandt
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
1. Flammonde   
     
THE MAN Flammonde, from God knows where,      
With firm address and foreign air,      
With news of nations in his talk      
And something royal in his walk,      
With glint of iron in his eyes,           5   
But never doubt, nor yet surprise,      
Appeared, and stayed, and held his head      
As one by kings accredited.      
   
Erect, with his alert repose      
About him, and about his clothes,          10   
He pictured all tradition hears      
Of what we owe to fifty years.      
His cleansing heritage of taste      
Paraded neither want nor waste;      
And what he needed for his fee          15   
To live, he borrowed graciously.      
   
He never told us what he was,      
Or what mischance, or other cause,      
Had banished him from better days      
To play the Prince of Castaways.          20   
Meanwhile he played surpassing well      
A part, for most, unplayable;      
In fine, one pauses, half afraid      
To say for certain that he played.      
   
For that, one may as well forego          25   
Conviction as to yes or no;      
Nor can I say just how intense      
Would then have been the difference      
To several, who, having striven      
In vain to get what he was given,          30   
Would see the stranger taken on      
By friends not easy to be won.      
   
Moreover, many a malcontent      
He soothed and found munificent;      
His courtesy beguiled and foiled          35   
Suspicion that his years were soiled;      
His mien distinguished any crowd,      
His credit strengthened when he bowed;      
And women, young and old, were fond      
Of looking at the man Flammonde.          40   
   
There was a woman in our town      
On whom the fashion was to frown;      
But while our talk renewed the tinge      
Of a long-faded scarlet fringe,      
The man Flammonde saw none of that,          45   
And what he saw we wondered at—      
That none of us, in her distress,      
Could hide or find our littleness.      
   
There was a boy that all agreed      
Had shut within him the rare seed          50   
Of learning. We could understand,      
But none of us could lift a hand.      
The man Flammonde appraised the youth,      
And told a few of us the truth;      
And thereby, for a little gold,          55   
A flowered future was unrolled.      
   
There were two citizens who fought      
For years and years, and over nought;      
They made life awkward for their friends,      
And shortened their own dividends.          60   
The man Flammonde said what was wrong      
Should be made right; nor was it long      
Before they were again in line,      
And had each other in to dine.      
   
And these I mention are but four          65   
Of many out of many more.      
So much for them. But what of him—      
So firm in every look and limb?      
What small satanic sort of kink      
Was in his brain? What broken link          70   
Withheld him from the destinies      
That came so near to being his?      
   
What was he, when we came to sift      
His meaning, and to note the drift      
Of incommunicable ways          75   
That make us ponder while we praise?      
Why was it that his charm revealed      
Somehow the surface of a shield?      
What was it that we never caught?      
What was he, and what was he not?          80   
   
How much it was of him we met      
We cannot ever know; nor yet      
Shall all he gave us quite atone      
For what was his, and his alone;      
Nor need we now, since he knew best,          85   
Nourish an ethical unrest:      
Rarely at once will nature give      
The power to be Flammonde and live.      
   
We cannot know how much we learn      
From those who never will return,          90   
Until a flash of unforeseen      
Remembrance falls on what has been.      
We’ve each a darkening hill to climb;      
And this is why, from time to time      
In Tilbury Town, we look beyond          95   
Horizons for the man Flammonde.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
   
I. The Man Against the Sky   
2. The Gift of God   
     
BLESSED with a joy that only she      
Of all alive shall ever know,      
She wears a proud humility      
For what it was that willed it so,—      
That her degree should be so great           5   
Among the favored of the Lord      
That she may scarcely bear the weight      
Of her bewildering reward.      
   
As one apart, immune, alone,      
Or featured for the shining ones,          10   
And like to none that she has known      
Of other women’s other sons,—      
The firm fruition of her need,      
He shines anointed; and he blurs      
Her vision, till it seems indeed          15   
A sacrilege to call him hers.      
   
She fears a little for so much      
Of what is best, and hardly dares      
To think of him as one to touch      
With aches, indignities, and cares;          20   
She sees him rather at the goal,      
Still shining; and her dream foretells      
The proper shining of a soul      
Where nothing ordinary dwells.      
   
Perchance a canvass of the town          25   
Would find him far from flags and shouts,      
And leave him only the renown      
Of many smiles and many doubts;      
Perchance the crude and common tongue      
Would havoc strangely with his worth;          30   
But she, with innocence unwrung,      
Would read his name around the earth.      
   
And others, knowing how this youth      
Would shine, if love could make him great,      
When caught and tortured for the truth          35   
Would only writhe and hesitate;      
While she, arranging for his days      
What centuries could not fulfill,      
Transmutes him with her faith and praise,      
And has him shining where she will.          40   
   
She crowns him with her gratefulness,      
And says again that life is good;      
And should the gift of God be less      
In him than in her motherhood,      
His fame, though vague, will not be small,          45   
As upward through her dream he fares,      
Half clouded with a crimson fall      
Of roses thrown on marble stairs.
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
   
I. The Man Against the Sky   
3. The Clinging Vine   
     
“BE calm? And was I frantic?      
  You’ll have me laughing soon.      
I’m calm as this Atlantic,      
  And quiet as the moon;      
I may have spoken faster           5   
  Than once, in other days;      
For I’ve no more a master,      
  And now—‘Be calm,’ he says.      
   
“Fear not, fear no commotion,—      
  I’ll be as rocks and sand;          10   
The moon and stars and ocean      
  Will envy my command;      
No creature could be stiller      
  In any kind of place      
Than I … No, I’ll not kill her;          15   
  Her death is in her face.      
   
“Be happy while she has it,      
  For she’ll not have it long;      
A year, and then you’ll pass it,      
  Preparing a new song.          20   
And I’m a fool for prating      
  Of what a year may bring,      
When more like her are waiting      
  For more like you to sing.      
   
“You mock me with denial,          25   
  You mean to call me hard?      
You see no room for trial      
  When all my doors are barred?      
You say, and you’d say dying,      
  That I dream what I know;          30   
And sighing, and denying,      
  You’d hold my hand and go.      
   
“You scowl—and I don’t wonder;      
  I spoke too fast again;      
But you’ll forgive one blunder,          35   
  For you are like most men:      
You are,—or so you’ve told me,      
  So many mortal times,      
That heaven ought not to hold me      
  Accountable for crimes.          40   
   
“Be calm? Was I unpleasant?      
  Then I’ll be more discreet,      
And grant you, for the present,      
  The balm of my defeat:      
What she, with all her striving,          45   
  Could not have brought about,      
You’ve done. Your own contriving      
  Has put the last light out.      
   
“If she were the whole story,      
  If worse were not behind,          50   
I’d creep with you to glory,      
  Believing I was blind;      
I’d creep, and go on seeming      
  To be what I despise.      
You laugh, and say I’m dreaming,          55   
  And all your laughs are lies.      
   
“Are women mad? A few are,      
  And if it’s true you say—      
If most men are as you are—      
  We’ll all be mad some day.          60   
Be calm—and let me finish;      
  There’s more for you to know.      
I’ll talk while you diminish,      
  And listen while you grow.      
   
“There was a man who married          65   
  Because he couldn’t see;      
And all his days he carried      
  The mark of his degree.      
But you—you came clear-sighted,      
  And found truth in my eyes;          70   
And all my wrongs you’ve righted      
  With lies, and lies, and lies.      
   
“You’ve killed the last assurance      
  That once would have me strive      
To rouse an old endurance          75   
  That is no more alive.      
It makes two people chilly      
  To say what we have said,      
But you—you’ll not be silly      
  And wrangle for the dead.          80   
   
“You don’t? You never wrangle?      
  Why scold then,—or complain?      
More words will only mangle      
  What you’ve already slain.      
Your pride you can’t surrender?          85   
  My name—for that you fear?      
Since when were men so tender,      
  And honor so severe?      
   
“No more—I’ll never bear it.      
  I’m going. I’m like ice.          90   
My burden? You would share it?      
  Forbid the sacrifice!      
Forget so quaint a notion,      
  And let no more be told;      
For moon and stars and ocean          95   
  And you and I are cold.”
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
   
I. The Man Against the Sky   
4. Cassandra   
     
I HEARD one who said: “Verily,      
  What word have I for children here?      
Your Dollar is your only Word,      
  The wrath of it your only fear.      
   
“You build it altars tall enough           5   
  To make you see, but you are blind;      
You cannot leave it long enough      
  To look before you or behind.      
   
“When Reason beckons you to pause,      
  You laugh and say that you know best;          10   
But what it is you know, you keep      
  As dark as ingots in a chest.      
   
“You laugh and answer, ‘We are young;      
  O leave us now, and let us grow.’—      
Not asking how much more of this          15   
  Will Time endure or Fate bestow.      
   
“Because a few complacent years      
  Have made your peril of your pride,      
Think you that you are to go on      
  Forever pampered and untried?          20   
   
“What lost eclipse of history,      
  What bivouac of the marching stars,      
Has given the sign for you to see      
  Millenniums and last great wars?      
   
“What unrecorded overthrow          25   
  Of all the world has ever known,      
Or ever been, has made itself      
  So plain to you, and you alone?      
   
“Your Dollar, Dove and Eagle make      
  A Trinity that even you          30   
Rate higher than you rate yourselves;      
  It pays, it flatters, and it’s new.      
   
“And though your very flesh and blood      
  Be what your Eagle eats and drinks,      
You’ll praise him for the best of birds,          35   
  Not knowing what the Eagle thinks.      
   
“The power is yours, but not the sight;      
  You see not upon what you tread;      
You have the ages for your guide,      
  But not the wisdom to be led.          40   
   
“Think you to tread forever down      
  The merciless old verities?      
And are you never to have eyes      
  To see the world for what it is?      
   
“Are you to pay for what you have          45   
  With all you are?”—No other word      
We caught, but with a laughing crowd      
  Moved on. None heeded, and few heard.
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
5. John Gorham   
     
“TELL me what you’re doing over here, John Gorham,      
Sighing hard and seeming to be sorry when you’re not;      
Make me laugh or let me go now, for long faces in the moonlight      
Are a sign for me to say again a word that you forgot.”—      
   
“I’m over here to tell you what the moon already           5   
May have said or maybe shouted ever since a year ago;      
I’m over here to tell you what you are, Jane Wayland,      
And to make you rather sorry, I should say, for being so.”—      
   
“Tell me what you’re saying to me now, John Gorham,      
Or you’ll never see as much of me as ribbons any more;          10   
I’ll vanish in as many ways as I have toes and fingers,      
And you’ll not follow far for one where flocks have been before.”—      
   
“I’m sorry now you never saw the flocks, Jane Wayland,      
But you’re the one to make of them as many as you need.      
And then about the vanishing. It’s I who mean to vanish;          15   
And when I’m here no longer you’ll be done with me indeed.”—      
   
“That’s a way to tell me what I am, John Gorham!      
How am I to know myself until I make you smile?      
Try to look as if the moon were making faces at you,      
And a little more as if you meant to stay a little while.”—          20   
   
“You are what it is that over rose-blown gardens      
Make a pretty flutter for a season in the sun;      
You are what it is that with a mouse, Jane Wayland,      
Catches him and lets him go and eats him up for fun.”—      
   
“Sure I never took you for a mouse, John Gorham;          25   
All you say is easy, but so far from being true      
That I wish you wouldn’t ever be again the one to think so;      
For it isn’t eats and butterflies that I would be to you.”—      
   
“All your little animals are in one picture—      
One I’ve had before me since a year ago to-night;          30   
And the picture where they live will be of you, Jane Wayland,      
Till you find a way to kill them or to keep them out of sight.”—      
   
“Won’t you ever see me as I am, John Gorham,      
Leaving out the foolishness and all I never meant?      
Somewhere in me there’s a woman, if you know the way to find her.          35   
Will you like me any better if I prove it and repent?”—      
   
“I doubt if I shall ever have the time, Jane Wayland;      
And I dare say all this moonlight lying round us might as well      
Fall for nothing on the shards of broken urns that are forgotten,      
As on two that have no longer much of anything to tell.”          40
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
6. Stafford’s Cabin   
     
ONCE there was a cabin here, and once there was a man;      
And something happened here before my memory began.      
Time has made the two of them the fuel of one flame      
And all we have of them is now a legend and a name.      
   
All I have to say is what an old man said to me,           5   
And that would seem to be as much as there will ever be.      
“Fifty years ago it was we found it where it sat.”—      
And forty years ago it was old Archibald said that.      
   
“An apple tree that’s yet alive saw something, I suppose,      
Of what it was that happened there, and what no mortal knows.          10   
Some one on the mountain heard far off a master shriek,      
And then there was a light that showed the way for men to seek.      
   
“We found it in the morning with an iron bar behind,      
And there were chains around it; but no search could ever find,      
Either in the ashes that were left, or anywhere,          15   
A sign to tell of who or what had been with Stafford there.      
   
“Stafford was a likely man with ideas of his own—      
Though I could never like the kind that likes to live alone;      
And when you met, you found his eyes were always on your shoes,      
As if they did the talking when he asked you for the news.          20   
   
“That’s all, my son. Were I to talk for half a hundred years      
I’d never clear away from there the cloud that never clears.      
We buried what was left of it,—the bar, too, and the chains;      
And only for the apple tree there’s nothing that remains.”      
   
Forty years ago it was I heard the old man say,          25   
“That’s all, my son.”—And here again I find the place to-day,      
Deserted and told only by the tree that knows the most,      
And overgrown with golden-rod as if there were no ghost.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
7. Hillcrest   
     
(To Mrs. Edward MacDowell)


NO sound of any storm that shakes      
Old island walls with older seas      
Comes here where now September makes      
An island in a sea of trees.      
   
Between the sunlight and the shade           5   
A man may learn till he forgets      
The roaring of a world remade,      
And all his ruins and regrets;      
   
And if he still remembers here      
Poor fights he may have won or lost,—          10   
If he be ridden with the fear      
Of what some other fight may cost,—      
   
If, eager to confuse too soon,      
What he has known with what may be,      
He reads a planet out of tune          15   
For cause of his jarred harmony,—      
   
If here he venture to unroll      
His index of adagios,      
And he be given to console      
Humanity with what he knows,—          20   
   
He may by contemplation learn      
A little more than what he knew,      
And even see great oaks return      
To acorns out of which they grew.      
   
He may, if he but listen well,          25   
Through twilight and the silence here,      
Be told what there are none may tell      
To vanity’s impatient ear;      
   
And he may never dare again      
Say what awaits him, or be sure          30   
What sunlit labyrinth of pain      
He may not enter and endure.      
   
Who knows to-day from yesterday      
May learn to count no thing too strange:      
Love builds of what Time takes away,          35   
Till Death itself is less than Change.      
   
Who sees enough in his duress      
May go as far as dreams have gone;      
Who sees a little may do less      
Than many who are blind have done;          40   
   
Who sees unchastened here the soul      
Triumphant has no other sight      
Than has a child who sees the whole      
World radiant with his own delight.      
   
Far journeys and hard wandering          45   
Await him in whose crude surmise      
Peace, like a mask, hides everything      
That is and has been from his eyes;      
   
And all his wisdom is unfound,      
Or like a web that error weaves          50   
On airy looms that have a sound      
No louder now than falling leaves.
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
8. Old King Cole   
     
IN Tilbury Town did Old King Cole      
A wise old age anticipate,      
Desiring, with his pipe and bowl,      
No Khan’s extravagant estate.      
No crown annoyed his honest head,           5   
No fiddlers three were called or needed;      
For two disastrous heirs instead      
Made music more than ever three did.      
   
Bereft of her with whom his life      
Was harmony without a flaw,          10   
He took no other for a wife,      
Nor sighed for any that he saw;      
And if he doubted his two sons,      
And heirs, Alexis and Evander,      
He might have been as doubtful once          15   
Of Robert Burns and Alexander.      
   
Alexis, in his early youth,      
Began to steal—from old and young.      
Likewise Evander, and the truth      
Was like a bad taste on his tongue.          20   
Born thieves and liars, their affair      
Seemed only to be tarred with evil—      
The most insufferable pair      
Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.      
   
The world went on, their fame went on,          25   
And they went on—from bad to worse;      
Till, goaded hot with nothing done,      
And each accoutred with a curse,      
The friends of Old King Cole, by twos,      
And fours, and sevens, and elevens,          30   
Pronounced unalterable views      
Of doings that were not of heaven’s.      
   
And having learned again whereby      
Their baleful zeal had come about,      
King Cole met many a wrathful eye          35   
So kindly that its wrath went out—      
Or partly out. Say what they would,      
He seemed the more to court their candor;      
But never told what kind of good      
Was in Alexis and Evander.          40   
   
And Old King Cole, with many a puff      
That haloed his urbanity,      
Would smoke till he had smoked enough,      
And listen most attentively.      
He beamed as with an inward light          45   
That had the Lord’s assurance in it;      
And once a man was there all night,      
Expecting something every minute.      
   
But whether from too little thought,      
Or too much fealty to the bowl,          50   
A dim reward was all he got      
For sitting up with Old King Cole.      
“Though mine,” the father mused aloud,      
“Are not the sons I would have chosen,      
Shall I, less evilly endowed,          55   
By their infirmity be frozen?      
   
“They’ll have a bad end, I’ll agree,      
But I was never born to groan;      
For I can see what I can see,      
And I’m accordingly alone.          60   
With open heart and open door,      
I love my friends, I like my neighbors;      
But if I try to tell you more,      
Your doubts will overmatch my labors.      
   
“This pipe would never make me calm,          65   
This bowl my grief would never drown.      
For grief like mine there is no balm      
In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town.      
And if I see what I can see,      
I know not any way to blind it;          70   
Nor more if any way may be      
For you to grope or fly to find it.      
   
“There may be room for ruin yet,      
And ashes for a wasted love;      
Or, like One whom you may forget,          75   
I may have meat you know not of.      
And if I’d rather live than weep      
Meanwhile, do you find that surprising?      
Why, bless my soul, the man’s asleep!      
That’s good. The sun will soon be rising.”          80
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
I. The Man Against the Sky   
9. Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from Stratford   
     
YOU are a friend then, as I make it out,      
Of our man Shakespeare, who alone of us      
Will put an ass’s head in Fairyland      
As he would add a shilling to more shillings,      
All most harmonious,—and out of his           5   
Miraculous inviolable increase      
Fills Ilion, Rome, or any town you like      
Of olden time with timeless Englishmen;      
And I must wonder what you think of him—      
All you down there where your small Avon flows          10   
By Stratford, and where you’re an Alderman.      
Some, for a guess, would have him riding back      
To be a farrier there, or say a dyer;      
Or maybe one of your adept surveyors;      
Or like enough the wizard of all tanners.          15   
Not you—no fear of that; for I discern      
In you a kindling of the flame that saves—      
The nimble element, the true caloric;      
I see it, and was told of it, moreover,      
By our discriminate friend himself, no other.          20   
Had you been one of the sad average,      
As he would have it,—meaning, as I take it,      
The sinew and the solvent of our Island,      
You’d not be buying beer for this Terpander’s      
Approved and estimated friend Ben Jonson;          25   
He’d never foist it as a part of his      
Contingent entertainment of a townsman      
While he goes off rehearsing, as he must,      
If he shall ever be the Duke of Stratford.      
And my words are no shadow on your town—          30   
Far from it; for one town’s as like another      
As all are unlike London. Oh, he knows it,—      
And there’s the Stratford in him; he denies it,      
And there’s the Shakespeare in him. So, God help him!      
I tell him he needs Greek; but neither God          35   
Nor Greek will help him. Nothing will help that man.      
You see the fates have given him so much,      
He must have all or perish,—or look out      
Of London, where he sees too many lords.      
They’re part of half what ails him: I suppose          40   
There’s nothing fouler down among the demons      
Than what it is he feels when he remembers      
The dust and sweat and ointment of his calling      
With his lords looking on and laughing at him.      
King as he is, he can’t be king de facto,          45   
And that’s as well, because he wouldn’t like it;      
He’d frame a lower rating of men then      
Than he has now; and after that would come      
An abdication or an apoplexy.      
He can’t be king, not even king of Stratford,—          50   
Though half the world, if not the whole of it,      
May crown him with a crown that fits no king      
Save Lord Apollo’s homesick emissary:      
Not there on Avon, or on any stream      
Where Naiads and their white arms are no more,          55   
Shall he find home again. It’s all too bad.      
But there’s a comfort, for he’ll have that House—      
The best you ever saw; and he’ll be there      
Anon, as you’re an Alderman. Good God!      
He makes me lie awake o’nights and laugh.          60   
   
And you have known him from his origin,      
You tell me; and a most uncommon urchin      
He must have been to the few seeing ones—      
A trifle terrifying, I dare say,      
Discovering a world with his man’s eyes,          65   
Quite as another lad might see some finches,      
If he looked hard and had an eye for nature.      
But this one had his eyes and their foretelling,      
And he had you to fare with, and what else?      
He must have had a father and a mother—          70   
In fact I’ve heard him say so—and a dog,      
As a boy should, I venture; and the dog,      
Most likely, was the only man who knew him.      
A dog, for all I know, is what he needs      
As much as anything right here to-day,          75   
To counsel him about his disillusions,      
Old aches, and parturitions of what’s coming,—      
A dog of orders, an emeritus,      
To wag his tail at him when he comes home,      
And then to put his paws up on his knees          80   
And say, “For God’s sake, what’s it all about?”      
   
I don’t know whether he needs a dog or not—      
Or what he needs. I tell him he needs Greek;      
I’ll talk of rules and Aristotle with him,      
And if his tongue’s at home he’ll say to that,          85   
“I have your word that Aristotle knows,      
And you mine that I don’t know Aristotle.”      
He’s all at odds with all the unities,      
And what’s yet worse, it doesn’t seem to matter;      
He treads along through Time’s old wilderness          90   
As if the tramp of all the centuries      
Had left no roads—and there are none, for him;      
He doesn’t see them, even with those eyes,—      
And that’s a pity, or I say it is.      
Accordingly we have him as we have him—          95   
Going his way, the way that he goes best,      
A pleasant animal with no great noise      
Or nonsense anywhere to set him off—      
Save only divers and inclement devils      
Have made of late his heart their dwelling place.         100   
A flame half ready to fly out sometimes      
At some annoyance may be fanned up in him,      
But soon it falls, and when it falls goes out;      
He knows how little room there is in there      
For crude and futile animosities,         105   
And how much for the joy of being whole,      
And how much for long sorrow and old pain.      
On our side there are some who may be given      
To grow old wondering what he thinks of us      
And some above us, who are, in his eyes,         110   
Above himself,—and that’s quite right and English.      
Yet here we smile, or disappoint the gods      
Who made it so: the gods have always eyes      
To see men scratch; and they see one down here      
Who itches, manor-bitten to the bone,         115   
Albeit he knows himself—yes, yes, he knows—      
The lord of more than England and of more      
Than all the seas of England in all time      
Shall ever wash. D’ye wonder that I laugh?      
He sees me, and he doesn’t seem to care;         120   
And why the devil should he? I can’t tell you.      
   
I’ll meet him out alone of a bright Sunday,      
Trim, rather spruce, and quite the gentleman.      
“What ho, my lord!” say I. He doesn’t hear me;      
Wherefore I have to pause and look at him.         125   
He’s not enormous, but one looks at him.      
A little on the round if you insist,      
For now, God save the mark, he’s growing old;      
He’s five and forty, and to hear him talk      
These days you’d call him eighty; then you’d add         130   
More years to that. He’s old enough to be      
The father of a world, and so he is.      
“Ben, you’re a scholar, what’s the time of day?”      
Says he; and there shines out of him again      
An aged light that has no age or station—         135   
The mystery that’s his—a mischievous      
Half-mad serenity that laughs at fame      
For being won so easy, and at friends      
Who laugh at him for what he wants the most,      
And for his dukedom down in Warwickshire;—         140   
By which you see we’re all a little jealous.…      
Poor Greene! I fear the color of his name      
Was even as that of his ascending soul;      
And he was one where there are many others,—      
Some scrivening to the end against their fate,         145   
Their puppets all in ink and all to die there;      
And some with hands that once would shade an eye      
That scanned Euripides and Æschylus      
Will reach by this time for a pot-house mop      
To slush their first and last of royalties.         150   
Poor devils! and they all play to his hand;      
For so it was in Athens and old Rome.      
But that’s not here or there; I’ve wandered off.      
Greene does it, or I’m careful. Where’s that boy?      
   
Yes, he’ll go back to Stratford. And we’ll miss him?         155   
Dear sir, there’ll be no London here without him.      
We’ll all be riding, one of these fine days,      
Down there to see him—and his wife won’t like us;      
And then we’ll think of what he never said      
Of women—which, if taken all in all         160   
With what he did say, would buy many horses.      
Though nowadays he’s not so much for women:      
“So few of them,” he says, “are worth the guessing.”      
But there’s a worm at work when he says that,      
And while he says it one feels in the air         165   
A deal of circumambient hocus-pocus.      
They’ve had him dancing till his toes were tender,      
And he can feel ’em now, come chilly rains.      
There’s no long cry for going into it,      
However, and we don’t know much about it.         170   
But you in Stratford, like most here in London,      
Have more now in the Sonnets than you paid for;      
He’s put one there with all her poison on,      
To make a singing fiction of a shadow      
That’s in his life a fact, and always will be.         175   
But she’s no care of ours, though Time, I fear,      
Will have a more reverberant ado      
About her than about another one      
Who seems to have decoyed him, married him,      
And sent him scuttling on his way to London,—         180   
With much already learned, and more to learn,      
And more to follow. Lord! how I see him now,      
Pretending, maybe trying, to be like us.      
Whatever he may have meant, we never had him;      
He failed us, or escaped, or what you will,—         185   
And there was that about him (God knows what,—      
We’d flayed another had he tried it on us)      
That made as many of us as had wits      
More fond of all his easy distances      
Than one another’s noise and clap-your-shoulder.         190   
But think you not, my friend, he’d never talk!      
Talk? He was eldritch at it; and we listened—      
Thereby acquiring much we knew before      
About ourselves, and hitherto had held      
Irrelevant, or not prime to the purpose.         195   
And there were some, of course, and there be now,      
Disordered and reduced amazedly      
To resignation by the mystic seal      
Of young finality the gods had laid      
On everything that made him a young demon;         200   
And one or two shot looks at him already      
As he had been their executioner;      
And once or twice he was, not knowing it,—      
Or knowing, being sorry for poor clay      
And saying nothing.… Yet, for all his engines,         205   
You’ll meet a thousand of an afternoon      
Who strut and sun themselves and see around ’em      
A world made out of more that has a reason      
Than his, I swear, that he sees here to-day;      
Though he may scarcely give a Fool an exit         210   
But we mark how he sees in everything      
A law that, given we flout it once too often,      
Brings fire and iron down on our naked heads.      
To me it looks as if the power that made him,      
For fear of giving all things to one creature,         215   
Left out the first,—faith, innocence, illusion,      
Whatever ’tis that keeps us out o’ Bedlam,—      
And thereby, for his too consuming vision,      
Empowered him out of nature; though to see him,      
You’d never guess what’s going on inside him.         220   
He’ll break out some day like a keg of ale      
With too much independent frenzy in it;      
And all for cellaring what he knows won’t keep,      
And what he’d best forget—but that he can’t.      
You’ll have it, and have more than I’m foretelling;         225   
And there’ll be such a roaring at the Globe      
As never stunned the bleeding gladiators.      
He’ll have to change the color of its hair      
A bit, for now he calls it Cleopatra.      
Black hair would never do for Cleopatra.         230   
But you and I are not yet two old women,      
And you’re a man of office. What he does      
Is more to you than how it is he does it,—      
And that’s what the Lord God has never told him.      
They work together, and the Devil helps ’em;         235   
They do it of a morning, or if not,      
They do it of a night; in which event      
He’s peevish of a morning. He seems old;      
He’s not the proper stomach or the sleep—      
And they’re two sovran agents to conserve him         240   
Against the fiery art that has no mercy      
But what’s in that prodigious grand new House.      
I gather something happening in his boyhood      
Fulfilled him with a boy’s determination      
To make all Stratford ’ware of him. Well, well,         245   
I hope at last he’ll have his joy of it,      
And all his pigs and sheep and bellowing beeves,      
And frogs and owls and unicorns, moreover,      
Be less than hell to his attendant ears.      
Oh, past a doubt we’ll all go down to see him.         250   
   
He may be wise. With London two days off,      
Down there some wind of heaven may yet revive him;      
But there’s no quickening breath from anywhere      
Small make of him again the poised young faun      
From Warwickshire, who’d made, it seems, already         255   
A legend of himself before I came      
To blink before the last of his first lightning.      
Whatever there be, there’ll be no more of that;      
The coming on of his old monster Time      
Has made him a still man; and he has dreams         260   
Were fair to think on once, and all found hollow.      
He knows how much of what men paint themselves      
Would blister in the light of what they are;      
He sees how much of what was great now shares      
An eminence transformed and ordinary;         265   
He knows too much of what the world has hushed      
In others, to be loud now for himself;      
He knows now at what height low enemies      
May reach his heart, and high friends let him fall;      
But what not even such as he may know         270   
Bedevils him the worst: his lark may sing      
At heaven’s gate how he will, and for as long      
As joy may listen, but he sees no gate,      
Save one whereat the spent clay waits a little      
Before the churchyard has it, and the worm.         275   
Not long ago, late in an afternoon,      
I came on him unseen down Lambeth way,      
And on my life I was afear’d of him:      
He gloomed and mumbled like a soul from Tophet,      
His hands behind him and his head bent solemn.         280   
“What is it now,” said I,—“another woman?”      
That made him sorry for me, and he smiled.      
“No, Ben,” he mused; “it’s Nothing. It’s all Nothing.      
We come, we go; and when we’re done, we’re done;      
Spiders and flies—we’re mostly one or t’other—         285   
We come, we go; and when we’re done, we’re done;      
“By God, you sing that song as if you knew it!”      
Said I, by way of cheering him; “what ails ye?”      
“I think I must have come down here to think,”      
Says he to that, and pulls his little beard;         290   
“Your fly will serve as well as anybody,      
And what’s his hour? He flies, and flies, and flies,      
And in his fly’s mind has a brave appearance;      
And then your spider gets him in her net,      
And eats him out, and hangs him up to dry.         295   
That’s Nature, the kind mother of us all.      
And then your slattern housemaid swings her broom,      
And where’s your spider? And that’s Nature, also.      
It’s Nature, and it’s Nothing. It’s all Nothing.      
It’s all a world where bugs and emperors         300   
Go singularly back to the same dust,      
Each in his time; and the old, ordered stars      
That sang together, Ben, will sing the same      
Old stave tomorrow.”      
   
        When he talks like that,         305   
There’s nothing for a human man to do      
But lead him to some grateful nook like this      
Where we be now, and there to make him drink.      
He’ll drink, for love of me, and then be sick;      
A sad sign always in a man of parts,         310   
And always very ominous. The great      
Should be as large in liquor as in love,—      
And our great friend is not so large in either:      
One disaffects him, and the other fails him;      
Whatso he drinks that has an antic in it,         315   
He’s wondering what’s to pay in his insides;      
And while his eyes are on the Cyprian      
He’s fribbling all the time with that damned House.      
We laugh here at his thrift, but after all      
It may be thrift that saves him from the devil;         320   
God gave it, anyhow,—and we’ll suppose      
He knew the compound of his handiwork.      
Today the clouds are with him, but anon      
He’ll out of ’em enough to shake the tree      
Of life itself and bring down fruit unheard-of,—         325   
And, throwing in the bruised and whole together,      
Prepare a wine to make us drunk with wonder;      
And if he live, there’ll be a sunset spell      
Thrown over him as over a glassed lake      
That yesterday was all a black wild water.         330   
   
God send he live to give us, if no more,      
What now’s a-rampage in him, and exhibit,      
With a decent half-allegiance to the ages      
An earnest of at least a casual eye      
Turned once on what he owes to Gutenberg,         335   
And to the fealty of more centuries      
Than are as yet a picture in our vision.      
“There’s time enough,—I’ll do it when I’m old,      
And we’re immortal men,” he says to that;      
And then he says to me, “Ben, what’s ‘immortal’?         340   
Think you by any force of ordination      
It may be nothing of a sort more noisy      
Than a small oblivion of component ashes      
That of a dream-addicted world was once      
A moving atomy much like your friend here?”         345   
Nothing will help that man. To make him laugh,      
I said then he was a mad mountebank,—      
And by the Lord I nearer made him cry.      
I could have eat an eft then, on my knees,      
Tail, claws, and all of him; for I had stung         350   
The king of men, who had no sting for me,      
And I had hurt him in his memories;      
And I say now, as I shall say again,      
I love the man this side idolatry.      
   
He’ll do it when he’s old, he says. I wonder.         355   
He may not be so ancient as all that.      
For such as he, the thing that is to do      
Will do itself,—but there’s a reckoning;      
The sessions that are now too much his own,      
The roiling inward of a stilled outside,         360   
The churning out of all those blood-fed lines,      
The nights of many schemes and little sleep,      
The full brain hammered hot with too much thinking,      
The vexed heart over-worn with too much aching,—      
This weary jangling of conjoined affairs         365   
Made out of elements that have no end,      
And all confused at once, I understand,      
Is not what makes a man to live forever.      
O no, not now! He’ll not be going now:      
There’ll be time yet for God knows what explosions         370   
Before he goes. He’ll stay awhile. Just wait:      
Just wait a year or two for Cleopatra,      
For she’s to be a balsam and a comfort;      
And that’s not all a jape of mine now, either.      
For granted once the old way of Apollo         375   
Sings in a man, he may then, if he’s able,      
Strike unafraid whatever strings he will      
Upon the last and wildest of new lyres;      
Nor out of his new magic, though it hymn      
The shrieks of dungeoned hell, shall he create         380   
A madness or a gloom to shut quite out      
A cleaving daylight, and a last great calm      
Triumphant over shipwreck and all storms.      
He might have given Aristotle creeps,      
But surely would have given him his katharsis.         385   
   
He’ll not be going yet. There’s too much yet      
Unsung within the man. But when he goes,      
I’d stake ye coin o’ the realm his only care      
For a phantom world he sounded and found wanting      
Will be a portion here, a portion there,         390   
Of this or that thing or some other thing      
That has a patent and intrinsical      
Equivalence in those egregious shillings.      
And yet he knows, God help him! Tell me, now,      
If ever there was anything let loose         395   
On earth by gods or devils heretofore      
Like this mad, careful, proud, indifferent Shakespeare!      
Where was it, if it ever was? By heaven,      
’Twas never yet in Rhodes or Pergamon—      
In Thebes or Nineveh, a thing like this!         400   
No thing like this was ever out of England;      
And that he knows. I wonder if he cares.      
Perhaps he does.… O Lord, that House in Stratford!
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