Title: Mortal Summer
Author: Doren, Mark Van
Language: English
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_MORTAL SUMMER_



  MORTAL
  SUMMER

  _by_
  Mark Van Doren

  [Illustration]

  The Prairie Press
  IOWA CITY



_Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren_

_Printed in the United States of America_



MORTAL SUMMER



  I

  [Illustration]


  The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus
  On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels
  Even then were coming--even then
  Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced
  Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,
  Flying toward the ship all ten would take--
  The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids
  Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed
  And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods
  Gazed at each other, wonderful again.
  The sweet sleep of centuries was over,
  If only as in dream; if only a mortal
  Summer woke them out of endless death.

  The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,
  Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

  “It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,
  Tightening his sandals. “All at once,
  And equally, we woke. Apollo there--”
  The musical man-slayer listened and frowned--
  “And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite
  Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,
  With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,
  Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,
  Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,
  Scowling, and more quietly in her
  The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,
  He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,
  Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless
  Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.
  “It was not I,” said Hermes.
                              Thunder sounded,
  Weakly and far away. And yet no distance
  Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:
  Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven
  Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.
  There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners
  Of a still greater person, one who changed
  The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.
  Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder
  Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled
  As ever the proud seven, until Hermes
  Listened and leaned, then spoke.
                                  “It was the king
  Our father. He has willed that we should wander,
  Even as in a dream, and be the gods
  Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream
  He sends us, to a circle of small hills--
  Come, for I see the place!”
                              That suffered thunder
  Sounded again, agreeing; and they went.
  Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun
  Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light
  Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved.
  No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here,
  Would have discovered deity. The brambles
  Hid as they ever had this stony hole
  Whence seven had been wakened, and where still,
  Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

  Invisible to suns, the seven gathered
  Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there,
  The Aegean, and a ship without a sail
  Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus
  Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled,
  And waved for six to follow as down world
  He leapt.
            They landed, all of them, as lightly
  As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow
  Of the tramp _Jonathan B. Travis_, bound
  Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest,
  Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream
  Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there,
  Not one of these high seven, in the old
  Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves,
  To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors
  Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still
  At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel.

  But who were these arriving, these gaunt three
  On giant wings that folded as they fell
  And staggered, then stood upright? Even now
  Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel
  Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael.
  From nearer Asia, lonely a long while,
  They had come flying, sick of the desert silence,
  Sick of the centuries through which no lord,
  No king of the host, had blessed them with command.
  As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry,
  They had come hither, hopeful of these seven,
  Hopeful of noble company, of new act.
  Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor
  Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis--
  Fingering their bows--as Hermes reared
  On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite,
  Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear
  More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus,
  Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints
  Athene only studied where she stood.

  “Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever--
  Pardon this--you were, sail now as we do,
  And be the gods of strangers far to west.
  If only as in dream the vessel draws us,
  Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire--”
  But the three stared so sadly over the waves
  That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel
  Whispered with him alone while dolphins played
  As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

  Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved
  Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured:
  “Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still,
  Though silent. It is listening for his thunder
  That leans us. He is busy with new folk,
  New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice.
  We have not learned that language--humble words,
  With never death or danger in the message.
  A star stood still above a stable once,
  And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.”
  “Our sire,” said Hermes, “--he too sleeps away
  Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune.
  Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded.

  The steel that sliced the water swung at length,
  And in three days they nosed between the Pillars;
  Past which--and the ten all shuddered--monsters once
  Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs
  Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile
  Slid under them, familiar as a meadow
  To the small men they watched amid the smoke.
  Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,
  The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,
  And a deep whistle groaning.
                              “Now!” said Hermes,
  “Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,
  Or no-wing like their leader, and went on,
  High over chimneys and chill rivers, north
  By west till it was there--the rounded valley,
  Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns
  And people, patient, waited for hot June.



  II


  Daniel was mending fence, for it was May,
  And early rains had painted the drear pastures.
  He walked, testing the wire, and wished again
  For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody.
  Berrien would never notice it on the shelf;
  Berrien would never bring it. A good wife,
  But scornful of the comforts. A good woman,
  Who never guessed the outrage he had done her.
  New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered--
  And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there.
  He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire,
  And snagged himself--here, in the palm of his hand.
  A little blood came which he wiped away.
  He did miss that tobacco. And he did,
  He did loathe simple Dora--warm and simple,
  Who with her dark head nodding close to his,
  On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage.
  He would forget her if he could; and old
  Darius, her profane, her grizzled father.
  So proud of her he was, and kept so neat
  The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one
  Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison.
  Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing?
  Darius--did he guess? And Doctor Smith--
  Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off,
  Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.
  Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?
  He had been born for Dora, she for him;
  And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang
  So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!
  Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back
  At the wild barb that bit him.
                                Who was that?
  For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,
  Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy
  And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand
  A pipe--for all the township Daniel’s own!

  “Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way
  Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.
  It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

  Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved--
  For someone did--Daniel could not distinguish--
  From the far border of the field. The small
  Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held
  Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

  He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,
  If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.
  He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,
  How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.
  For so it had, into his very pocket.

  “Berrien!” he called. But she was busy
  With her own bother.
                      “Daniel, a woman’s here--
  Wants to stay and board all summer--wants
  To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,
  But maybe--”
              Who was the gold one, listening there
  And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder
  And lighting the front room with little smiles?
  A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,
  But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned
  And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,
  Said he would think, would figure.
                                    In the end
  She stayed, the theater woman; and that night
  Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed
  In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”
  How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,
  Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,
  All in one day, the longing he denied?
  There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart--
  That sweetened as he said it--there was no hate
  For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,
  Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,
  And holding her simple hands out so he could say:
  “Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years,
  Tomorrow I will tell the world about us.
  You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel;
  I have been absent, darling, from your pain.
  Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you,
  And bear if I can the--pleasure.”
                                    Then he woke,
  And none but Berrien watched him in the room--
  Berrien, who ever after watched him,
  Night and day detesting this pale witch
  Who came and went and charmed him.
                                    So she thought,
  Said Daniel, never answering her eyes.
  For him there were no hours now save those dark ones
  When the pair came. At midnight they would be there,
  Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning,
  Starting from his pillow, he would mutter:
  “Tomorrow is today. Then I must go
  To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited
  Always upon another secret midnight;
  And witnessed every noon how the gold woman,
  Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know
  Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.



  III


  Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous
  With his own name--evil, could he but hear it.
  Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s
  Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause;
  And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded.
  Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching
  How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken--
  “Daniel.” And the kill was on.
                                A soldier,
  Footing it home from Canada, stood by
  With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank.
  He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes
  Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered--
  And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel,
  Less than the sore so sudden in his breast,
  So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure,
  Was a weak thing at first--this brawny witness
  Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes,
  The little old one, dancing in his fury
  As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly
  Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted.
  Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled
  Soldier had spat curses on that name,
  “Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them--
  Perfection, he declared it, of revenge--
  Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me,
  Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf
  And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant.
  Who sent him here, I wonder?”
                                “I don’t know,”
  Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she--”
  “Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished.
  When do we go and do it? Think of that--
  Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful
  Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped
  Their voices.
                Dora, listening, heard little,
  Crouched by her door. Bruce--he mustn’t do it.
  Bruce--he was the only thing she wanted
  In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel;
  But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it,
  Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood
  And cried to him; but only heard Darius
  Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence.

  “When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon
  Does best for our good purpose--damn his bones!
  Two shotguns--that’s enough--then home, then here--
  That’s it, and neither knows of it next day.
  We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told!
  When do we do it, boy?”
                          But Bruce was slow:
  Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora
  Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins,
  He almost lost his purpose as she held him,
  Wetting his face with tears.
                              “Listen!” she whispered.
  “I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse
  Knows--I can’t guess how--knows everything.
  A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend
  The teacher--she is like her. Colder, though,
  With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says--”
  “What, Dora, what does she say?”
                                  “Oh, no, I can’t--
  I’ll never, never tell you.”
                              As she ran
  He followed, farther into the still woods;
  Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two--
  It must be those two new ones, those tall women--
  Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted
  Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat.

  It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes
  In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there.
  The other one bent down to her.
                                  “Stand up.
  They both are here. The boy, too.”
                                    Level voiced,
  The teacher touched her friend’s hair.
                                        “Stand up, stand up.
  The fawn is dead. These others--”
                                    “Yes, I know.
  I heard, I saw them. But consider death.
  Consider this young death awhile, and say--
  But softly--of what it is the paradigm.
  Do not disdain one death, one single death;
  And when we can, prevent.”
                            The grey eyes cooled,
  Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose.
  “Come here,” she said to Dora, and to Bruce
  Behind her. “We were walking in the woods,
  My visitor and I; we saw this sight.”

  But Bruce and Dora stared at only her,
  So beautiful, so tall, and at the other
  Strange one by her side.
                          “We had been talking,
  Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel
  Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes--”

  “He doesn’t!” Dora shuddered. “If he could,
  He’d have it that I never lived on earth.
  He hates it, having to remember me.
  And that’s all right. I want it so. But Bruce--”

  “Will be, my dear, the father of your--listen,
  Listen! You start away.”
                          For both had broken
  Breath, as if with running, and only the hands
  Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there.
  “I mean,” and the tall beautiful one blinked,
  Twitching the green selvage of her skirt,
  “The foster father. He is young for that;
  Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one
  Who saves you, and saves it--the life you carry.
  Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream.”

  Bruce turned his head in fear that old Darius
  Listened--was it he among the hemlocks,
  Stepping so lightly?
                      But the foliage opened
  For a fair, smiling face, and the broad shoulders,
  Burdened with straps, of one who tramped these hills
  By summer, following signs. A brilliance round him,
  Caused by no sun, for none came through the branches,
  Struck silence from all four; until the nurse,
  Nodding as if she knew him, said: “Due north,
  Pilgrim, is there. Your compass--have you lost it?
  Well, north is that way”--pointing--“but stand here
  In patience for some seconds; then we two
  Will guide you back to town for better bearing.
  Can you be patient?”
                      “Thank you, yes.” The giant
  Smiled at her once again.
                            “You see, my small one,
  Bruce there by your side would break and run,
  Fearing his sweet fate. He even wonders
  Whether some partner, deep in another plan,
  Listens and chides him.”
                          Staring, the boy blushed.
  Then, fearful, he looked up and met her eyes,
  The nurse’s distant eyes, that fixed him gently.
  “My friend here--she will tell you more than I can
  Of the black folly born of feud. Attend her.”

  But the still teacher only parted wide
  Her capable cool lids, and let him see
  Agreement flash between them.
                                “Someone’s death”--
  She forced the words at last--“is cheap to buy.
  A minute of man’s time, and breathing stops.
  The cost is in the echo; for to cease
  Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home,
  The rumor of that death. My friend is right.
  Marry the maiden.”
                    But the words came strangely,
  Out of some older earth, and even she
  The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned.
  Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock
  Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one
  Followed this lofty fellow who in patience
  Folded his arms and smiled--as if he too
  Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes.
  As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius--
  He paled at the grim image, and remembered,
  Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust
  If the dear purpose foundered was itself
  A death, along with Dora’s yesterday.
  Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father
  Of a whole world’s confusion?
                                And his anger,
  Running before him, took him from this place,
  This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures
  Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce,
  Gasping and crying “Wait!”
                            But the three tall ones
  Listened to nothing human. Hermes came.



  IV


  Hermes came, and hailing his three peers,
  Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter
  Answered as she glistened in their midst--
  No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus
  Hove into their view, and all of the others,
  Manifest together. This was where,
  In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet,
  To sit sometimes and say how the world went,
  Mortal and immortal.
                      “You of the golden
  Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one
  Who lived in peace without them.”
                                    “Lived in hate,
  In loathing of those very limbs he fondled--
  Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent
  Laughter shook the listening green leaves.
  “Yet he would have forgotten, and his only
  Danger been from Ares”--who was there,
  Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke--
  “From the two minions, old and young, of Ares.
  Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind
  And fury; but the damage that you do,
  Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins,
  Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments
  The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy,
  Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips,
  Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented
  Artemis.
          “The man was free of longing,
  And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said,
  “Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams.
  Then Ares--common soldier--fanned the fire
  In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded.
  “And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens.
  Athene, Michael--tell them how we stood,
  Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.”

  But it was known among them even then,
  And so no witness needed. Aphrodite,
  Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head
  To hear, intending mockery of the tale.
  But the wise one withheld it, and majestic
  Michael only folded his broad wings
  As Gabriel did, as Raphael.
                              Yet that last one,
  Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis,
  Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused:

  “The young one when he comes--in what men call
  The fall of their brief year--the roofless infant--
  It was for him we planned. And still we do--”
  She dared the glittering goddess--“still we seek
  Safe birth for the small mother, and for him
  The wailing, the unwanted.”
                              Crooked Hephaestus,
  Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty:
  “The man works well and silently. He loves,
  In solitude, the comfort of my fire.
  And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her--
  He will not have her near him. I was by;
  I read his thoughts of this.”
                                “Absurd contriver!
  Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt!
  As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite
  Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw
  By daylight, and at labor in the field
  One whom that very night I made my slave.
  Off to your anvil, ass!”
                          But Hermes calmed
  Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace.
  “Without our father’s thunder we are fools
  And children. Who decides when lesser gods,
  When angels disagree? Authority absent,
  Silence--a silver silence--that is best.”
  And like a song they heard it, and they wondered,
  Measuring its notes. Until Apollo,
  Lord of the muses, laughed.
                              “You heard me humming.
  All to myself I sang it--with sealed lips.”

  “What did you sing?” said Hermes.
                                    “Nothing, nothing.
  My sisters round the world--a sweet wind brought me,
  Sleepily, this air.”
                      He hummed again,
  And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,”
  He said, “some silver moment coming soon--
  Necessity for music. But not now.”

  Nor could those other nine foresee the summer.
  Already, in mid June, high long days
  Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit,
  Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man,
  No god distinguished more in this green time
  Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter.
  In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting--
  Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word--
  Still did not spare the beautiful dream body
  She sent to him by dark, when Dora too
  Lived by his side and loved him: standing there
  In the shed radiance of one who smiled
  And smiled, and burned his reticence away.
  For he would go to Dora--come July,
  Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening
  As night died between him and the windows,
  He would go there, he would, and say it all;
  He would have Dora, small in his long arms,
  Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought
  Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes,
  So that he never went.
                        And had he gone,
  What Dora would have seen him come and shivered?
  One whom as strong a dream--if it was a dream--
  Estranged. It was of having, yet not having,
  Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t--
  He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away
  The vision--Bruce must never let it be.
  The nurse--he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did--
  And then she wept.
                    Darius in the morning,
  Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose.
  He should conceal it better. She was afraid,
  Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell.
  That boy--he was so hard to keep in anger.
  He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool.
  That boy, the center of confusion’s cross,
  For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius
  Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day,
  All night the dream of lying in clear peace
  Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora;
  That boy was whom the strangers in this valley
  Watched while the moments went; while June decayed;
  While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.



  V


  A hundred people coming to the barn dance,
  The barn dance at MacPherson’s, saw the full moon.
  It hung there like a lantern in the low east,
  Enormous and blood red, and stationary.
  Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman--
  So fair, she seemed unnatural--between them.
  She must have made them bring her, someone said;
  And laughed.
              But no one laughed when Dora came.
  She was so pitiful in her loose coat,
  Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance?
  If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance?
  Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed
  The silly boy. To let her show like that!
  The nurse, the doctor’s nurse, and her tall friend
  The teacher--no one dreamed those two, those two--
  They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw
  How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances.

  Then all the strangers. When the music started,
  Who but a giant--handsome, with tow hair--
  Bowed to the grand ones? And to more
  Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers,
  Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders
  Where a great upright shaded the rude floor.
  From the next valley, maybe, like this lame
  Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot
  Traveller, the one with pointed ears,
  The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff,
  Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched.
  The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word
  Between them, and no look, Darius said--
  Darius, who had eyes for everything;
  And ears, when music started.
                                “One more couple!
  One more couple!” Glendy the clear-caller
  Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts,
  Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar.
  “One more couple!”
                    Here they came.
                                    “Join hands
  And circle left!”
                    Darius heard the words
  Above him, in the corner where by Glendy
  And the harmonicas he tapped the floor.
  His was the curious, the musicians’ corner,
  Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled,
  Wondering what next--why she was here.
  “The dog!” he growled, catching on Daniel’s face,
  In a far corner, hunger and indifference
  Fighting. Hunger--damn him--for my child,
  My child, Darius said, whom he has changed;
  And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence
  That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all.
  The soldier had come back. Darius saw him.
  Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight,
  And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived.
  If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little--
  But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear
  On those two stranger women. Why in fear?

  The music, though.
                    “Swing your corner lady!”
  Darius, rocking gently on his heels,
  Was lost again in that, and in the wild
  Mouth organs, going mournful overhead.
  “First two gents cross over!” In his thought
  He crossed; he took that partner by the hand;
  He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where.
  He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped
  His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging
  Ceased. The set was over. And he sang:
  “Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!”
  They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off;
  Then soon another set. And still he listened
  And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat,
  Trembling, and never danced.
                              But once the soldier,
  Slouching to her side, made mockery signs
  Suggesting that she stand. Darius started
  In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up,
  Explaining--yet avoiding the brute stare;
  And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists.
  Even the strangers knew, for one came over--
  The one with such a neat head on his body,
  And the curled stick--as if to beat away
  Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good,
  Darius said; then listened as the music
  Whispered again.
                  Whispered.
                            For the tune
  Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this
  Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed,
  What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps?

  “One more couple!”
                    Who was the intruder,
  Calling in so sweet, so low a voice,
  Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd,
  Heedless of any difference, swirled on,
  Loving its evolutions, and no head
  Turned hither.
                “Take your Dora by the hand--”
  Darius, looking up, saw how the silver
  Light of the full moon, mature at zenith,
  Fell on the singer. Through one gable window
  It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery
  Singer. He was slender, he was strange;
  And the high moon--it burned for none but him.

  “Where’s Glendy, Gus?”
                        “Took sick.”
                                    The loud guitar,
  Hesitating, rallied and persevered;
  But modified its note to a new sweetness,
  A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked,
  Listened, and looked again at the mysterious
  Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.

        Take your Dora by the hand,
        Your little Dora, grown so large.
        By another she was manned,
        But she is now your loving charge.

        Mercy marries you, my boy,
        And mercy--oh, it is unjust.
        But it was born of truth and joy,
        And lives with misery if it must.

  Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending,
  Stared at a hundred dancers who did not.
  Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung,
  Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here--
  Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them.
  Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes,
  Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce,
  Guardian to her, looked only down--
  Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing:

        Take your Dora by the hand.
        There is life within her waist.
        And there is woe, unless you stand
        And love with bravery is graced.

        So all the world will know her wed,
        And all the people call it yours--
        The life within her, small and red;
        And wrathful, were it none but hers.

        With you beside her all is well.
        She will be tended in her time.
        There is more that I could tell,
        But Glendy now resumes the rhyme.

  “Circle four!”
                Darius, and then Daniel,
  Dazed, regarded Glendy once again.
  The moonlit one was gone, and only these
  Had seen him--these and Dora, and dumb Bruce.
  And all of the nine strangers. For they too
  Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed,
  Had witnessed every word as it arrived;
  Had watched the boy’s confusion; then the girl’s;
  Then both together, as if woe had wed
  Already the poor lovers.
                          “Nelly Gray!”
  The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on;
  And only Berrien’s boarder, the gold woman
  Who stood so close by Daniel--only that one
  Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing,
  Knew she had found his thought.
                                  So I have lost her--
  This was his thought--have lost her. Then my love
  Must die, and no man know it. He was true,
  That singer. It is not my life she carries--
  Dora, who was mine for that cold minute;
  Dora, whom I never can forget.

  The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely,
  Punishing his own, that Daniel shook.
  How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams
  She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came.
  Only in darkness. “Now she disapproves,
  She probes me.”
                  But the woman looked away,
  Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier;
  Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius.
  Daniel saw him there, gesticulating,
  With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring,
  To throttle someone. And Darius blinked.
  But music and the distance drowned their words.

  And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora,
  Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising,
  Reached for a small hand. The singer had said
  To take it, and he took it, and pulled up
  The girl who still was trying to be free,
  To save him.
              And the music never stopped.
  “Kiss her if you dare!” cried old man Glendy.
  And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce
  Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears.
  They listened still to what the other singer,
  Gone now as the moon was from the window,
  Sang and sang again, as if his silvery
  Face never had faded. Arm in arm
  They walked among the dancers to the big door;
  Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth,
  Under the slant moon, and disappeared.



  VI


  Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves
  When a swift body passes west, pursued them.
  But Daniel never stirred.
                            Nor old Darius--
  Neither did he listen as the sergeant
  Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes
  Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home,
  The fool. He is forgetting it--the purpose.
  Tear him free. He softens in her arms
  To the sick sound of ‘Father.’”
                                  But Darius,
  Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:
  “I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,
  She will not go alone. He is a good boy,
  Bruce. I never coupled her with him.
  It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier
  Left him, spitting disgust.
                              And Daniel saw
  How all of the fair strangers followed soon--
  All of them, as if they were a company.
  They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled
  In the same grave degree, as if some secret
  Bound them.
              And he thought the dapper one,
  Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,
  His curlicue of a cane--whatever it was--
  Communicated thus to the gold woman
  That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,
  Berrien’s; she was not of any company,
  Wandering, like this one. She had come
  Alone to them, in May, and she would go--
  Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,
  Her beautiful dream body, that was his,
  Was his alone.
                And suddenly his sadness
  Doubled. For the singer had left living
  None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,
  A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered
  Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,
  A noble dead man, numbering his loss.
  Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too--
  In fall--he would be losing this one too,
  In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,
  Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.
  For there he was, the last one to go through,
  And Daniel thought the signal came again:
  An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,
  His vine that had the strength to stand alone.

  But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,
  Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,
  He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,
  At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush
  Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.
  Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,
  Her eyes, took hold of everything in him
  And hurt it.
              “So you let her go,” she said.
  “You shadow of a man, you let her go.
  Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,
  In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,
  Crushing it with yours--and yet you would not,
  For it is white, is small, and precious to you--
  Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow
  Falls on you for lover--disobedient
  Lover of that girl whom still you crave!”

  Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?
  Berrien still watched the weary dancers
  Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?
  And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge
  Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night
  When her own body slept in her own bed.
  How could she understand? And what untruth
  Was working in her, making these sweet sounds?
  Their honey was more false for being heard
  By him, by only him. That other singer--
  He had been true. And troubling. But his song
  Was never to be lost now. Dora was,
  Forever. And he said it must be so.

  The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,
  Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,
  Not to be contradicted. And her lips.
  Lest the unparted lips again deliver
  What was so loud, so terrible--though heard
  By him, by only him--he spoke of home.
  Berrien--wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.
  So with no words they went.
                              Some dancers saw them,
  Picking their way, and winked at one another;
  Daniel, with that artificial woman;
  Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!
  None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned
  People going home. The actress, too--
  An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,
  And painted. You could see it--Indian summer
  Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world.

  They could not see how beautiful she was.
  Only for Daniel was she beautiful,
  And for those others, strangers here with her,
  Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,
  In their own forms, were watching.
                                    Hermes leaned
  Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,
  On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:
  “She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,
  She is not schooled in victory and defeat,
  She is not skilful at surrender--save
  The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.
  She will not let him go, the farmer there,
  While any of her poison works in him.
  Ares, what if some of your new wisdom--
  You could persuade her, Ares.”
                                But the sullen
  Soldier still was sullen, though a god;
  He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,
  Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way
  With Daniel down the road.
                            “Apollo’s song,”
  Said Hermes, “--it was all we needed then.”
  He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.
  “It was a potent song. The tough old man,
  The tender young, the farmer in his heart--
  All four of them were changed. But now you see--”
  He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,
  Dimming with her companions down the highway,
  Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew
  The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,
  Mingling as the moon did with the tops
  Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.
  Artemis, more angry than the rest,
  More like the moon, declining now so clear,
  So cold, beyond the body of this grove,
  Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”
  She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,
  Nothing but grief will grow where you and I--”
  She took Athene’s hand--“have wisely tilled
  And planted. Never then will the boy serve,
  With loving care, my cause--the cause of the world,
  Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.
  The farmer would have let the maiden go--
  Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.
  Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,
  That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,
  And sings--oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,
  What burden that may topple his intention?
  Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal
  His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;
  Even tonight you could.”
                          Hephaestus, pacing
  Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,
  The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.
  “The farmer--he works well, and loves the fire
  I gave him. Let him be.”
                          But none of them saw
  His meaning, if he had one. He was lame
  And foolish, and he muttered as he walked,
  And turned and walked again, counting the steps
  Between two oaks that limited his way.
  The great angels watched him with their wings
  Folded. Standing deeper in the shade,
  They waited with the others while the moon
  Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied
  And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.



  VII


  “Dora, do you take Bruce for your husband,
  To cherish him, for better or for worse?”
  The justice of the peace, Tobias Hapgood,
  Peered over his dim glasses at the pair
  Who said “I do, I do” among the dusty
  Law books.
            And there were three witnesses.
  Darius in a white shirt stood between
  Two others, old and little like himself:
  The father of the groom--roundheaded, fumbling
  Miserably at his tie--and full of tears
  The mother, full of shame and happy tears.

  Her boy was being married. But to think--
  To think--and then the rest of it was weeping;
  Was waiting till the four of them were home;
  Was wondering how soon she could forget.
  Dora would have his baby in her house.
  And then she could forget. She wiped her eyes.
  Darius here--now he would be alone,
  And that perhaps was harder. So “I do”
  Came distantly across the room as she compared
  Their griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss,
  Held on to one another, and held on
  And on, as if the world would die this way,
  She was content again.
                        But no one saw
  Nine more in the brown room, or heard the voice
  Of Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned,
  What further end she strained for. All but Ares
  Stood there, in no space the mortals knew,
  The little mortals, mingling their low words
  With these unheard, these high ones. Sullen Ares
  Sulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite,
  Resting her fair side against the law books,
  Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes:

  “See? There still is mischief in one mind
  Among us, there is insolence. The end?
  She has not worked it yet. Beware of her
  Who hates this thing we witness; it defeats
  Her farmer, and she never will forgive.”

  The laughing goddess listened with her eyes
  Turned elsewhere--on Hephaestus, whom she taunted,
  Teasing him with glances at his broken
  Foot, and at the thickness of his wrists.
  “Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker!
  You are not one of us. Then why do you creep
  Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man?
  You do, in the poor likeness of a mender--
  What is it that you mend? What is the word?”

  “Stoves.”
            “I’ll not pronounce it. Such a word!
  I scorn it. And scorn you. And yet I say--
  Remember my own strength, that can undo
  The cunningest contriver. No more haunt
  The man. By night, by morning, no more crawl--
  You hear?--and charm his sadness till it sleeps.
  You think to cure his longing with some lessons,
  Monger, in your art. But my own art
  Is ultimate. Remember, and refrain.”

  Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles,
  Refusing every glance until the rite
  Was finished, and the people in the room
  Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared,
  Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey
  Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound
  For Daniel, whom he haunted every day
  In the same likeness he had first assumed
  When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl,
  Got it again, and wondered.
                              Bruce and Dora,
  Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept,
  Went home another way; and the inaudible
  Deities went home--to the green hilltop,
  The high glade where Ares, though he heard,
  Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite,
  Following to where the mountains forked,
  Deserted there; dipping away and flying,
  Like one of her own doves, to Daniel’s house.

  But Daniel stood with someone in the barn
  By the new anvil he had bought, considering
  Hot and cold; and how a hammer’s blow
  Can bend the iron, not break it.
                                  “When you came,
  That day, and brought my pipe--I still am puzzled--
  How did you do it, man?”
                          “Look here! I take
  This strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus--
  Pretend the forge is going--then I twist it,
  So, until I have a perfect handle
  For the fire tongs you need.”
                                No other answer.
  “See? Now when you have the bellows going--
  Watch me--this is what the draft can do.”
  No other answer. So the pupil bent,
  Considering.
              And neither of them saw--
  Or Daniel did not--bright eyes at the door,
  Brimming with alien purpose.
                              “Your good wife,”
  The woman said--and Daniel, starting round,
  Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lids
  Toward him who held the hammer--“sends for you.
  She tells you this is wasting time, is wearing
  The day out; is pure nothing. And she says--
  Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way.
  He is not wanted here.”
                          The hammer dropped.
  But Daniel shook his head at her.
                                    “She wouldn’t
  Know. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides,
  It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts.
  She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.”

  He flushed, remembering how much she knew
  If dreams had body, and if at the dance
  It was her own live lips that so rebuked him.
  But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again,
  And turned to the lame tinker.
                                “We’ll not stop,
  For her or anybody. Tell me now--”
  Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite,
  Stamping her white foot, that all but showed
  Immortal through the slipper, let them be.

  Yet not for long. The lame one in his room,
  That night and every night, was pinched awake
  By fingers he well knew; and knew as well
  How in the darkness, sweating, to endure.
  For he was steadfast--like his tossing pupil,
  Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay.

  Hour after hour, that night and every night,
  Berrien strove to riddle his strange words,
  His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept on
  Refusing what was whispered. What was that?
  Or was it anything? Was someone by them,
  Whispering to him? She lay and wondered,
  Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble,
  Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.

  But it was never nothing. Aphrodite,
  Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his,
  Was a changed goddess, bearing every charm
  Of beauty she possessed, that he once more
  Might madden. Dora came there too, he thought,
  And wept in her first figure, the demure one,
  The thin and still one, that was his again--
  “It is, it is!” the whisper at his side
  Said tirelessly, “whenever you will reach
  And take it. Be the lover you were then,
  And take it, take it, take it. Go and be
  Her lover; speak the truth as winter once,
  As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late?
  Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her?
  And for that thing a father? Is it published
  That he is the thing’s foolish, foolish father?
  Have none of it. Forget these moments since,
  And take her. She is yours--see how she weeps
  And wishes she had Daniel’s hands forever--
  Forever it could be, if you were bold
  And shouted without shame the burning truth--
  Forever, Daniel, ever down her small
  Smooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you,
  Might breathe again.”
                        He moaned and turned away,
  Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died,
  So that he looked again. It was an artful
  Death, increasing torment, for the two
  Shone there as always. They were never gone,
  Those two, while August lasted; and while summer
  Saddened on the stalk.
                        For rust had bent
  The hayheads while he dreamed, and far to north
  The feet of fall were coming. Daniel rose
  Each day a wearier man, yet not apostate
  Ever to his black anvil, where with the smith
  He lost himself in lessons hot and cold.
  And still the woman came to call him in.
  And still he could refuse her.
                                So September,
  With speckles on its back, slid like a serpent
  Over the cool slopes; and lucky houses,
  Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were,
  Complacent; while upon the homeless highways
  Wanderers appeared.
                      So Dora’s time
  Came slowly, slowly on, with few to know
  Or care when it should come; except Darius,
  Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce’s house,
  Consoling himself there for being lonely;
  Except the little roundhead and his anxious
  Wife; except those strangers up the mountain;
  And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora.



  VIII


  It came, the time of Dora, when no man,
  No man of all her three, was home for messenger.
  Darius snored in his own house--a ball
  Of skin beneath the bedclothes--and the night
  Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father
  Tramped the low road from Brownlee’s where they worked,
  And working, thought of Dora--all day long
  Of Dora’s time, next week or the week after.

  But it was now, and none of all the three men
  Home to be her messenger! The doctor--
  How could he be told the time had come
  For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce’s mother,
  Moaning, was so helpless at the door,
  Calling, calling, calling: “Bruce, where are you?
  Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!”
  But Bruce was on the low road, and the only
  Ears that heard were scattered up the sky.
  Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain,
  Heard; and woke Athene; and the others,
  Knowing it was time, went with them both
  Like falling stars--all of them, like stars,
  To drop and stand in darkness by the door
  While Bruce’s mother, moaning, called and called:
  “Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!”

  And still another heard. But Aphrodite,
  Listening while Daniel sat, could smile
  And wait; could think and wait. It was the time
  For punishing this man who in his dreams
  Refused her. She could wait and let it work--
  The punishment she planned.
                              For she had looked
  Last night along the valley, and seen coming,
  Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers,
  And said: They shall be mine.
                                She heard the moaning
  Cease, and knew that Artemis was there.
  The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying
  Softly: “Save me, save me! Send for him!”

  So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength,
  Waited no longer.
                    Where were those poor wanderers--
  That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew.
  She saw them even now at the abandoned
  Chapel down the old road, trying doors
  And windows, and forlornly turning in
  Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness,
  Nothing but cobwebs.
                      Smiling a last smile,
  Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose
  And scented the whole night, the outer night
  Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew
  And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn
  As in her brilliant singleness she flew
  And flew to be the first where Hermes came.

  For even now the tall nurse--goddess again
  In the dooryard where they clustered--told her peers:
  “The time! It is the time! Go, two of you--
  Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?--
  And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for.
  I could do all alone, for I am skilful,
  I am the green deliveress. Yet go--
  Gabriel, with Hermes--while I soothe
  And ready her. The horses that he drives--
  You hear them now, drawing the tired one home.
  But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him.
  Say it is the nurse--say anything--
  But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs,
  Between you lest she die.”
                            The feet of Hermes
  Glistened as the staff in his right hand
  Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly
  Touched him again. And so the pair departed.
  Before the goddess turned they were a rustle
  In the far woods; and Artemis went in
  Where Dora lay.
                  “The doctor--he is sent for.
  Child! What are you staring at?” For Dora
  Shuddered, and alternately her eyes
  Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness
  Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled.
  “It was my own mistake--the way I am.
  You were so different. You shone in the door
  Like candles, you were like a statue lady--
  Different from us. I didn’t know you.
  Now I do, though.”
                    She permitted hands
  To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever,
  And as the pain returned; while Artemis
  Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow,
  At the small face whereon the truth had fallen;
  Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes,
  Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?

  But Aphrodite was there first--an ancient
  Gypsy, rising out of the dim road
  And shrilling between wheels:
                                “Doctor, Doctor!
  Come to the dead church--the one they don’t
  Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow
  And his sick queen--not my people, but I pity,
  Pity them--they lie in the carriage shed.
  Or she does, the queen. In all the world
  No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles
  From nowhere, and no house would take them in.
  She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,
  The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor,
  And help her. Be the one man in the world
  To help her.”
                “Who are you?” His glasses peered
  Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.

  “Romany.”
            “And what’s this? You mean the church--”

  “The old one.”
                “Even mice won’t go near that.
  Mischief--you mean mischief. Out of the way,
  Granny!”
          But she seized the reins and said:
  “Good doctor! Be the one man in the world--”

  And why it was he knew not, but he went
  Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy
  Building where no hymnsong had been heard
  Since war days, and where beggars--did she lie?--
  Might be or not be.
                      So when Hermes came,
  And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway--
  Soft as they listened, never the good sound
  Of hooves, of whirring felloes.
                                  Long they looked
  And listened; then were back in Bruce’s dooryard,
  Signalling their presence; so that Artemis,
  Stooping at the window, saw them desolate,
  And knew herself defeated.
                            “Aphrodite!”
  She only thought the word, but Dora stared
  And begged of her: “Has someone--has he come?
  The doctor? Bruce? Where’s Bruce?”
                                    “Be patient, dear.
  In time, in time. The doctor was not found.
  But there is time, and I myself have medicines--
  You trust me?”
                Dora nodded.
                            “Then I’ll go, child,
  For certain things--for such help as I need.
  Be patient a few minutes. She is here.”
  For Bruce’s mother, torturing her hands
  As if they were another’s on the rack,
  Stood by them, bent and weeping.
                                  All were there
  When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,
  Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled
  And innocently listened, fair as ever
  In the fine light that clothed her--no more gypsy,
  And no more theater woman. Even Ares--
  All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus
  Filling his low place among the pear trees,
  When the green goddess called.
                                “Her breath is going.
  Enemy of all”--to Aphrodite--
  “I shall waste none on you. I only say,
  The girl inside is going. Which of you
  Can help me, and help her? The middle angel--
  Second of you three--immense of wing--
  Raphael--have you knowledge?”
                                There was mournful
  Music in the answer.
                      “I have mended,
  Green one, all the wounds made here on earth--
  Or there--by deed of angels. In the old days
  They fell--not such as we are--and their fall,
  As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,
  The daughters of frail man. If this is such--”

  “It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness
  Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs
  And needles. You have strength, and a strange art.
  Between us--but come quickly!”
                                And Darius
  Snored in his own house. And Daniel sat
  Late by a brass lamp, reading.
                                And the doctor,
  Bending to ask the name of the new mother,
  Heard “Mary.”
                By the half light of a low
  Fire she lay on straw and let her weak hand
  Wander.
          “But my husband--he is Joe.
  There was no work for him. So we went on.
  Thank you, Doctor.”
                      “Quiet. No more talking.”

  And Bruce’s father, panting on the low road,
  Wondered why his son would never rest.



  IX


  The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles,
  Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce--
  Brought even the stiff doctor--beams of hope,
  Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered,
  And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse,
  Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home;
  How she and the dark man she had for helper,
  Bending above the sufferer, grew sad,
  Grew guilty as he came, hearing with him
  His little mother’s whimpers, and the cry--
  Sudden, as if death were in the room--
  Of Dora when she saw him. And his father’s
  Feebleness--now he remembered that,
  And groaned.
              “But couldn’t the nurse--for she was there--
  Wouldn’t the nurse have known?”
                                  “I tell you, boy,
  I have no nurse. Something is stranger here--
  Giddup!--than God is ever going to tell me.
  Nurse? There was no such.”
                            And the horses galloped,
  Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryard
  Darkened them, and Bruce’s mother stumbled,
  Her apron at her face, among the plum trees.

  “I am alone,” she cried, “except for him--”
  She pointed where her husband, on a stone
  As grey as he was, sat and held his forehead--
  “We are alone now, my boy. Too late,
  Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child,
  The dear child, is dead. They both are dead--
  Dora, and the other one that never,
  Never, never breathed.”
                          She clutched at Bruce,
  Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed,
  Then feeling not at all. She only nodded,
  Nodded, as her son repeated: “Dead--
  Dora, she is dead.” And bore her in,
  A limp superfluous bundle.
                            “Oh, my boy!”--
  Perceptibly her white lips lived again--
  “Beautiful! One thing about her going,
  Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw--
  Or thought she saw--ten angels in the room.
  She counted them. But only three had wings.
  She counted the big wings. And said the nurse
  Was queen above all others.”
                              “Nurse? What nurse?”
  The doctor in the doorway shook his head,
  Frowning, as if to free it from the cobweb
  Sound of that false word. “There was no such--”

  But the small mother never would believe--
  He knew it--and Bruce never would believe.
  Who had this tall impostor woman been?
  And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said:
  “A teacher, too--her friend.” There was no such--

  The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers--
  Butcherers of girls--who with their knotted
  Grass roots and their needles--natural thorns--
  Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.
  Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any law
  Catch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the world
  Of meddlers on the march? For they were somewhere
  Still, the doctor knew; and looked at Bruce
  Bent dumbly over Dora. In good time
  The boy would feel. He was so quiet now--
  An animal, playing dead.
                          Then Daniel stood there--
  Daniel, with Darius at his heels:
  An old hound whom giant grief had gentled.
  Yet he could move, and did, to where no daughter
  Welcomed his hard hand; which nevertheless
  Hovered and touched her--touched her, so that tears
  Followed, and streamed his face.
                                  “I brought him here,”
  Said Daniel. “I was told of it by one--
  By two--but they are gone. They do not matter.
  Both of them are gone. They said they knew--
  My lodgers--then they went. But that’s no matter.
  I told her father, and he came with me.
  Look at him now. And her. We are not enemies.
  Who is my enemy?”
                    “I was,” said Bruce.

  “You were. And I was Dora’s. What I did--”

  “You did. But never tell it. As my friend
  In sorrow, never say it. There are ears--”

  He went to where his mother, staring up,
  Saw none but that dear face.
                              Then Daniel’s stillness
  Reigned in the room.
                      Even the doctor, going,
  Went as a thought does, thinly; but his mind
  Was more with Mary and her living child,
  In the lost church, than here.
                                A living child.
  He must go back to that small son; must listen
  To the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?
  “Quiet. No more talking.” Was even then
  This mystery in his head, this hazy mirror
  Of a much older birth? Who was it? When?
  What torment not to remember. Just like this,
  Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the image
  Of a whole people, impotent to see now
  The one god it had.
                      So three old friends,
  By death remade, stood looking down at Dora.



  X


  Already, in this moment before silver
  Morning, ten were on their way to sea.
  Already, over mountains and rock rivers--
  Tawny with high autumn, yet no sun
  Uprisen had revealed it--Hermes sped
  And spoke not. At the center of his band,
  Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flew
  And flew to where a smoking funnel waited,
  By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,
  Would ride the waste Atlantic.
                                “They were small,
  These people, they were pitiful and small,”
  Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,
  Nobles, of our regard.”
                          “They did not guess,”
  Said Artemis, “how small.”
                            “They could not measure,”
  Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,
  “Difference. They were lonely. They had nothing
  Past them to compare. They do not move,
  These persons, among greater persons still.
  The knowledge of the difference is all.
  Mortals with art to measure it are never
  Pitiful.”
            “I thought,” mused Aphrodite,
  Beautiful by night as her own star,
  Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,
  “I thought I met a presence in that musty
  Stable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet--
  Not even the black beetles crept away.
  Queer, if it was a god--their only god,
  And none of the fools knew.”
                              “It was your own
  Mind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and Hephaestus
  Laughed--at Aphrodite he could laugh,
  Now that his limbs were free.
                                “Was there a song?
  Even a musty music? Where a god is,
  Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,
  Remembering the barn dance and the moon.
  “Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”

  Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenly
  By the first beams of sun, was angry still.
  “She heard but her own hatefulness, that plotted
  Death.”
          “I left the living in your hands--
  Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,
  Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,
  As you must, any faltering of skill.”

  “Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubled
  As fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!
  You poison the whole dawn with it, as then
  You poisoned--for I know you did--the thorns,
  The rare leaves I used.”
                          But Hermes cried:
  “Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is done
  Is done. There the ship rides that we take--
  As one we take it, homing to those lands
  Where sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”

  He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:
  Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,
  Had dreamed again--a star above a stable.
  “Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not even
  Sleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’s
  Sadness was for Artemis to see,
  And seeing, to have pity on, that no word
  Henceforth could express.
                            For now the ship
  Whistled, and the spires above the harbor
  Glistened, and the hawsers, letting go,
  Dangled in salt.
                  So easterly they sailed,
  And sailed; then south a little. And the crew
  Thought only of the Pillars, of the inland
  Sea where waves were smaller. But these ten,
  Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn danger
  Of storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision--
  Common to them all, since reconciled--
  Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,
  Centuries upon centuries of flying,
  Flying where no desert, green with the Word,
  Blossomed and blessed them.
                              Now as in a dream
  Never to be redreamed the hills behind them,
  Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries
  Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,
  Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew
  Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal
  Summer would be given these again:
  These deities, these angels, who as the dark sea
  Heaved went on themselves as waves do,
  Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.



  [Illustration: COLOPHON]


  This book has been designed and printed by Carroll Coleman at The
  Prairie Press in Iowa City, Iowa. The types are Caslon and Frye’s
  Ornamented and the paper is Linweave Early American.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:


Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.



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