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What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan? To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore,— Nothing more to master or man. But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same,— The Bells of San Blas to me Have a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name. For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old; One sound to all, yet each Lends a meaning to their speech, And the meaning is manifold. They are a voice of the Past, Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand; When the flag of Spain unfurled Its folds o'er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land. The chapel that once looked down On the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust; And on oaken beams below The bells swing to and fro, And are green with mould and rust. "Is, then, the old faith dead," They say, "and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed, That we are forced to remain Naked to sun and rain, Unsheltered and ashamed? "Once in our tower aloof We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints; And round about us there The white doves filled the air, Like the white souls of the saints. "The saints! Ah, have they grown Forgetful of their own? Are they asleep, or dead, That open to the sky Their ruined Missions lie, No longer tenanted? "Oh, bring us back once more The vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was filled; Bring back the fervid zeal, The hearts of fire and steel, The hands that believe and build. "Then from our tower again We will send over land and main Our voices of command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land!" O Bells of San Blas, in vain Ye call back the Past again! The Past is deaf to your prayer; Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light; It is daybreak everywhere.

Can these movements which move themselves be the substance of my attraction? Where does this thin green silk come from that covers my body? Surely any woman wearing such fabrics would move her body just to feel them touching every part of her. Yet most of the women frown, or look away, or laugh stiffly. They are afraid of these materials and these movements in some way. The psychologists would say they are afraid of themselves, somehow. Perhaps awakening too much desire— that their men could never satisfy? So they keep themselves laced and buttoned and made up in hopes that the framework will keep them stiff enough not to feel the whole register. In hopes that they will not have to experience that unquenchable desire for rhythm and contact. If a snake glided across this floor most of them would faint or shrink away. Yet that movement could be their own. That smooth movement frightens them— awakening ancestors and relatives to the tips of the arms and toes. So my bare feet and my thin green silks my bells and finger cymbals offend them—frighten their old-young bodies. While the men simper and leer— glad for the vicarious experience and exercise. They do not realize how I scorn them; or how I dance for their frightened, unawakened, sweet women.

Here again at the edge of what was, the river held back by the stones it has carried, the knife in your hand brimming rain. Inside this day without beginning or end, it cannot stand still inside you. One day I'll leave—not you but all this—this hunger that pushes each wave.

It was just a momentary untruth in my way, bodies of the crowd blocked the big blue outside. Now I have a stealthy cause: to try and be myself, to further a personal idea of arrangement, of how to use those thoughts, the ones that don't get used. But how to let them tick without abuse. How to repay the debt, use the solvent, blast the botched & troubled nearby— What does everyone else caress? All those etched poses neatly joined: Mastery, hierarchy, witchcraft & shamanism. A spike in the dander keeps me plain enough— but to insist! To consolidate those fears—after months of uncertainty couldn't cough or breathe or pilfer correctly. Now this victorious shape, this idea moves through muteness, shyness, weakness— then it awakens: Becomes a nonconformist happenstance— A person saddled beneath Reaches up for a fiction, abundant and unrestricted ideas poised and in front.

—in memory of Angela Marie Incoronata Caruso Mortola, May 21, 1903–January 14, 2001 1 In-and-out sun   like the light of her mind   that knows and doesn’t   feels and forgets   pelts of rain hid and seek   of thought   first gray then rose but still a steady backlight   (sometimes hidden): “Remember Woody Allen’s line?   I’m not like that   I don’t care when it happens   where I just don’t want to die   not scared   not that I just don’t want to   and I told the doctor!” and the doctor   laughing “Cute old lady   said she doesn’t care about the why and wherefore she just doesn’t want to die . . .” and therefore? then she forgets   smiles   turns her head to nod grande dame at shadows on the walls that gather where the light collects   and falls 2 They gather   where the light collects and falls we can’t see them   but she seems to think at least a few are smiling   so she feels she has to say hello   politely thank these thoughtful ghosts who visit   sister   brothers Sunday best in black   old Brooklyn friends who hardly see   the gulf of sixty years mama and papa   severe Sicilian bookends “Come in, come in” her eyes light up   she waves and beckons all to chairs around her bed so she can boast to brothers   and their wives of all the special things   her daughter did and how her grandkids won   so many prizes and as she vaunts   and glows   her smile blazes 3 But though she glows   but though her smile blazes the sister flickers   fades   the brothers falter her eyesight’s bad   it’s hard to see their faces as if she peered through gauze   or a thick filter and then the others come   the ones she calls “co-tenants” of her rooms   the lovers screwing coarse as goats   in corners   nasty girls smart-aleck guys   who do know what they’re doing and what they do   is occupy her place back home they swarmed   all over her apartment set up a stove   behind her lovely bookcase nursed babies on her sofa   bold indifferent and even here   still shameless in their clingings they mean to steal   they’ll steal   her best belongings 4 What should she do   to safeguard   her belongings? she begs for help   urges us to lock to triple lock   the doors   to hide her things her pearls right here her fruitwood in New York her mother’s hand-carved walnut chairs   the leather- surfaced desk   at which my father sat so long ago   wearing the cashmere sweater grandma bought him   and the Sulka shirt Listen!   Are we listening!   Have we heard? How well he dressed!   How beautiful their place! four rooms in Queens   what lots couldn’t afford in an age of breadlines   shameful jobs   or worse “Tuono di Dio!”   thunder of God   she looses the curse she learned in childhood   for most uses 5 The curses learned   in childhood   have their uses Tuono di Dio! she swears when they strip her   bare to bathe her Tuono di Dio! when the nurses slide the soiled bed pads   to the floor or prop her   in the wheelchair   to be fed thunder of God   echoes along the halls when she tries to fight   the husky nurse’s aide come to sponge her bruises   stains and spills embarrassed   we shiver   in the corridor while she flails   and shrieks for the police “Tuono di Dio! Call the police!”   God’s thunder will scorch us if we leave her   in this place away from her apartment   calm   and peace away from her belongings   purse and keys 6 Away from her belongings   purse   and keys (and crumpled Kleenex   reading glasses coins and comb she always   carries   in that purse) she isn’t real!   she might be only bones! yet the belongings   longings   must go on the bookcase and the rugs   and tables must survive   outlast her   so she tells her grandson how to plan an auction   in the east there are the costs   of those belongings   that the value of mahogany   and this the price of sterling silver (which she fought to buy—a fifth-grade teacher   in the thirties—) and the bracelets   furs   her in-laws gave too bad they can’t   go with her to the grave! 7 What happens to belongings   after the grave? They’ll be   up here and she   she’ll be   down there what of the   stuff she worked   so hard   to have? polished mahogany   and mink   and silver and even the fifteen-year-old   television still good   still just right for the nightly news and the brand-new   vacuum cleaner   even still a— a something someone ought   to choose her face is crumpling   like a handkerchief don’t give it all   away   don’t give it up if you don’t want it   at least sell it off! don’t let the others have it either   stop the thieves before   they drag it all    away don’t let my belongings go astray. . . . 8 Don’t let my belongings   go astray call the super   tell the doorman   keep the windows locked   and barred   the crooks away the one who break   and enter   when you sleep the ones   who follow   sullen   knife and rape how many years   she’s warned us   can’t we hear they’ll pick the locks   they’ll climb the fire   escape just look   the crooks are here   are everywhere a sudden nod   a glance at   the next bed where a wizened   person   gasps and snores that one now   she saw her   yes she did peering in closets   rummaging in drawers even in hospitals   they have   no pity they rob you   when they see   your things are   pretty 9 Yet O it’s nice   that all her things are   pretty her smile blazes   back in Jackson Heights (on one of the   better   blocks   in New York City) her beautiful   apartment   basks and waits a hush of rugs   a drawn Venetian   blind keeping the silence   keeping the bars   of shadow gathered like silent   guardians   around the hanging   shelf   the Wedgewood   the piano and there the family   photographs   are massed my father’s face   blade-thin   in sepia my baby self   in flounces   or undressed from times   when she was poor   but happier belongings blurry   as if   underwater bearing the prints   of mother   father   daughter 10 How far the age   of mother   father   daughter! my baby room with walls   now pink   now blue (but never yellow   though I begged   I fought her) and the tiny snowman   globe   where snowflakes   flew and the little silver   Virgin Mary   shrine whose key I   turned   to play Our Lady’s song “Ave Maria”   tinkling   out of tune and the gray   hooked rug   where silent bluebirds sang and a rabbit ran   away   among the trees but never   vanished   never could   escape whatever chased him   from the knitted haze a scary   thing because it had no shape though now the whole   room’s painted hazy   gray and the rabbit   trees   and birds   raveled away 11 When did her mind   begin to ravel   away? —that time she fell   outside   the beauty parlor (getting pretty for   her grandson’s    birthday)? she didn ’t   answer   when we tried   to call her and soon   with mop and broom   she fought the others called 911   the super   the police there on the sofa   sat   the nursing mothers the lovers   crawled and thrashed   under the bookcase we flew   to Queens   we packed up all   her things the fox-head furs   her mother ’s lion-necklace “But what about all my other   best   belongings?” she worried   then gave up   resigned   to silence a roar of takeoff   buckled in   she hissed “Here’s to my new   adventure   in the west!” 12 At sundown   tantrums   shake the sunset west the nurses turn her toward the flashing   window “See the flowers? See the pretty bird’s nest?” bushes tug in tubs   on the patio where a night   wind   rises   over Astroturf batters the waiting   tables   chairs   and wheelchairs as if they stood   in a swirl   of Pacific surf whose icy water   glitters   darkens   clears “Here’s dinner, hon!” the nurse’s aide   with bib holds out a tray of lukewarm   grown-up   mush last week a fall   tore muscles   cracked a rib how did   she fall   did someone   really push? she tries to remember   strains to see   remembers (sometimes) the names   of sundown   visitors 13 Sometimes the names   of sundown visitors hook into thought   sometimes the sounds   unravel blur   sister   brothers   TV commentators (Frank and Vito turn into Ted Koppel) I visit   afternoons   bring cupcakes   chocolate the only stuff she   ever wants   to eat can barely swallow though   one night past midnight she coughs   a little   chokes on   her own spit the night nurse   didn’t hear   the radio was turned on loud   she’s kind of scared   and sorry and puts a rose   on the poor   old lady’s   pillow and a mortician   calls   and tells us   not to worry above the sunlit bay   the slicing planes rise fast   and one speeds east   with her “remains” 14 Back among   her belongings   her remains glide north northwest   in a shiny   SUV designed to weather snowstorms   freezing rains far from the simmering   fields   of Sicily the East Coast cemetery’s stony   pressed into a cleft   of hills   black ice   I skid on leaning to greet the freckled   hearty   priest looking   not looking at the box   she’s laid in at the edge of the polished   boards   that hold her husband the priest   says the words   she scorned   she didn’t believe (she has to be blessed   to belong   to holy ground) and O she would   scold us   if she were still alive! no Tuono di dio no bolt   so fierce and true as the light of her mind   that felt   that thought   that knew

Mortal, if thou art beloved Life's offences are removed; All the fateful things that checked thee, Hearten, hallow, and protect thee. Grow'st thou mellow? What is age? Tinct on life's illumined page, Where the purple letters glow Deeper, painted long ago. What is sorrow? Comfort's prime, Love's choice Indian summer clime. Sickness!—thou wilt pray it worse For so blessed, balmy nurse. And for death! when thou art dying 'Twill be Love beside thee lying. Death is lonesome? Oh, how brave Shows the foot-frequented grave! Heaven itself is but the casket For Love's treasure, ere he ask it,— Ere with burning heart he follow, Piercing through corruption's hollow. If thou art beloved, oh then Fear no grief from mortal men.

A clumsy hillock Unmolded like a cake on the meadow In the Laguna Mountains. Tough yellow-green grass growing up to a tree As thick as a tooth. In winter, on the road from San Diego, Thousands of cars crawl up to the snow And their passengers get out to investigate it And then drive, discoursing, back home. And that’s California, Solemnly discharging its responsibilities. Meanwhile we breakfast on pancakes the size of a plate While the console radio goes on the blink. Miss L’Espagnole looks out from her frame on the wall, Completely prepared (though for what it is impossible to say). Her left arm is white and dips into a puddle of fire Or a pile of cotton on fire. And each thing is severe: The house hemmed in by pepper trees and Mexico (This one is white and in Chula Vista), and the paraphernalia Strewn around home: a few magazines summing up politics, A matchbox with a lavender automobile on the cover, And a set of soldiers of several military epochs marching off to war on the raffia rug. Unless, you’ve grown up amidst palm trees (and buildings that are either unbuilt, or hospitals) It’s impossible to appreciate a reasonable tree. I sometimes consider the parrots that live in the zoo And are sold on the street in Tijuana. Colored like national flags, Their heads are always cocked to pick up something behind them. And unless you have lived in a place where the fog Closes in like a face, it is impossible to be (even temporarily) relieved When it lifts to expose the freshly painted trim of the city, and it seems Like a fine day for knowledge: sunlight sleeping on top of the rocks And lots of white clouds scudding by like clean sheets Which, when the air in the bedroom is cold, you pull over your head And let the temperature slowly increase while you breathe. But California has only a coast in common with this.

For Arnold Rampersad Shadows bluing the snow, the pines’ and mine, bear the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown I note as I find my way about this town. Blues here more likely the Nordic-eyes kind than the blue-black of some Black folk back home. Here so many lakes reflect the sky’s blue dome; some summer days skimmed-milk blue tints windblown whitecaps. Blue’s an adjective, verb, and noun, and the color of the world when I pine because she’s gone leaving too much wine and time. Blue shadows on the snow, mine and the pines’. For a tall man, blue ox, and now me, home is Bemidji, though the blues here around more the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown than the blue-black of my cousins back home.

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 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 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. 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. 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; 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 — 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 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 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, 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, — 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, 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. 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, 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 — 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, 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 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, 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 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 — 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. 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, 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, 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, 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; 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. 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 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 — 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; — 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, 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. 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? 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 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 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. 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. 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, — 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, — 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. 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. 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; 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, 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 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, 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. He'll break out some day like a keg of ale With too much independent frenzy in it; And all for collaring 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; 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. 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; 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 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, 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. 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 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 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; 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 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. 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. "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 — 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; "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. 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 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 to-morrow." When he talks like that, 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, 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, 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; God gave it, anyhow, — and we'll suppose He knew the compound of his handiwork. To-day 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, — 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. 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, 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'? 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?" 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 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. 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, 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 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 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 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 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. 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, 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 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! 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!

In bed I muse on Tenier’s boors, Embrowned and beery losels all: A wakeful brain Elaborates pain: Within low doors the slugs of boors Laze and yawn and doze again. In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors, Their hazy hovel warm and small: Thought’s ampler bound But chill is found: Within low doors the basking boors Snugly hug the ember-mound. Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall: Thought’s eager sight Aches—overbright! Within low doors the boozy boors Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.