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The scorching noon, the vale in Dagestan... -Mikhail Lermontov I A bullet’s velocity in low temperatures greatly depends on its target’s virtues, on its urge to warm up in the plaited muscles of the torso, in the neck’s webbed sinews. Stones lie flat like a second army. The shade hugs the loam to itself willy-nilly. The sky resembles peeling stucco. An aircraft dissolves in it like a clothes moth, and like a spring from a ripped-up mattress an explosion sprouts up. Outside the crater, the blood, like boiled milk, powerless to seep into the ground, is seized by a film’s hard ripples. II Shepherd and sower, the North is driving herds to the sea, spreading cold to the South. A bright, frosty noon in a Wogistan valley. A mechanical elephant, trunk wildly waving at the horrid sight of the small black rodent of a snow-covered mine, spews out throat-clogging lumps, possessed of that old desire of Mahomet’s, to move a mountain. Summits loom white; the celestial warehouse lends them at noontime its flaking surplus. The mountains lack any motion, passing their immobility to the scattered bodies. III The doleful, echoing Slavic singing at evening in Asia. Dank and freezing, sprawling piles of human pig meat cover the caravansary’s mud bottom. The fuel dung smolders, legs stiffen in numbness. It smells of old socks, of forgotten bath days. The dreams are identical, as are the greatcoats. Plenty of cartridges, few recollections, and the tang in the mouth of too many “hurrahs.” Glory to those who, their glances lowered, marched in the sixties to abortion tables, sparing the homeland its present stigma. IV What is contained in the drone’s dull buzzing? And what in the sound of the aero-engine? Living is getting as complicated as building a house with grapes’ green marbles or little lean-tos with spades and diamonds. Nothing is stable (one puff and it’s over): families, private thoughts, clay shanties. Night over ruins of a mountain village. Armor, wetting its metal sheets with oil slick, freezes in thorn scrub. Afraid of drowning in a discarded jackboot, the moon hides in a cloud as in Allah’s turban. V Idle, inhaled now by no one, air. Imported, carelessly piled-up silence. Rising like dough that’s leavened, emptiness. If the stars had life-forms, space would erupt with a brisk ovation; a gunner, blinking, runs to the footlights. Murder’s a blatant way of dying, a tautology, the art form of parrots, a manual matter, the knack for catching life’s fly in the hairs of the gunsight by youngsters acquainted with blood through either hearsay or violating virgins. VI Pull up the blanket, dig a hole in the palliasse. Flop down and give ear to the oo of the siren. The Ice Age is coming—slavery’s ice age is coming, oozing over the atlas. Its moraines force under nations, fond memories, muslin blouses. Muttering, rolling our eyeballs upward, we are becoming a new kind of bivalve, our voice goes unheard, as though we were trilobites. There’s a draft from the corridor, draft from the square windows. Turn off the light, wrap up in a bundle. The vertebra craves eternity. Unlike a ringlet. In the morning the limbs are past all uncoiling. VII Up in the stratosphere, thought of by no one, the little bitch barks as she peers through the porthole: “Beach Ball! Beach Ball! Over. It's Rover.” The beach ball’s below. With the equator on it like a dog collar. Slopes, fields, and gullies repeat in their whiteness cheekbones (the color of shame has all gone to the banners). And the hens in their snowed-in hen coops, also a-shake from the shock of reveille, lay their eggs of immaculate color. If anything blackens, it’s just the letters, like the tracks of some rabbit, preserved by a wonder.

Bear in mind, my little man: Never let your verses scan. And acceptance will be sparse If, by any chance, they parse. But whatever else you do, Let it not be said of you That your poetry makes sense!. . . . That’s a criminal offense!

Remote and ineffectual Don That dared attack my Chesterton, With that poor weapon, half-impelled, Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held, Unworthy for a tilt with men— Your quavering and corroded pen; Don poor at Bed and worse at Table, Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable; Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes, Don nervous, Don of crudities; Don clerical, Don ordinary, Don self-absorbed and solitary; Don here-and-there, Don epileptic; Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic; Don middle-class, Don sycophantic, Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic; Don hypocritical, Don bad, Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad; Don (since a man must make an end), Don that shall never be my friend. *       *       * Don different from those regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze, Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply billowing gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable! Dons of Might! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep—and learning of a sort. Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand. Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain— The horizon of my memories— Like large and comfortable trees. *       *       * Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame. Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don—Don past all bearing. Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil; Don that serves the devil. Don ugly—that makes fifty lines. There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines. I never cut; I far prefer to end it—but Believe me I shall soon return. My fires are banked, but still they burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton.

who took heroin, then sleeping pills, and who lies in a New York hospital The florist was told, cyclamen or azalea; White in either case, for you are pale As they are, “blooming early and profusely” Though the azalea grows in sandier soil, Needing less care; while cyclamen’s fleshy tubers Are adored, yes, rooted out by some. One flourishes in aridness, while the other Feeds the love which devours. But what has flung you here for salvaging From a city’s dereliction, this New York? A world against whose finger-and-breath-marked windows These weak flares may be set. Our only bulwark is the frailest cover: Lovers touch from terror of being alone. The urban surface: tough and granular, Poor ground for the affections to take root. Left to our own devices, we devise Such curious deaths, comas, or mutilations! You may buy peace, white, in sugary tincture, No way of knowing its strength, or your own, Until you lie quite still, your perfect limbs In meditation: the spirit rouses, flutters Like a handkerchief at a cell window, signaling, Self-amazed, its willingness to endure. The thing to cling to is the sense of expectation. Who knows what may occur in the next breath? In the pallor of another morning we neither Anticipated nor wanted! Eve, waken to flowers Unforeseen, from someone you don’t even know. Azalea or cyclamen ... we live in wonder, Blaze in a cycle of passion and apprehension Though once we lay and waited for a death.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fir'd; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expir'd. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house; Trunks unpacking Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient—push from shore. "Have a care! that case holds liquor— Stop the boat—I'm sick—oh Lord!" "Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.— Such the genial noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew. "Hey day! call you that a cabin? Why 't is hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in— Who the deuce can harbour there?" "Who, sir? plenty— Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fill." "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretch'd along the deck like logs— Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth—and damns our souls. "Here's a stanza On Braganza— Help!"—"A couplet?"—"No, a cup Of warm water—" "What's the matter?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on—as I do now. Laugh at all things, Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing, Let's have laughing— Who the devil cares for more?— Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no: Senseless is the breast and cold Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortur'd lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough. On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap, One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few gray rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land: Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughter'd town, When a king in glory rides Through the pomp of fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim, Who once cloth'd with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted: 'Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean With which the legion'd rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starr'd with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail, And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath Day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destin'd halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclin'd On the level quivering line Of the water crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that rais'd thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of Ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandon'd sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through a{:e}real gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourish'd worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murder'd, and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chain'd like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they, Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consum'd away— Earth can spare ye! while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming. Perish—let there only be Floating o'er thy hearthless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tatter'd pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan: That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the sons of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcom'd him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror: what though yet Poesy's unfailing river, Which through Albion winds forever Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred Poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled! What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own, oh, rather say Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul! As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imag'd 'mid mortality; As the love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly; so thou art, Mighty spirit: so shall be The City that did refuge thee. Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heap'd upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchang'd though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Play'd at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, 'I win, I win!' And Sin curs'd to lose the wager, But Death promis'd, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destin'd years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian. Sin smil'd so as Sin only can, And since that time, ay, long before, Both have rul'd from shore to shore, That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time. In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betray'd and to betray: Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth: Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by Tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born: The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darken'd sky With myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear: so thou, O Tyranny, beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest: Grovel on the earth; ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride! Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curv'd horizon's bound To the point of Heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant Frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellis'd lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from his hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit which so long Darken'd this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky: Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remember'd agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of Life and Agony: Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine: We may live so happy there, That the Spirits of the Air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdu'd By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies, And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood: They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again.

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand! Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. In the huge world, which roars hard by, Be others happy if they can! But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan. I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world And now keeps only in the grave. Yet here is peace for ever new! When I who watch them am away, Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day. Then to their happy rest they pass! The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed. Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar. The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

She left me at the silent time When the moon had ceas'd to climb The azure path of Heaven's steep, And like an albatross asleep, Balanc'd on her wings of light, Hover'd in the purple night, Ere she sought her ocean nest In the chambers of the West. She left me, and I stay'd alone Thinking over every tone Which, though silent to the ear, The enchanted heart could hear, Like notes which die when born, but still Haunt the echoes of the hill; And feeling ever—oh, too much!— The soft vibration of her touch, As if her gentle hand, even now, Lightly trembled on my brow; And thus, although she absent were, Memory gave me all of her That even Fancy dares to claim: Her presence had made weak and tame All passions, and I lived alone In the time which is our own; The past and future were forgot, As they had been, and would be, not. But soon, the guardian angel gone, The daemon reassum'd his throne In my faint heart. I dare not speak My thoughts, but thus disturb'd and weak I sat and saw the vessels glide Over the ocean bright and wide, Like spirit-winged chariots sent O'er some serenest element For ministrations strange and far, As if to some Elysian star Sailed for drink to medicine Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. And the wind that wing'd their flight From the land came fresh and light, And the scent of winged flowers, And the coolness of the hours Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, Were scatter'd o'er the twinkling bay. And the fisher with his lamp And spear about the low rocks damp Crept, and struck the fish which came To worship the delusive flame. Too happy they, whose pleasure sought Extinguishes all sense and thought Of the regret that pleasure leaves, Destroying life alone, not peace!

I wake and feel the city trembling. Yes, there is something unsettled in the air And the earth is uncertain. And so it was for the tenor Caruso. He couldn’t sleep—you know how the ovation Rings in your ears, and you re-sing your part. And then the ceiling trembled And the floor moved. He ran into the street. Never had Naples given him such a reception! The air was darker than Vesuvius. “O mamma mia,” He cried, “I’ve lost my voice!” At that moment the hideous voice of Culture, Hysterical woman, thrashing her arms and legs, Shrieked from the ruins. At that moment everyone became a performer. Otello and Don Giovanni And Figaro strode on the midmost stage. In the high window of a burning castle Lucia raved. Black horses Plunged through fire, dragging the wild bells. The curtains were wrapped in smoke. Tin swords Were melting; masks and ruffs Burned—and the costumes of the peasants’ chorus. Night fell. The white moon rose And sank in the Pacific. The tremors Passed under the waves. And Death rested. 2 Now, as we stand idle, Watching the silent, bowler-hatted man, The engineer, who writes in the smoking field; Now as he hands the paper to a boy, Who takes it and runs to a group of waiting men, And they disperse and move toward their wagons, Mules bray and the wagons move— Wait! Before you start (Already the wheels are rattling on the stones) Say, did your fathers cross the dry Sierras To build another London? Do Americans always have to be second-rate? Wait! For there are spirits In the earth itself, or the air, or sea. Where are the aboriginal American devils? Cloud shadows, pine shadows Falling across the bright Pacific bay ... (Already they have nailed rough boards together) Wait only for the wind That rustles in the eucalyptus tree. Wait only for the light That trembles on the petals of a rose. (The mortar sets—banks are the first to stand) Wait for a rose, and you may wait forever. The silent man mops his head and drinks Cold lemonade. “San Francisco Is a city second only to Paris.” 3 Every night, at the end of America We taste our wine, looking at the Pacific. How sad it is, the end of America! While we were waiting for the land They’d finished it—with gas drums On the hilltops, cheap housing in the valleys Where lives are mean and wretched. But the banks thrive and the realtors Rejoice—they have their America. Still, there is something unsettled in the air. Out there on the Pacific There’s no America but the Marines. Whitman was wrong about the People, But right about himself. The land is within. At the end of the open road we come to ourselves. Though mad Columbus follows the sun Into the sea, we cannot follow. We must remain, to serve the returning sun, And to set tables for death. For we are the colonists of Death— Not, as some think, of the English. And we are preparing thrones for him to sit, Poems to read, and beds In which it may please him to rest. This is the land The pioneers looked for, shading their eyes Against the sun—a murmur of serious life.