Part 19

THE STRUGGLE

I HAVE been down in a dark valley; I have been groping through a deep gorge; Far above, the lips of it were rimmed with moonlight, And here and there the light lay on the dripping rocks So that it seemed they dripped with moonlight, not with water; So deep it was, that narrow gash among the hills, That those great pines which fringed its edge Seemed to me no larger than upthrust fingers Silhouetted against the sky; And at its top the vale was strait, And the rays were slant And reached but part way down the sides; I could not see the moon itself; I walked through darkness, and the valley's edge Seemed almost level with the stars, The stars that were like fireflies in the little trees.

It was the midnight of defeat; I felt that I had failed; I was mocked of the gods; There was no way out of that gorge; The paths led no whither And I could not remember their beginnings; I was doomed to wander evermore, Thirsty, with the sound of mocking waters in mine ears, Groping, with gleams of useless light Splashed in ironic beauty on the rocks above. And so I whined.

And then despair flashed into rage; I leapt erect, and cried: "Could I but grasp my life as sculptors grasp the clay And knead and thrust it into shape again!-- If all the scorn of Heaven were but thrown Into the focus of some creature I could clutch!-- If something tangible were but vouchsafed me By the cold, far gods!-- If they but sent a Reason for the failure of my life I'd answer it; If they but sent a Fiend, I'd conquer it!--

But I reach out, and grasp the air, I rage, and the brute rock echoes my words in mockery-- How can one fight the sliding moonlight on the cliffs? You gods, coward gods, Come down, I challenge you!-- You who set snares with roses and with passion, You who make flesh beautiful and damn men through the flesh, You who plump the purple grape and then put poison in the cup, You who put serpents in your Edens, You who gave me delight of my senses and broke me for it, You who have mingled death with beauty, You who have put into my blood the impulses for which you cursed me, You who permitted my brain the doubts wherefore you damn me, Behold, I doubt you, gods, no longer, but defy!-- I perish here? Then I will be slain of a god! You who have wrapped me in the scorn of your silence, The divinity in this same dust you flout

Flames through the dust, And dares, And flings you back your scorn,-- Come, face to face, and slay me if you will, But not until you've felt the weight Of all betricked humanity's contempt In one bold blow!-- Speak forth a Reason, and I will answer it, Yes, to your faces I will answer it; Come garmented in flesh and I will fight with you, Yes, in your faces will I smite you, gods; Coward gods and tricksters that set traps In paradise!-- Far gods that hedge yourselves about with silence And with distance; That mock men from the unscalable escarpments of your Heavens."

Thus I raved, being mad. I had no sooner finished speaking than I felt The darkness fluttered by approaching feet, And the silence was burned through by trembling flames of sound, And I was 'ware that Something stood by me.

And with a shout I leapt and grasped that Being, And the Thing grasped me. We came to wrestling grips, And back and forth we swayed, Hand seeking throat, and crook'd knee seeking To encrook unwary leg, And spread toes grasping the uneven ground; The strained breast muscles cracked and creaked, The sweat ran in my eyes, The plagued breath sobbed and whistled through my throat, I tasted blood, and strangled, but still struggled on-- The stars above me danced in swarms like yellow bees, The shaken moonlight writhed upon the rocks;-- But at the last I felt his breathing weaker grow, The tense limbs grow less tense, And with a bursting cry I bent his head right back, Back, back, until I heard his neck bones snap; His spine crunched in my grip; I flung him to the earth and knelt upon his breast

And listened till the fluttering pulse was stilled. Man, god, or devil, I had wrenched the life from him!

And lo!--even as he died The moonlight failed above the vale,-- And somehow, sure, I know now how!-- Between the rifted rocks the great Sun struck A finger down the cliff, and that red beam Lay sharp across the face of him that I had slain; And in that light I read the answer of the silent gods Unto my cursed-out prayer, For he that lay upon the ground was--I! I understood the lesson then; It was myself that lay there dead; Yes, I had slain my Self.

THE REBEL

No doubt the ordered worlds speed on With purpose in their wings; No doubt the ordered songs are sweet Each worthy angel sings; And doubtless it is wise to heed The ordered words of Kings;

But how the heart leaps up to greet The headlong, rebel flight, Whenas some reckless meteor Blazes across the night! Some comet--Byron--Lucifer-- Has dared to Be, and fight!

No doubt but it is safe to dwell Where ordered duties are; No doubt the cherubs earn their wage Who wind each ticking star;

No doubt the system is quite right!-- Sane, ordered, regular;

But how the rebel fires the soul Who dares the strong gods' ire! Each Byron!--Shelley!--Lucifer!-- And all the outcast choir That chant when some Prometheus Leaps up to steal Jove's fire!

THE CHILD AND THE MILL

BETTER a pauper, penniless, asleep on the kindly sod-- Better a gipsy, houseless, but near to the heart of God,

That beats for ears not dulled by the clanking wheels of care-- Better starvation and freedom, hope and the good fresh air

Than death to the Something in him that was born to laugh and dream, That was kin to the idle lilies and the ripples of the stream.

For out of the dreams of childhood, that careless come and go, The boy gains strength, unknowing, that the Man will prove and know.

But these fools with their lies and their dollars, their mills and their bloody hands, Who make a god of a wheel, who worship their whirring bands,

They are flinging the life of a people, raw, to the brute machines. Dull-eyed, weary, and old--old in his early teens--

Stunted and stupid and twisted, marred in the mills of grief, Can your factories fashion a Man of this thing-- a Man and a Chief?

Dumb is the heart of him now, at the time when his heart should sing-- Wasters of body and brain, what race will the future bring?

What of the nation's nerve whenas swift crises come? What of the brawn that should heave the guns on the beck of the drum?

Thieves of body and soul, who can neither think nor feel, Swine-eyed priests of little false gods of gold and steel,

Bow to your obscene altars, worship your loud mills then! Feed to Moloch and Baal the brawn and brains of men--