Part 10

"That's an unhandsome thing to say, Seeing I've only been gone a day.

But there's nothing in all your brazen sky To match the cock of that poodle's eye.

Take your dish and give me my wings, 'Tis but a fair exchange of things."

* * * * *

The beggar felt his garment's rot, The horn ridge of each callous spot;

He clinked his can and was content; His poverty was permanent.

IMPROVISATION ON AN OLD SONG

(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in one of his letters)

Growing, growing, all the glory going; Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk, All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk-- Growing, growing, all the glory going.

Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root, Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit; Growing, growing, all the glory going.

Plot, ye subtle statesmen,--a trace of melted wax; Bind, ye haughty prelates,--a thread of ravelled flax; Growing, growing, all the glory going.

March, ye mighty captains,--an eddy in the dust; Rave, ye furious lovers,--a stain of crimson rust; Growing, growing, all the glory going.

Pictures, poems, music--their essential soul, Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl; Growing, growing, all the glory going.

London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth, Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith; Growing, growing, all the glory going.

Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun, In a crushing silence the All is dead and done. Growing, growing, all the glory going.

Going, going, all the glory growing, See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark! Singing in the caverns of the primal dark. Going, going, all the glory growing.

What is in the making, what immortal plan Draws to its unfolding? 'Tis the Soul of man. Going, going, all the glory growing.

See it mount and hover, singing as it goes, Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes; Going, going, all the glory growing.

The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes, Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise; Going, going, all the glory growing.

The supernal morning on its dewy wings, Soaring and scorning the lust of earthy things; Going, going, all the glory growing.

The beatific noontide on its eager breast Springing and singing to its halcyon rest; Going, going, all the glory growing.

In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod, Winging still and singing to the heart of God. Going, going, all the glory growing.

O TURN ONCE MORE

O turn once more! The meadows where we mused and strayed together Abound and glow yet with the ruby sorrel; 'Twas there the bluebirds fought and played together, Their quarrel was a flying bluebird-quarrel; Their nest is firm still in the burnished cherry, They will come back there some day and be merry; O turn once more.

O turn once more! The spring we lingered at is ever steeping The long, cool grasses where the violets hide, Where you awoke the flower-heads from their sleeping And plucked them, proud in their inviolate pride; You left the roots, the roots will flower again, O turn once more and pluck the flower again; O turn once more.

O turn once more! We were the first to find the fairy places Where the tall lady-slippers scarf'd and snooded, Painted their lovely thoughts upon their faces, And then, bewitched by their own beauty brooded; This will recur in some enchanted fashion; Time will repeat his miracles of passion; O turn once more.

O turn once more! What heart is worth the longing for, the winning, That is not moved by currents of surprise; Who never breaks the silken thread in spinning, Shows a bare spindle when the daylight dies; The constant blood will yet flow full and tender; The thread will mended be though gossamer-slender; O turn once more.

AT THE GILL-NETS