Part 8

The Giver of Stars

Hold your soul open for my welcoming. Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame, And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world, And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

The Temple

Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame. Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew And vanished in the sunshine. How it came We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name. From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew Together into fire. But we knew The winds would slap and quench it in their game. And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks To treasure it, and placed them round about. With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole, And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without, The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.

Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success

Beneath this sod lie the remains Of one who died of growing pains.

In Answer to a Request

You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear, Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? For your sake, I would go and seek the year, Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer Pulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that! My shadow stretches forward, and the ground Is dark in front because the light's behind. It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, In watching it and walking I have found More than enough to occupy my mind.

I cannot turn, the light would make me blind.

POPPY SEED

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck

A yellow band of light upon the street Pours from an open door, and makes a wide Pathway of bright gold across a sheet Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, The clip of tankards on a table top, And stir of booted heels. Against the patch Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop.

This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. Within his cellar men can have to drink The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart A cap as ever in his wantonness Winter set glittering on top of an old yew.

Tall candles stand upon the table, where Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. The centre of the board is piled with pipes, Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.

"For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!" Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. "Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, From that small barrel in the very roots Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke His best tobacco for a grand climax. Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!"

Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. "Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan." The host set down a jar; then to a vat Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew Into the silver night. At once there flung Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them:

"Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? My master sent me to inquire where Such men do mostly be, but every door Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. I pray you tell me where I may now find One versed in law, the matter will not wait." "I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mind Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power.

Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout Within the tavern jeered at his employ. Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, Flooded the open spaces, and took flight Before tall, serried houses in platoon, Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night.

Before a door which fronted a canal The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. The water lapped the stones in musical And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, And through the open door Max went toward Another door, whence sound of voices came. He entered a large room where candelabra burned.

An aged man in quilted dressing gown Rose up to greet him. "Sir," said Max, "you sent Your messenger to seek throughout the town A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, But I am at your service, and my name Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command." "Mynheer," replied the aged man, "obliged Am I, and count myself much privileged. I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame Is better known on distant oceans than on land.

My ship has tasted water in strange seas, And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles." "Tush, Kurler," here broke in the other man, "Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign." The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, "My good friend, Grootver,--" he at once began. "No introductions, let us have some wine, And business, now that you at last have made your choice."

A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. Kurler explained, his old hands nervously Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind Had so delayed him that his cargo brought But half its proper price, the very day He came to port he stepped ashore to find The market glutted and his counted profits naught.

Little by little Max made out the way That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. His money he must have, too long delay Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. "But let me take my ship, with many bales Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails Open for home, such stores will I bring you That all your former ventures will be counted waste.

Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, Tobacco, coffee!" Grootver only laughed. Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard The deed to which the sailor gave his word. He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went.

For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. But on one black and most unfriendly day Grootver had caught her as she passed between The kitchen and the garden. She had run In fear of him, his evil leering eye, And when he came she, bolted in her room, Refused to show, though gave no reason why. The spinning of her future had begun, On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom.

Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. He felt his hands were building up the pyre To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo He staggered to his chair. Before him lay White paper still unspotted by a crime. "Now, young man, write," said Grootver in his ear. "`If in two years my vessel should yet stay From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear."

And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. Grootver got up: "Fair voyage, the brigantine!" He shuffled from the room, and left the house. His footsteps wore to silence down the street. At last the aged man began to rouse. With help he once more gained his trembling feet. "My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow."