The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-
117 lines✦
he impact of a dollar upon the heartSmiles warm red light,Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon thewhite table,With the hanging cool velvet shadowsMoving softly upon the door. The impact of a million dollarsIs a crash of flunkys,And yawning emblems of PersiaCheeked against oak, France and a sabre,The outcry of old beautyWhored by pimping merchantsTo submission before wine and chatter.Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men,Dead men who dreamed fragrance and lightInto their woof, their lives;The rug of an honest bearUnder the feet of a cryptic slaveWho speaks always of baubles,Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state,Champing and mouthing of hats,Making ratful squeak of hats,Hats. A man said to the universe:"Sir, I exist!""However," replied the universe,"The fact has not created in me"A sense of obligation." When the prophet, a complacent fatman,Arrived at the mountain-top,He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!"I intended to see good white lands"And bad black lands,"But the scene is grey." There was a land where lived noviolets.A traveller at once demanded: "Why?"The people told him:"Once the violets of this place spoke thus:"'Until some woman freely give her lover"'To another woman"'We will fight in bloody scuffle.'"Sadly the people added:"There are no violets here." There was one I met upon the roadWho looked at me with kind eyes.He said: "Show me of your wares."And I did,Holding forth one,He said: "It is a sin."Then I held forth another.He said: "It is a sin."Then I held forth another.He said: "It is a sin."And so to the end.Always He said: "It is a sin."At last, I cried out:"But I have non other."He looked at meWith kinder eyes."Poor soul," he said. Aye, workman, make me a dream,A dream for my love.Cunningly weave sunlight,Breezes, and flowers.Let it be of the cloth of meadows.And--good workman--And let there be a man walking thereon. Each small gleam was a voice,A lantern voice--In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.A chorus of colors came over the water;The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,No pines crooned on the hills,The blue night was elsewhere a silence,When the chorus of colors came over thewater,Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. Small glowing pebblesThrown on the dark plane of eveningSing good ballads of GodAnd eternity, with soul's rest.Little priests, little holy fathers,None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.When the marvellous chorus comes over thewater,Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. The trees in the garden rained flowers.Children ran there joyously.They gathered the flowersEach to himself.Now there were someWho gathered great heaps--Having opportunity and skill--Until, behold, only chance blossomsRemained for the feeble.Then a little spindling tutorRan importantly to the father, crying:"Pray, come hither!"See this unjust thing in your garden!"But when the father had surveyed,He admonished the tutor:"Not so, small sage!"This thing is just."For, look you,"Are not they who possess the flowers"Stronger, bolder, shrewder"Than they who have none?"Why should the strong--"The beautiful strong--"Why should they not have the flowers? Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to theground."My lord," he said,"The stars are displaced"By this towering wisdom."
✦