Behind the Arras | Page 8

Bliss Carman
have surprised him often
On Tremont street,
And marked the
grave face soften,
The mouth grow sweet,
In a brown study over
The men and women.
An unsuspected rover

That, for our Common.
When the first jonquils come,
And spring is sold
On the street
corners, some
Of the pretty gold
Is sure to find its way
Home in his hand.
And many a winter day

At some cab-stand,
He'll watch the cabmen feed
The pigeon flocks,
Or bid some liner

speed
From the icy docks.
His rooms? I much regret
You cannot see
His rooms, but they were
let
With guarantee
Of his seclusion there--
Except myself.
Each morning, table, chair,

Lamp, hearth, and shelf,
I rearrange, refreshen,
Put all to rights,
Then leave him in
possession.
Ah, but the nights,
The nights! Sir, if I dared
But once set eye
To keyhole, nor be
scared,
From playing Paul Pry,
I doubt not I should learn
A wondrous thing
Or two; and in return

Go blind till spring.
The light under his door
Is glory enough,
It outshines any star

That I know of.
Wirrah, my lad, my lad,
'T is fearsome strange,
The hints we all
have had
Passing the range
Of science, knowledge, law,
Or what you will,
Whose intangible
touch of awe
Makes reason nil.
Many a night I start,
Sudden awake,
Feeling my smothered heart

Flutter and quake;
Like an aspen at dead of noon,
When not a breath
Is stirring to
trouble the boon
Valley. A wraith
Or a fetch, it must be, shivers
The soul of the tree
Till every leaf of
it quivers.
And so with me.
Was it the shuffle of feet
I heard go by,
With muffled drums in the

street?
Was it the cry
Of a rider riding the night
Into ashes and dawn,
With news in his
nostrils and fright
Where his hoof-beats had gone?
Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee,"
Bid regiments form?
Did a
renegade's soul get free
On a wail of the storm?
Did a flock of wild geese honk
As they cleared the hill?
Or only a
bittern cronk,
Then all was still?
Was it a night stampede
Of a thousand head?
I know I shook like a
reed
There on my bed.
Nameless and void and wild
Was the fear before me,
Ere I
bethought me and smiled
As the truth flashed o'er me.
Of course, it was only his hand
Freeing the bass
Of his old Amati,
grand
In the silence' face.
Rummaging up and down,
From string to string,
Bidding the
discords drown,
The harmonies spring,
Where tides and tide-winds rove
Far out from land,
On the ocean of
music a-move
At the will of his hand.
Sobbing and grieving now,
Now glad as a bird,
Thou, thou, thou

Of the joys unheard,
Luminous radiant sea
Of the sounds and time,
Surely, surely by
thee
Is eternal prime.
Holy and beautiful deep,
Spread down before
The imperial coming
of sleep,
Endure, endure!
And sleep, be thou the ranger
Over it wan.
And dream, be thou no

stranger
There with the dawn.
Then wings of the sun, go abroad
As a scarlet desire,
Unwearied,
unwaning, unawed,
To quest and aspire,
Till the drench of the dusk you drink
In the poppy-field west;
Then
veer and settle and sink
As a gull to her nest.
Wind,
Away, away!
And hurry your phantom kind
Through the
gates of day,
Or ever the king's dark cup
With its studs and spars
Be inverted,
and earth look up
To the shuddering stars.
Blaring and triumphing now,
Now quailing and lone,
Thou, thou,
thou
Of the joys unknown!
Unknown and wild, wild,
Where the merrymen be,
Sink to sleep,
soul of a child,
Slumber, thou sea!
All this his fiddle plays,
And many a thing
As strange, when his
mood so lays
The bow to the string.
Sleepless! He never sleeps
That I can find.
I marvel how he keeps

A bit of his mind.
There is neither sight nor sound
In the world of sense,
But he has
fathomed and found
In the silvery tense
Keen cords on the amber wood.
As he wrings them thence,
Death
smiles at his hardihood
For recompense.
Oh fair they are, so fair!
No tongue can tell
How he sets them
chiming there
Clear as a bell.
An orchard of birds in June,
The winds that stream,
The cold

sea-brooks that croon,
The storms that scream,
The planets that float and swing
Like buoys on the tide,
The
north-going legions in spring,
The hills that abide,
The frigate-bird clouds that range,
The vagabond moon--
That
wilful lover of change--
And the workaday sun,
Dying summer and fall,
Seasons and men
And herds, he has them
all
In his shadowy ken.
He calls and they come, leaving strife,
Leaving discord and death,

Out of oblivion to life,
Though its span be a breath.
There they are, all the beautiful things
I loved and lost sight of

Long since in the far-away springs,
Come back for a night of
New being as good as their old,
Aye, better in fact,
For somehow he
gilds their fine gold,--
Gives the one thing they lacked,
The breath, aspiration, desire,
Core, kindle, control,
Memory and
rapture and fire,--
The touch of man's soul.
How know the true master? I know
By my joys and my fears,
For
my heart crumbles down like the snow
With spring rain into tears.
Now I am a precious one!
With nothing to do
But idle here in the
sun
And gossip with you
Of a stranger you have not seen,
As like never will.
I would every
soul had a screen,
When the wind sets ill
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