The Singing Man | Page 4

Chief._'
I

Highway, stretched along the sun,
Highway, thronged till day is done;

Where the drifting Face replaces
Wave on wave on wave of faces,

And you count them, one by one:
'_Rich man--Poor man--Beggar man--Thief:

Doctor--Lawyer--Merchant--Chief._'
Is it soothsay?--Is it fun?
Young ones, like as wave and wave;
Old ones, like as grave and
grave;
Tide on tide of human faces
With what human undertow!

Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief!--
Tell me of the eddying
spaces,
Show me where the lost ones go;
Like and lost, as leaf and
leaf.
What's your secret grim refrain
Back and forth and back again,

Once, and now, and always so?
Three days since, and who was
Thief?
Three days more, and who'll be Chief?
Oh, is that beyond
belief,
Doctor, Lawyer--Merchant-Chief?
(_Down, like grass before the mowing;
On, like wind in its mad
going:--
Wind and dust forever blowing._)
Highway, shrill with murderous pride,
Highway, of the swarming tide!

Why should my way lead me deeper?
I am not my Brother's
keeper.
II
Byway, ambushed with the dark,
Byway, where the ears may hark;

Live and fierce when day is done,
You, that do without the Sun:--

What's this game you bring to nought?--
Muttering like a thing
distraught,
Reckoning like a simpleton?
(Since the hearing must be
brief,--
Living or a dying thief!)
Cobbled with the anguished stones

That the thoroughfare disowns;
Stones they gave you for your
bread
Of the disinherited!
Where the Towers of Hunger loom,

Crowding in the dregs of doom;
Where the lost sky peering through

Sees no more the grudging grass,--

Only this mud-mirrored blue,


Like some shattered looking-glass.
(_Under, with the sorry reaping!
Underneath the stones of weeping,

For the Dark to have in keeping._)
Byway, you, so foully marred;
You, whose sodden walls and scarred,

See no light, but only where
Fevered lamps are set to stare
In the
eyes of such despair!
Tell me--as a Byway can--
Was this Beggar
once a Man?
'Rich man--Poor man--Beggar man--Thief!'
Like and
lost as leaf and leaf.
Stammering out your wrongs and shames,

Must you cry their very names?
Must you sob your shame, your grief?

--'Poor man--Poor man!--Beggar--Thief.'
III
Highway, where the Sun is wide;
Byway, where the lost ones hide,

Byway, where the Soul must hark,
Byway, dreadful with the Dark:
Can you nothing do with Man?
Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief,

Learns he nothing, even of grief?
Must it still be all his wonder

Some men soar, while some go under?
He has heard, and he has seen:

Make him know the thing you mean.
He has prayed since time
began,--
He's so curious of the Plan!
He will pray you till he die,

For the Whence and for the Why;
Mad for wisdom--when 'tis cheaper!

'_Why should my way lead me deeper?
Am I, then, my Brother's
keeper?_'
Show him, Byway, if you can;
Lest he end as he began,
Rich and
poor,--this beggar, Man.
_But we did walk in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God;--
There, where
no beckoning wonder
Of all the paths we trod,
No choiring
sun-filled vineyard,
No voice of stream or bird,
But was some
radiant oracle
And flaming with the Word!_

_Mine ears are dim with voices;
Mine eyes yet strive to see
The
black things here to wonder at,
The mirth,--the misery.
Beloved,
who wert with me there,
How came these shames to be?--
On what
lost star are we?_
_Men say: The paths of gladness
By men were never trod!--
But we
have walked in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God._
THE FOUNDLING
Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
And I am wearied. And the day is done.
Now, while the wild brooks
run
Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray,
Their laughters turned
to musing--ah, let me
Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,

Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.
The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
Along the meadows and the paling foam,
All wings of thine that roam

Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
The silence of the
earth; and from the warm
Face of the field the upward savors swarm

Into the darkness. And the herds are home.
All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
Mad-mane and
gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,--
O
shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
With human-aching heart,
as I a star--
Tempest of plumèd joys, just to be near!
So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
So beautiful to see,
Ah,
and to touch! When those far lights above
Scorch me with
farness--lights that call and call
To the far heart, and answer not at all;


Save that they will not let the darkness be.
And what am I? That I alone of these
Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
The after-glow go
dark?
This hour to sing--but never have--heart's-ease!
That when
the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
Outside our happy windows
their old rune,
Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?
Who am I? Why for me this iron Must?
Burden the moon-white ox would never bear;
Load that he cannot
share,
He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.
Else should I look to
see the god's surprise
Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes--

The ox thou gavest to partake my care.
Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.