Read Ebook: My Lattice and Other Poems by Scott Frederick George

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Ebook has 341 lines and 26588 words, and 7 pages

Thou who madest me so fair, Strong and buoyant as the air, Tall and noble as a tree, With the passions of the sea,

Swift as horse upon my feet, Fierce as lion in my heat, Rending, like a wisp of hay, All that dared withstand my way,

Canst Thou see me through the gloom Of this subterranean tomb,-- Blinded tiger in his den, Once the lord and prince of men?

Clay was I; the potter Thou With Thy thumb-nail smooth'dst my brow, Roll'dst the spittle-moistened sands Into limbs between Thy hands.

Thou didst pour into my blood Fury of the fire and flood, And upon the boundless skies Thou didst first unclose my eyes.

And my breath of life was flame, God-like from the source it came, Whirling round like furious wind, Thoughts upgathered in the mind.

Strong Thou mad'st me, till at length All my weakness was my strength; Tortured am I, blind and wrecked, For a faulty architect.

From the woman at my side, Was I woman-like to hide What she asked me, as if fear Could my iron heart come near?

Nay, I scorned and scorn again Cowards who their tongues restrain; Cared I no more for Thy laws Than a wind of scattered straws.

When the earth quaked at my name And my blood was all aflame, Who was I to lie, and cheat Her who clung about my feet?

From Thy open nostrils blow Wind and tempest, rain and snow; Dost Thou curse them on their course, For the fury of their force?

Tortured am I, wracked and bowed, But the soul within is proud; Dungeon fetters cannot still Forces of the tameless will.

Israel's God, come down and see All my fierce captivity; Let Thy sinews feel my pains, With Thy fingers lift my chains.

Then, with thunder loud and wild, Comfort Thou Thy rebel child, And with lightning split in twain Loveless heart and sightless brain.

Give me splendour in my death-- Not this sickening dungeon breath, Creeping down my blood like slime, Till it wastes me in my prime.

Give me back for one blind hour, Half my former rage and power, And some giant crisis send, Meet to prove a hero's end.

O ye great company of dead that sleep Under the world's green rind, I come to you, With warm, soft limbs, with eyes that laugh and weep, Heart strong to love, and brain pierced through and through With thoughts whose rapid lightnings make my day-- To you my life-stream courses on its way Through margin-shallows of the eternal deep.

And naked shall I come among you, shorn Of all life's vanities, its light and power, Its earthly lusts, its petty hate and scorn, The gifts and gold I treasured for an hour; And even from this house of flesh laid bare,-- A soul transparent as heat-quivering air, Into your fellowship I shall be born.

I know you not, great forms of giant kings, Who held dominion in your iron hands, Who toyed with battles and all valorous things, Counting yourselves as gods when on the sands Ye piled the earth's rock fragments in an heap To mark and guard the grandeur of your sleep, And quaffed the cup which death, our mother, brings.

I know you not, great warriors, who have fought When blood flowed like a river at your feet, And each death which your thunderous sword-strokes wrought, Than love's wild rain of kisses was more sweet. I know you not, great minds, who with the pen Have graven on the fiery hearts of men Hopes that breed hope and thoughts that kindle thought.

But ye are there, ingathered in the realm Where tongueless spirits speak from heart to heart, And eyeless mariners without a helm Steer down the seas where ever close and part The windless clouds; and all ye know is this, Ye are not as ye were in pain or bliss, But a strange numbness doth all thought o'erwhelm.

And I shall meet you, O ye mighty dead, Come late into your kingdom through the gates Of one fierce anguish whitherto I tread, With heart that now forgets, now meditates Upon the wide fields stretching far away Where the dead wander past the bounds of day, Past life, past death, past every pain and dread.

Oft, when the winter sun slopes down to rest Across the long, crisp fields of gilded white, And without sound upon earth's level breast The grey tide floods around of drowning night, A whisper, like a distant battle's roll Heard over mountains, creeps into my soul, And there I entertain it like a guest.

It is the echo of your former pains, Great dead, who lie so still beneath the ground; Its voice is as the night wind after rains, The flight of eagle wings which once were bound, And as I listen in the starlit air My spirit waxeth stronger than despair, Till in your might I break life's prison chains.

Then mount I swiftly to your dark abodes, Invisible, beyond sight's reach, where now ye dwell In houses wrought of dreams on dusky roads Which lead in mazes whither none may tell, For they who thread them faint beside the way. And ever as they pass through twilight grey Doubt walks beside them and a terror goads.

And there the great dead welcome me and bring Their cups of tasteless pleasure to my mouth; Here am I little worth, there am I king, For pulsing life still slakes my spirit's drouth, And he who yet doth hold the gift of life Is mightier than the heroes of past strife Who have been mowed in death's great harvesting.

And here and there along the silent streets I see some face I knew, perchance I loved; And as I call it each blank wall repeats The uttered name, and swift the form hath moved And heedless of me passes on and on, Till lo, the vision from my sight hath gone Softly as night at touch of dawn retreats.

Yet must life's vision fade and I shall come, O mighty dead, into your hidden land, When these eyes see not and these lips are dumb, And all life's flowers slip from this nerveless hand; Then will ye gather round me like a tide And with your faces the strange scenery hide, While your weird music doth each sense benumb.

So would I live this life's brief span, great dead, As ye once lived it, with an iron will, A heart of steel to conquer, a mind fed On richest hopes and purposes, until Well pleased ye set for me a royal throne, And welcome as confederate with your own The soul gone from me on my dying bed.

Here stood the great god Thor, There he planted his foot, And the whole world shook, from the shore To the circle of mountains God put For its crown in the days of yore.

The waves of the sea uprose, The trees of the wood were uptorn, Down from the Alps' crown of snows The glacial avalanche borne Thundered at daylight's close.

But the moon-lady curled at his feet, Like a smoke which will not stir, When the summer hills swoon with the heat, Till his passion was centred on her, And the shame of his yielding grew sweet.

Empty the moon-lady's car, And idly it floated away, Tipped up as she left it afar, Pale in the red death of day, With its nether lip turned to a star.

Fearful the face of the god, Stubborn with sense of his power, The seas would roll back at his nod And the thunder-voiced thunder-clouds lower, While the lightning he broke as a rod.

Fearful his face was in war, Iron with fixed look of hate, Through the battle-smoke thick and the roar He strode with invincible weight Till the legions fell back before Thor.

But the white thing that curled at his feet Rose up slowly beside him like mist, Indefinite, wan, incomplete, Till she touched the rope veins on his wrist And love pulsed to his heart with a beat.

Then he looked, and from under her hair, As from out of a mist grew her eyes, And firmer her flesh was and fair With the tint of the sorrowful skies, Sun-widowed and veiled with thin air.

She seemed of each lovable thing The soul that infused it with grace, Her thoughts were the song the birds sing, The glory of flowers was her face And her smile was the smile of the spring.

Madly his blood with a bound Leaped from his heart to his brain, Till his thoughts and his senses were drowned In the ache of a longing like pain, In a hush that was louder than sound.

Then the god, bending his face, "Loveliest," said he, "if death Mocked me with skulls in this place And age and spent strength and spent breath, Yet would I yield to thy grace; "Yet would I circle thee, love, With these arms which are smoking from wars, Though the father up-gathered above, In his anger, each ocean that roars, Each boulder the cataracts shove,

"To hurl at me down from his throne, Though the flood were as wide as the sky. Yea, love, I am thine, all thine own, Strong as the ocean to lie Slave to thy bidding alone."

Folds of her vesture fell soft, As she lifted her eyes up to his: "Nay, love, for a man speaketh oft In words that are hot as a kiss, But man's love may be donned and be doft."

"Love would have life for its field-- Love would have death for its goal; And the passion of war must yield To the passion of love in the soul, And the eyes that Love kisses are sealed."

"Wouldst thou love if the scorn of the world Covered thy head with its briars; When, soft as an infant curled In its cradle, thou, chained with desires, Lay helpless when flags were unfurled?"

Fiercely the god's anger broke, Fired with the flames in his blood: "Who careth what words may be spoke? For the feet of this love is a flood, And its finger the weight of a yoke.

"I bow me, sweet, under its power, I, who have stooped to none; I bring thee my strength for a dower, And deeds like the path of the sun; I am thine for an age or an hour."

Then the moon-lady softly unwound The girdle of arms interlaced, And the gold of her tresses unbound, Till it fell from her head to her waist, And then from her waist to the ground.

"Love, thou art mine, thou art mine," Softly she uttered a spell; "Under the froth is the wine, Under the ocean is hell, Over the ocean stars shine.

"Lull him, ye winds of the South, Charm him, ye rivers that sing, Flowers be the kiss on his mouth, Let his heart be the heart of the spring, And his passion the hot summer drouth."

Swiftly extending her hands, She made a gold dome of her hair; Dumb with amazement he stands, Till down, without noise in the air, The moon-car descends to the sands.

He taketh her fingers in his, Shorn of his strength and his will; His brave heart trembles with bliss-- Trembles and will not be still, Mad with the wine of her kiss.

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