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MORTAL SUMMER

The Prairie Press IOWA CITY

MORTAL SUMMER

The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels Even then were coming--even then Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced Raphael, healer of men's wounds, were flying, Flying toward the ship all ten would take-- The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods Gazed at each other, wonderful again. The sweet sleep of centuries was over, If only as in dream; if only a mortal Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly, Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

"It was not I that roused you." Hermes pondered, Tightening his sandals. "All at once, And equally, we woke. Apollo there--" The musical man-slayer listened and frowned-- "And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite Yawned at the very instant Artemis did, With me, and swart Hephaestus." The lame smith, Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others, Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares, Scowling, and more quietly in her The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew, He found it; and of course in Aphrodite, Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs. "It was not I," said Hermes. Thunder sounded, Weakly and far away. And yet no distance Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern: Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room. There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners Of a still greater person, one who changed The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida. Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled As ever the proud seven, until Hermes Listened and leaned, then spoke. "It was the king Our father. He has willed that we should wander, Even as in a dream, and be the gods Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream He sends us, to a circle of small hills-- Come, for I see the place!" That suffered thunder Sounded again, agreeing; and they went. Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved. No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here, Would have discovered deity. The brambles Hid as they ever had this stony hole Whence seven had been wakened, and where still, Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

But who were these arriving, these gaunt three On giant wings that folded as they fell And staggered, then stood upright? Even now Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael. From nearer Asia, lonely a long while, They had come flying, sick of the desert silence, Sick of the centuries through which no lord, No king of the host, had blessed them with command. As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient's cry, They had come hither, hopeful of these seven, Hopeful of noble company, of new act. Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis-- Fingering their bows--as Hermes reared On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite, Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus, Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints Athene only studied where she stood.

"Whoever you are," said Hermes, "and whatever-- Pardon this--you were, sail now as we do, And be the gods of strangers far to west. If only as in dream the vessel draws us, Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire--" But the three stared so sadly over the waves That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel Whispered with him alone while dolphins played As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured: "Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still, Though silent. It is listening for his thunder That leans us. He is busy with new folk, New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice. We have not learned that language--humble words, With never death or danger in the message. A star stood still above a stable once, And a weak infant wept. And there He left us." "Our sire," said Hermes, "--he too sleeps away Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune. Sail westward with us then." And Gabriel nodded.

Daniel was mending fence, for it was May, And early rains had painted the drear pastures. He walked, testing the wire, and wished again For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody. Berrien would never notice it on the shelf; Berrien would never bring it. A good wife, But scornful of the comforts. A good woman, Who never guessed the outrage he had done her. New Year's Eve, and Dora. He remembered-- And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there. He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire, And snagged himself--here, in the palm of his hand. A little blood came which he wiped away. He did miss that tobacco. And he did, He did loathe simple Dora--warm and simple, Who with her dark head nodding close to his, On New Year's Eve, had done with him this outrage. He would forget her if he could; and old Darius, her profane, her grizzled father. So proud of her he was, and kept so neat The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State's prison. Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing? Darius--did he guess? And Doctor Smith-- Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off, Unmindful of the beautiful May morning. Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious? He had been born for Dora, she for him; And then last New Year's Eve, when the sleigh bells rang So slyly, writing ruin in cold air! Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back At the wild barb that bit him. Who was that? For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence, Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand A pipe--for all the township Daniel's own!

"Here, have you need of this? I'm on my way Northeast awhile, repairing peoples' ranges. It gave itself to me, but you can have it."

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved-- For someone did--Daniel could not distinguish-- From the far border of the field. The small Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon, If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove. He must ask Berrien, who wouldn't listen, How a man's pipe could vanish from its shelf. For so it had, into his very pocket.

"Berrien!" he called. But she was busy With her own bother. "Daniel, a woman's here-- Wants to stay and board all summer--wants To rest. A theater woman. I've said no, But maybe--" Who was the gold one, listening there And smiling? Looking over Berrien's shoulder And lighting the front room with little smiles? A faded gold one, well beyond her prime, But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated, Said he would think, would figure. In the end She stayed, the theater woman; and that night Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed In beauty; stood beside him and said "Dora." How could she know of Dora? It was a dream, Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed, All in one day, the longing he denied? There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart-- That sweetened as he said it--there was no hate For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too, Standing beside the theater woman and weeping, And holding her simple hands out so he could say: "Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years, Tomorrow I will tell the world about us. You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel; I have been absent, darling, from your pain. Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you, And bear if I can the--pleasure." Then he woke, And none but Berrien watched him in the room-- Berrien, who ever after watched him, Night and day detesting this pale witch Who came and went and charmed him. So she thought, Said Daniel, never answering her eyes. For him there were no hours now save those dark ones When the pair came. At midnight they would be there, Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning, Starting from his pillow, he would mutter: "Tomorrow is today. Then I must go To Dora, I must tell her." Yet he waited Always upon another secret midnight; And witnessed every noon how the gold woman, Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.

Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous With his own name--evil, could he but hear it. Darius had discovered his sweet daughter's Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause; And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded. Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken-- "Daniel." And the kill was on. A soldier, Footing it home from Canada, stood by With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank. He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered-- And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel, Less than the sore so sudden in his breast, So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure, Was a weak thing at first--this brawny witness Shone like a savior in the old one's eyes, The little old one, dancing in his fury As he repeated "Daniel"; and made doubly Sure that Dora's corner room was bolted. Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled Soldier had spat curses on that name, "Daniel," and had spun a scheme for them-- Perfection, he declared it, of revenge-- Darius called him blessed. "You'd have failed me, Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf And licked this devil's hand, but for that sergeant. Who sent him here, I wonder?" "I don't know," Said Bruce, his mind on Dora's room. "Is she--" "Yes, she's in there. And stays there till we've finished. When do we go and do it? Think of that-- Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful Thing." Darius nudged him, and they dropped Their voices. Dora, listening, heard little, Crouched by her door. Bruce--he mustn't do it. Bruce--he was the only thing she wanted In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel; But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn't do it, Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood And cried to him; but only heard Darius Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence.

"When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon Does best for our good purpose--damn his bones! Two shotguns--that's enough--then home, then here-- That's it, and neither knows of it next day. We'll even shed a hot tear, being told! When do we do it, boy?" But Bruce was slow: Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins, He almost lost his purpose as she held him, Wetting his face with tears. "Listen!" she whispered. "I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse Knows--I can't guess how--knows everything. A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend The teacher--she is like her. Colder, though, With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says--" "What, Dora, what does she say?" "Oh, no, I can't-- I'll never, never tell you." As she ran He followed, farther into the still woods; Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two-- It must be those two new ones, those tall women-- Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat.

It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there. The other one bent down to her. "Stand up. They both are here. The boy, too." Level voiced, The teacher touched her friend's hair. "Stand up, stand up. The fawn is dead. These others--" "Yes, I know. I heard, I saw them. But consider death. Consider this young death awhile, and say-- But softly--of what it is the paradigm. Do not disdain one death, one single death; And when we can, prevent." The grey eyes cooled, Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose. "Come here," she said to Dora, and to Bruce Behind her. "We were walking in the woods, My visitor and I; we saw this sight."

But Bruce and Dora stared at only her, So beautiful, so tall, and at the other Strange one by her side. "We had been talking, Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes--"

"He doesn't!" Dora shuddered. "If he could, He'd have it that I never lived on earth. He hates it, having to remember me. And that's all right. I want it so. But Bruce--"

"Will be, my dear, the father of your--listen, Listen! You start away." For both had broken Breath, as if with running, and only the hands Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there. "I mean," and the tall beautiful one blinked, Twitching the green selvage of her skirt, "The foster father. He is young for that; Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one Who saves you, and saves it--the life you carry. Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream."

But the still teacher only parted wide Her capable cool lids, and let him see Agreement flash between them. "Someone's death"-- She forced the words at last--"is cheap to buy. A minute of man's time, and breathing stops. The cost is in the echo; for to cease Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home, The rumor of that death. My friend is right. Marry the maiden." But the words came strangely, Out of some older earth, and even she The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned. Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one Followed this lofty fellow who in patience Folded his arms and smiled--as if he too Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes. As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius-- He paled at the grim image, and remembered, Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust If the dear purpose foundered was itself A death, along with Dora's yesterday. Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father Of a whole world's confusion? And his anger, Running before him, took him from this place, This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce, Gasping and crying "Wait!" But the three tall ones Listened to nothing human. Hermes came.

Hermes came, and hailing his three peers, Spoke Aphrodite's name; whose beautiful laughter Answered as she glistened in their midst-- No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus Hove into their view, and all of the others, Manifest together. This was where, In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet, To sit sometimes and say how the world went, Mortal and immortal. "You of the golden Shoulders," Hermes said, "bring dreams to one Who lived in peace without them." "Lived in hate, In loathing of those very limbs he fondled-- Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!" And her insolent Laughter shook the listening green leaves. "Yet he would have forgotten, and his only Danger been from Ares"--who was there, Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke-- "From the two minions, old and young, of Ares. Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind And fury; but the damage that you do, Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins, Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy, Goddess." And he waited. But her lips, Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented Artemis. "The man was free of longing, And the dark maid of him," the huntress said, "Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams. Then Ares--common soldier--fanned the fire In those you call his minions." Hermes nodded. "And so our plan's perplexed before it ripens. Athene, Michael--tell them how we stood, Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function."

But it was known among them even then, And so no witness needed. Aphrodite, Secure in beauty's pride, tilted her head To hear, intending mockery of the tale. But the wise one withheld it, and majestic Michael only folded his broad wings As Gabriel did, as Raphael. Yet that last one, Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis, Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused:

"What did you sing?" said Hermes. "Nothing, nothing. My sisters round the world--a sweet wind brought me, Sleepily, this air." He hummed again, And this time closed his eyes. "Perhaps I see," He said, "some silver moment coming soon-- Necessity for music. But not now."

Nor could those other nine foresee the summer. Already, in mid June, high long days Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit, Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man, No god distinguished more in this green time Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter. In Daniel's house the woman who was resting-- Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word-- Still did not spare the beautiful dream body She sent to him by dark, when Dora too Lived by his side and loved him: standing there In the shed radiance of one who smiled And smiled, and burned his reticence away. For he would go to Dora--come July, Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening As night died between him and the windows, He would go there, he would, and say it all; He would have Dora, small in his long arms, Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes, So that he never went. And had he gone, What Dora would have seen him come and shivered? One whom as strong a dream--if it was a dream-- Estranged. It was of having, yet not having, Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn't-- He mustn't, she said nightly, shutting away The vision--Bruce must never let it be. The nurse--he mustn't listen. Yet if he did-- And then she wept. Darius in the morning, Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose. He should conceal it better. She was afraid, Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell. That boy--he was so hard to keep in anger. He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool. That boy, the center of confusion's cross, For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day, All night the dream of lying in clear peace Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora; That boy was whom the strangers in this valley Watched while the moments went; while June decayed; While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.

A hundred people coming to the barn dance, The barn dance at MacPherson's, saw the full moon. It hung there like a lantern in the low east, Enormous and blood red, and stationary. Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman-- So fair, she seemed unnatural--between them. She must have made them bring her, someone said; And laughed. But no one laughed when Dora came. She was so pitiful in her loose coat, Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance? If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance? Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed The silly boy. To let her show like that! The nurse, the doctor's nurse, and her tall friend The teacher--no one dreamed those two, those two-- They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances.

Then all the strangers. When the music started, Who but a giant--handsome, with tow hair-- Bowed to the grand ones? And to more Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers, Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders Where a great upright shaded the rude floor. From the next valley, maybe, like this lame Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot Traveller, the one with pointed ears, The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff, Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched. The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word Between them, and no look, Darius said-- Darius, who had eyes for everything; And ears, when music started. "One more couple! One more couple!" Glendy the clear-caller Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts, Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar. "One more couple!" Here they came. "Join hands And circle left!" Darius heard the words Above him, in the corner where by Glendy And the harmonicas he tapped the floor. His was the curious, the musicians' corner, Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled, Wondering what next--why she was here. "The dog!" he growled, catching on Daniel's face, In a far corner, hunger and indifference Fighting. Hunger--damn him--for my child, My child, Darius said, whom he has changed; And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all. The soldier had come back. Darius saw him. Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight, And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived. If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little-- But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear On those two stranger women. Why in fear?

The music, though. "Swing your corner lady!" Darius, rocking gently on his heels, Was lost again in that, and in the wild Mouth organs, going mournful overhead. "First two gents cross over!" In his thought He crossed; he took that partner by the hand; He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where. He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging Ceased. The set was over. And he sang: "Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!" They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off; Then soon another set. And still he listened And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat, Trembling, and never danced. But once the soldier, Slouching to her side, made mockery signs Suggesting that she stand. Darius started In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up, Explaining--yet avoiding the brute stare; And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists. Even the strangers knew, for one came over-- The one with such a neat head on his body, And the curled stick--as if to beat away Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good, Darius said; then listened as the music Whispered again. Whispered. For the tune Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed, What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps?

"One more couple!" Who was the intruder, Calling in so sweet, so low a voice, Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd, Heedless of any difference, swirled on, Loving its evolutions, and no head Turned hither. "Take your Dora by the hand--" Darius, looking up, saw how the silver Light of the full moon, mature at zenith, Fell on the singer. Through one gable window It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery Singer. He was slender, he was strange; And the high moon--it burned for none but him.

"Where's Glendy, Gus?" "Took sick." The loud guitar, Hesitating, rallied and persevered; But modified its note to a new sweetness, A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked, Listened, and looked again at the mysterious Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.

Mercy marries you, my boy, And mercy--oh, it is unjust. But it was born of truth and joy, And lives with misery if it must.

Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending, Stared at a hundred dancers who did not. Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung, Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here-- Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them. Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes, Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce, Guardian to her, looked only down-- Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing:

Take your Dora by the hand. There is life within her waist. And there is woe, unless you stand And love with bravery is graced.

So all the world will know her wed, And all the people call it yours-- The life within her, small and red; And wrathful, were it none but hers.

With you beside her all is well. She will be tended in her time. There is more that I could tell, But Glendy now resumes the rhyme.

"Circle four!" Darius, and then Daniel, Dazed, regarded Glendy once again. The moonlit one was gone, and only these Had seen him--these and Dora, and dumb Bruce. And all of the nine strangers. For they too Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed, Had witnessed every word as it arrived; Had watched the boy's confusion; then the girl's; Then both together, as if woe had wed Already the poor lovers. "Nelly Gray!" The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on; And only Berrien's boarder, the gold woman Who stood so close by Daniel--only that one Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing, Knew she had found his thought. So I have lost her-- This was his thought--have lost her. Then my love Must die, and no man know it. He was true, That singer. It is not my life she carries-- Dora, who was mine for that cold minute; Dora, whom I never can forget.

The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely, Punishing his own, that Daniel shook. How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came. Only in darkness. "Now she disapproves, She probes me." But the woman looked away, Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier; Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius. Daniel saw him there, gesticulating, With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring, To throttle someone. And Darius blinked. But music and the distance drowned their words.

And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora, Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising, Reached for a small hand. The singer had said To take it, and he took it, and pulled up The girl who still was trying to be free, To save him. And the music never stopped. "Kiss her if you dare!" cried old man Glendy. And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears. They listened still to what the other singer, Gone now as the moon was from the window, Sang and sang again, as if his silvery Face never had faded. Arm in arm They walked among the dancers to the big door; Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth, Under the slant moon, and disappeared.

Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves When a swift body passes west, pursued them. But Daniel never stirred. Nor old Darius-- Neither did he listen as the sergeant Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes Till most of him was fire. "Follow him home, The fool. He is forgetting it--the purpose. Tear him free. He softens in her arms To the sick sound of 'Father.'" But Darius, Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly: "I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended, She will not go alone. He is a good boy, Bruce. I never coupled her with him. It may be in the cards." Whereat the soldier Left him, spitting disgust. And Daniel saw How all of the fair strangers followed soon-- All of them, as if they were a company. They wouldn't be, of course. And yet they smiled In the same grave degree, as if some secret Bound them. And he thought the dapper one, Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick, His curlicue of a cane--whatever it was-- Communicated thus to the gold woman That she too must away. But she was Daniel's, Berrien's; she was not of any company, Wandering, like this one. She had come Alone to them, in May, and she would go-- Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body, Her beautiful dream body, that was his, Was his alone. And suddenly his sadness Doubled. For the singer had left living None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone, A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man, A noble dead man, numbering his loss. Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too-- In fall--he would be losing this one too, In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking, Here, with that lithe one calling from the door. For there he was, the last one to go through, And Daniel thought the signal came again: An elbow's twitch, a twirl of his live staff, His vine that had the strength to stand alone.

But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel, Worshiping her now. She seemed as near, He whispered to himself, as lamplight must, At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on. Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms, Her eyes, took hold of everything in him And hurt it. "So you let her go," she said. "You shadow of a man, you let her go. Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light, In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised, Crushing it with yours--and yet you would not, For it is white, is small, and precious to you-- Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow Falls on you for lover--disobedient Lover of that girl whom still you crave!"

They could not see how beautiful she was. Only for Daniel was she beautiful, And for those others, strangers here with her, Who from the border of MacPherson's grove, In their own forms, were watching. Hermes leaned Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass, On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said: "She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares, She is not schooled in victory and defeat, She is not skilful at surrender--save The lover's kind. See? She is bent on that. She will not let him go, the farmer there, While any of her poison works in him. Ares, what if some of your new wisdom-- You could persuade her, Ares." But the sullen Soldier still was sullen, though a god; He would not lift his face as Aphrodite, Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way With Daniel down the road. "Apollo's song," Said Hermes, "--it was all we needed then." He nodded, and the bright musician bowed. "It was a potent song. The tough old man, The tender young, the farmer in his heart-- All four of them were changed. But now you see--" He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite, Dimming with her companions down the highway, Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere, Mingling as the moon did with the tops Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice. Artemis, more angry than the rest, More like the moon, declining now so clear, So cold, beyond the body of this grove, Remembered the dead fawn. "So with that child," She brooded. "If the farmer man confesses, Nothing but grief will grow where you and I--" She took Athene's hand--"have wisely tilled And planted. Never then will the boy serve, With loving care, my cause--the cause of the world, Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world. The farmer would have let the maiden go-- Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure. Or so we said who listened. Yet that one, That laughing one, pursues him now and sings, And sings--oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh, What burden that may topple his intention? Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would; Even tonight you could." Hephaestus, pacing Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg, The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled. "The farmer--he works well, and loves the fire I gave him. Let him be." But none of them saw His meaning, if he had one. He was lame And foolish, and he muttered as he walked, And turned and walked again, counting the steps Between two oaks that limited his way. The great angels watched him with their wings Folded. Standing deeper in the shade, They waited with the others while the moon Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.

"Dora, do you take Bruce for your husband, To cherish him, for better or for worse?" The justice of the peace, Tobias Hapgood, Peered over his dim glasses at the pair Who said "I do, I do" among the dusty Law books. And there were three witnesses. Darius in a white shirt stood between Two others, old and little like himself: The father of the groom--roundheaded, fumbling Miserably at his tie--and full of tears The mother, full of shame and happy tears.

Her boy was being married. But to think-- To think--and then the rest of it was weeping; Was waiting till the four of them were home; Was wondering how soon she could forget. Dora would have his baby in her house. And then she could forget. She wiped her eyes. Darius here--now he would be alone, And that perhaps was harder. So "I do" Came distantly across the room as she compared Their griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss, Held on to one another, and held on And on, as if the world would die this way, She was content again. But no one saw Nine more in the brown room, or heard the voice Of Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned, What further end she strained for. All but Ares Stood there, in no space the mortals knew, The little mortals, mingling their low words With these unheard, these high ones. Sullen Ares Sulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite, Resting her fair side against the law books, Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes:

"See? There still is mischief in one mind Among us, there is insolence. The end? She has not worked it yet. Beware of her Who hates this thing we witness; it defeats Her farmer, and she never will forgive."

The laughing goddess listened with her eyes Turned elsewhere--on Hephaestus, whom she taunted, Teasing him with glances at his broken Foot, and at the thickness of his wrists. "Artisan!" she said. "Infernal tinker! You are not one of us. Then why do you creep Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man? You do, in the poor likeness of a mender-- What is it that you mend? What is the word?"

Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles, Refusing every glance until the rite Was finished, and the people in the room Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared, Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound For Daniel, whom he haunted every day In the same likeness he had first assumed When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl, Got it again, and wondered. Bruce and Dora, Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept, Went home another way; and the inaudible Deities went home--to the green hilltop, The high glade where Ares, though he heard, Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite, Following to where the mountains forked, Deserted there; dipping away and flying, Like one of her own doves, to Daniel's house.

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