Part 6 (1/2)

What though the moon should come With a blinding glow, And the stars have a game On the wood's edge, A man would have to still Cut and weed and sow, And lay a white line When he plants a hedge.

What though G.o.d With a great sound of rain Came to talk of violets And things people do, I would have to labor And dig with my brain Still to get a truth Out of all words new.

To a Portrait of Whistler in the Brooklyn Art Museum. [Eleanor Rogers c.o.x]

What waspish whim of Fate Was this that bade you here Hold dim, unhonored state, No single courtier near?

Is there, of all who pa.s.s, No choice, discerning few To poise the ribboned gla.s.s And gaze enwrapt on you?

Sword-soul that from its sheath Laughed leaping to the fray, How calmly underneath Goes Brooklyn on her way!

Quite heedless of that smile -- Half-devil and half-G.o.d, Your quite unequalled style, The airy heights you trod.

Ah, could you from earth's breast Come back to take the air, What matter here for jest Most exquisite and rare!

But since you may not come, Since silence holds you fast, Since all your quips are dumb And all your laughter past --

I give you mine instead, And something with it too That Brooklyn leaves unsaid -- The world's fine homage due.

Ah, Prince, you smile again -- ”My faith, the court is small!”

I know, dear James -- but then It's I or none at all!

Flammonde. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]

The man Flammonde, from G.o.d knows where, With firm address and foreign air, With news of nations in his talk And something royal in his walk, With glint of iron in his eyes, But never doubt, nor yet surprise, Appeared, and stayed, and held his head As one by kings accredited.

Erect, with his alert repose About him, and about his clothes, He pictured all tradition hears Of what we owe to fifty years.

His cleansing heritage of taste Paraded neither want nor waste; And what he needed for his fee To live, he borrowed graciously.

He never told us what he was, Or what mischance, or other cause, Had banished him from better days To play the Prince of Castaways.

Meanwhile he played surpa.s.sing well A part, for most, unplayable; In fine, one pauses, half afraid To say for certain that he played.

For that, one may as well forego Conviction as to yes or no; Nor can I say just how intense Would then have been the difference To several, who, having striven In vain to get what he was given, Would see the stranger taken on By friends not easy to be won.

Moreover, many a malcontent He soothed and found munificent; His courtesy beguiled and foiled Suspicion that his years were soiled; His mien distinguished any crowd, His credit strengthened when he bowed; And women, young and old, were fond Of looking at the man Flammonde.

There was a woman in our town On whom the fas.h.i.+on was to frown; But while our talk renewed the tinge Of a long-faded scarlet fringe, The man Flammonde saw none of that, And what he saw we wondered at -- That none of us, in her distress, Could hide or find our littleness.

There was a boy that all agreed Had shut within him the rare seed Of learning. We could understand, But none of us could lift a hand.

The man Flammonde appraised the youth, And told a few of us the truth; And thereby, for a little gold, A flowered future was unrolled.

There were two citizens who fought For years and years, and over nought; They made life awkward for their friends, And shortened their own dividends.

The man Flammonde said what was wrong Should be made right, nor was it long Before they were again in line, And had each other in to dine.

And these I mention are but four Of many out of many more.

So much for them. But what of him -- So firm in every look and limb?

What small satanic sort of kink Was in his brain? What broken link Withheld him from the destinies That came so near to being his?

What was he, when we came to sift His meaning, and to note the drift Of incommunicable ways That make us ponder while we praise?