I MET an Indian underneath a tree, under a ragged tree,
His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone
whereon a God had writ
And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust . . .
I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!
I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,
Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations
The purpose of our lives upon this world,
The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"
His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone
whereon a God had writ
And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust . . .
I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!
I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,
Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations
The purpose of our lives upon this world,
The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"
But he was listening to the whispering of the mountains,
To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,
And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.
Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,
And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.
I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,
Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers of wisdom—
And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven. . . .
***
I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,
His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the
sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,
I watched him there and wondered
If ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.
But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,
Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,
Some flame-red salamander pirouetting among the dead waste ashes of time—
And I knew that he had found only the secrets of sleep. . . .
***
A woman sat within a little house,
Scolding and singing ballads to her child,
And all around came the quarrel of children's voices.
Yet one boy sat apart within the furthest corner of the room
Painting an animal with coloured chalks.
I lingered by the fire thinking of life, its vanities and mysteries,
But the woman did not heed me,
Nor her pale son that sat so hunched and still,
Painting his visions with the broken chalks,
For they had discovered the absorbing painful secrets of giving birth. . . .
***
It was evening as I wandered,
By a lake two lovers leaned, smiling to see their faces in the water,
For they had found within each other's souls
An argent flattering mirror wherein to gaze and see their faces change with all the moods and shadows of the day....
Not here should I discover the answer to bring light into my darkness,
Into the dim psychic crystals of my soul opalled with the changing colours of unrest—
So I went away into the loneliness, asking the forests and the mountains and the sea
The knowledge of life's baffling mysteries.
But they were roaring in a wind of memories,
Gathering the rain into their bodies to make them fierce and strong,
Heaving their shoulders upward to the morning,
Crowning their foreheads with sunlight.
And I knew that they were Life itself,
The pushing vehemence that rushes from the strangling arms of Death,
Nor could they guess
The purpose of God's beauty in their joy. . . .
To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,
And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.
Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,
And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.
I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,
Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers of wisdom—
And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven. . . .
***
I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,
His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the
sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,
I watched him there and wondered
If ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.
But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,
Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,
Some flame-red salamander pirouetting among the dead waste ashes of time—
And I knew that he had found only the secrets of sleep. . . .
***
A woman sat within a little house,
Scolding and singing ballads to her child,
And all around came the quarrel of children's voices.
Yet one boy sat apart within the furthest corner of the room
Painting an animal with coloured chalks.
I lingered by the fire thinking of life, its vanities and mysteries,
But the woman did not heed me,
Nor her pale son that sat so hunched and still,
Painting his visions with the broken chalks,
For they had discovered the absorbing painful secrets of giving birth. . . .
***
It was evening as I wandered,
By a lake two lovers leaned, smiling to see their faces in the water,
For they had found within each other's souls
An argent flattering mirror wherein to gaze and see their faces change with all the moods and shadows of the day....
Not here should I discover the answer to bring light into my darkness,
Into the dim psychic crystals of my soul opalled with the changing colours of unrest—
So I went away into the loneliness, asking the forests and the mountains and the sea
The knowledge of life's baffling mysteries.
But they were roaring in a wind of memories,
Gathering the rain into their bodies to make them fierce and strong,
Heaving their shoulders upward to the morning,
Crowning their foreheads with sunlight.
And I knew that they were Life itself,
The pushing vehemence that rushes from the strangling arms of Death,
Nor could they guess
The purpose of God's beauty in their joy. . . .
1918