Gone blind in padding round and round one path,—
As to the taste of green grass in the field!
What do you know o’ the world that’s trodden flat (1470)
And salted sterile with your daily dung,
Leavened into a lump of loathsomeness?
Take your opinion of the modes of life,
The aims of life, life’s triumph or defeat,
How to feel, how to scheme and how to do
Or else leave undone? You preached long and loud
On high-days, “Take our doctrine upon trust!
“Into the mill-house with you! Grind our corn,
“Relish our chaff, and let the green grass grow!”
I tried chaff, found I famished on such fare, (1480)
So made this mad rush at the mill-house-door,
Buried my head up to the ears in dew,
Browsed on the best, for which you brain me, Sirs!
Be it so! I conceived of life that way,
And still declare—life, without absolute use
Of the actual sweet therein, is death, not life.
Give me,—pay down,—not promise, which is air,—
Something that’s out of life and better still,
Make sure reward, make certain punishment,
Entice me, scare me,—I’ll forego this life; (1490)
Otherwise, no!—the less that words, mere wind,
Would cheat me of some minutes while they plague.
The fulness of revenge here,—blame yourselves
For this eruption of the pent-up soul
You prisoned first and played with afterward!
“Deny myself” meant simply pleasure you,
The sacred and superior, save the mark!
You,—whose stupidity and insolence
I must defer to, soothe at every turn,—
Whose swine-like snuffling greed and grunting lust (1500)
I had to wink at or help gratify,—
While the same passions,—dared they perk in me,
Me, the immeasurably marked, by God,
Master of the whole world of such as you,—
I, boast such passions? ’Twas “Suppress them straight!
“Or stay, we’ll pick and choose before destroy:
“Here’s wrath in you,—a serviceable sword,—
“Beat it into a ploughshare! What’s this long
“Lance- like ambition? Forge a pruning-hook,
“May be of service when our vines grow tall! (1510)
“But—sword used swordwise, spear thrust out as spear?
“Anathema! Suppression is the word!”
My nature, when the outrage was too gross,
Widened itself an outlet over-wide
By way of answer?—sought its own relief
With more of fire and brimstone than you wished?
All your own doing: preachers, blame yourselves!
God keep me patient! All I say just means—
My wife proved, whether by her fault or mine,— (1520)
That’s immaterial,—a true stumbling-block
I’ the way of me her husband: I but plied
The hatchet yourselves use to clear a path,
Was politic, played the game you warrant wins,
Plucked at law’s robe a-rustle through the courts,
Bowed down to kiss divinity’s buckled shoe
Cushioned i’ the church: efforts all wide the aim!
Procedures to no purpose! Then flashed truth!
The letter kills, the spirit keeps alive
In law and gospel: there be nods and winks (1530)
Instruct a wise man to assist himself
In certain matters nor seek aid at all.
“Ask money of me,”—quoth the clownish saw,—
“And take my purse! But,—speaking with respect,—
“Need you a solace for the troubled nose?
“Let everybody wipe his own himself!”
Sirs, tell me free and fair! Had things gone well
At the wayside inn: had I surprised asleep
The runaways, as was so probable,
And pinned them each to other partridge-wise, (1540)
Through back and breast to breast and back, then bade
Bystanders witness if the spit, my sword,
Were loaded with unlawful game for once—
Would you have interposed to damp the glow
Applauding me on every husband’s cheek?
Would you have checked the cry “A judgment, see!
“A warning, note! Be henceforth chaste, ye wives,
“Nor stray beyond your proper precinct, priests!”
If you had, then your house against itself
Divides, nor stands your kingdom any more. (1550)
Oh, why, why was it not ordained just so?
Why fell not things out so nor otherwise?
Ask that particular devil whose task it is
To trip the all-but-at perfection,—slur
The line o’ the painter just where paint leaves off
And life begins,—puts ice into the ode
O’ the poet while he cries “Next stanza—fire!”
Inscribes all human effort with one word,
Artistry’s haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Being incomplete, the act escaped success. (1560)
Easy to blame now! Every fool can swear
To hole in net that held and slipped the fish.
But, treat my act with fair unjaundiced eye,
What was there wanting to a masterpiece
Except the luck that lies beyond a man?
My way with the woman, now proved grossly wrong,
Just missed of being gravely grandly right
And making critics laugh o’ the other side.
Do, for the poor obstructed artist’s sake,
Go with him over that spoiled work once more! (1570)
Take only its first flower, the ended act
Now in the dusty pod, dry and defunct!
I march to the Villa, and my men with me,
That evening, and we reach the door and stand.
I say…no, it shoots through me lightning- like
While I pause, breathe, my hand upon the latch,
“Let me forebode! Thus far, too much success:
“I want the natural failure—find it where?
“Which thread will have to break and leave a loop
“I’ the meshy combination, my brain’s loom (1580)
“Wove this long while and now next minute tests?
“Of three that are to catch, two should go free,
“One must: all three surprised,—impossible!
“Beside, I seek three and may chance on six,—
“This neighbour, t’other gossip,—the babe’s birth
“Brings such to fireside and folks
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |