Conrad Aiken

“ The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears More in his secret heart than in his ears,— A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,— Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas ”

“ We spread out swiftly; Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . . And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, Vaguely and incoherently, some dream Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; We close our eyes to music in bright cafees. We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. ”

“ And one lies staring, and thinks of death. And one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, And holds her breath . . . Who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, Coil and revolve and dream, Vanish or gleam? Some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. Some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. And the new are born who desire to destroy the old; And fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, And walls flung down . . . And the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, And whiteness hushes the town. ”

“ You lean your face upon your hands and cry, The blown sand whispers about your feet, Terrible seems it now to die,— Terrible now, with life so incomplete, To turn away from the balconies and the music, The sunlit afternoons, To hear behind you there a far-off laughter Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . As evening falls, The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls Tremble and glow . ”

“ At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. We are like music, each voice of it pursuing A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . We pass each other, are lost, and do not care. One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; One drifts slowly down from a waking dream. One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . ”

“ She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: Windows rattle above our beds; We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath, Our curious separate ways through life and death. VIII. The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, Over the pale grey tumbled towers,— And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. Along damp sinuous streets it crawls, Curls like a dream among the motionless trees And seems to freeze. ”

“ What music moves so silently in your mind? Your bright hand turns the page. I watch you from my window, unsuspected: You move in an alien land, a silent age . . . . . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei— The poet walked alone in a cold late rain, And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; For his lover was dead, he never would love again. Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever— Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows— But then he saw this face, this face like flame, This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi ”

“ The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. The great bell cracks and falls at last. The moon whirls out. The sky grows still. Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars And suddenly drops behind the hill! Your eyes are placid, you smile at me, We sit in the room by candle-light. We peer in each other's veins and see No sign of the things we saw this night. Only, a song is in your ears, A song you have heard, you think, in dream: The song which only the demon hears, In the dark forest where maenads scream . ”

“ THE FULFILLED DREAM More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed— Great rocks hoisted in air; And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . And so he did not mention his dream of falling But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by And the small tree swell beneath him . . . He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,— And so went out . ”

“ Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. Thousands of voices weave in the rain. 'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking At a dazzle of golden lights. Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, And turned, as she reached the door, To smile once more . . . Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon On a night in June . ”

“ The stars whirl out, the night grows deep. Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. Where have we been? What savage chaos of music Whirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness, Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming A warm white moonlit shore; Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, Or a singing sound of rain . ”

“ What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music, The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. ”

“ And along black streets that glisten as if with rain, The muted city seems Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, Flash, are extinguished, flash again, To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain And die away . . . As evening falls, A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,— A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, The watchman climbs the stair . ”

“ A clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: The pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, Voices are raised, a door is slammed. The lovers, Murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, The eaves make liquid music. . . . Hours have passed, And nothing changes, and everything is changed. Exultation is dead, Beauty is harlot,— And walks the streets. The thing I strongly seized Has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. If you could solve this darkness you would have me. ”

“ In one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. The clock ticks slowly and stops. And no one winds it. In one room fade grey violets in a vase. Snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. In one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays The lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. His hands are trembling, his short breath fails. In one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, And thinks the air is fire. The drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings With the sudden hand of desire. And one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder ”

“ Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. The doors of night are closed. We go our ways. VII. The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. ”

“ How shall I ever escape this mesh Or be from my lover's body removed?' Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air And the maenads dance with flying hair. The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, Rise in the starlight, one by one, They draw their knives on the spurting throats, They smear the column with blood of goats, They dabble the blood on hair and lips And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. They stand like stones and stare at the sky Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. ”

“ You did not know how long she clung to music, You did not hear her sing. Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely From sound to silence—close, herself, those windows? Or was it true, instead, That darkness moved,—for once,—and so possessed her? . . . We'll never know, you say, for she is dead. VII. PORCELAIN You see that porcelain ranged there in the window— Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! They're works of art—minutely seen and felt, Each petal done devoutly. ”

“ Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . And death seems far away, a thing of roses, A golden portal, where golden music closes, Death seems far away: And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, And spring returns to stay. . . . He, in the room above, grown old and tired, Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. ”

“ One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. Death, from street to alley, from door to window, Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching, Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect? ”

“ And all these others who at your conjuration Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,— Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,— Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, Lean to the music, rise, And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion With kindness in their eyes . ”

“ The walls and towers are warmed and gleam. Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. The city stirs like one that is half in dream. And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, Where one by one we wake and rise. We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, We rub the darkness from our eyes, And face our thousand devious secret mornings . ”

“ Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, Through many doors to the one door of all. Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: Or see a skeleton fall . . . We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. It creeps and weighs upon me . ”

“ No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you— Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' You would not have me say what you know better? Let me instead be silent, only saying—: My childhood lives in me—or half-lives, rather— And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. ”

“ A gas-jet flares. His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him. Into the night he fades. Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; Blowing the water that gleams in the street; Blowing the rain, the sleet. In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . . And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing Above their heads a goblin night go by ”

“ One, from his high bright window, looking down, Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, And thinks its towers are like a dream. The western windows flame in the sun's last flare, Pale roofs begin to gleam. Looking down from a window high in a wall He sees us all; Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, Searching the sky, and going our ways again, Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . ”

“ You know, without my telling you, how sometimes A word or name eludes you, and you seek it Through running ghosts of shadow,—leaping at it, Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, You hear it, see it flash among the branches, And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it— Well, it was so I followed down this music, Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars—; ”

“ Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not; Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,— They are blown away like windflung chords of music, They drift away; the sudden music has died. And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly And sees the shadow of death in many faces, And thinks the world is strange. He desires immortal music and spring forever, And beauty that knows no change. ”

“ Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? Even a dream grows grey at last and falls. He opened his book once more, beside the window, And read the printed words upon that page. The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, The quiet words enchanted time and age. 'Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing; Death is a chorded music, softly going By sweet transition from key to richer key. ”

“ Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. VI. Over the darkened city, the city of towers, The city of a thousand gates, Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, And dreams in white at the city's feet; On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. ”