From this tower room above the wall I have watched the sunworn city And the sea. I have seen the nights Drain the streets Of light and sound, The days shrivel to thin sheets Of wrinkled silver On the tide. I have seen men come Like stippled shade along the floor, And go, as lightly brushed, As unremembered, as leaf shape Tangled in a blur of glass. I have made cups With chisel and fire and stain; I have made cups -- Amethyst, silver, and gold, Emerald, agate, and bronze; I have made cups for pride, And cups for a woman's heart. I have made cups For the altars of God, And cups for perfume and wine; Ivory, iron and clay, Red cups for feasting, And cups for sacrifice; Turquoise cups for a birthday, Ebony cups for dice; Cups of crystal To pay for a bride, And delicate cups for tears. My cups were the pomp of kings, And the solace of lonely men. Long years I worked and copied My thoughts on my colored cups, -- (Chisel and fire and crimson, Sapphire and purple and pearl.) But I knew as I burned and painted The world on beautiful cups That the world was a painted curtain Cheating the artist's eyes; I knew that the rainbow curtain Hid a thing past all surmise. Still I carved and burned and copied On opal and copper and blue, Wings, and the glory of woman, And clouds, And fishes, And ships. . . . I knew that beyond the curtain Was a world of final surprise Pure and poignant and perfect, Passing all men's surmise. So I said as I chisselled and carved The world in scarlet and clay, I can see what is there on the curtain, Painted and seeming to stir; But I know that behind the delusion Are the things that really move. I shall mock the thin confusion Of this imaged veil of deceit; I shall make a new cup of illusion From a dream quite strange and complete. I shall use not a bird, not a flower, Not a sign from this world of defeat. Then out of my deepest knowing I made a new shape for a vase. I fashioned and moulded and carved A new line of a consummate grace -- A new shape, A new lucent color, And wings that shadowed a face. Out of my depest knowing I painted a curious glowing, A light of imagined sea, But never a river or tree, Or even the ardent going Of birds that ever could be. Then every one could see A flame of figures curl and twine About the stem; And every one could see A brilliant wine that seemed to fill It to the brim and shine. Each saw a thing most different Engraved upon the side; Each saw a special vision And looked again and cried. Some said it was a thing of ill -- Some said it was divine. But not again was any certain If this world be not a curtain Brocade with things That seem to move, -- Or if there was a face Upon the cup, Shadowed with wings. * * * Looking down From this room above the town I watch the days In long retreat, And men upon their ways Along the street. They are like leaves across a floor, Like phantoms flitting past a door, -- As lightly brushed, As unremembered, As bird shadows on the grass. |