AN old-world Inn. A long and low-roofed room, Walls rich, alike, in fresco and in frame: These things the grateful gift of Painters, whom This house once held—who, here, of unknown name, Found happy haven till they won to fame. Twin waitresses, 'twixt tables flitting fast, Their coifs, their costumes conjuring up the Past: The ensemble, the milieu bright with that Romance Which senseless @3bourgeois@1 seek, true artists find, in France. In this much loved, rare room— Whose sight, till crack of Doom, Must stand and stay embossed upon his brain, Burned on his beating heart, Become perduring part Of his whole life and being, find him ever fain With longing to review it in the flesh again, Yet know that longing vain— Lonely in spirit a man (Poet, prosodian) Sits in a far-off corner, sits alone, By choice, by will, to brood, In blest creative mood, On work which wells, which cries to be begun, And, sitting thus, scarce knows The hour that comes, that goes, Nor, thought-enwrapped, perceives How the place empties, and how, gradually, The gay, the multitudinous company Takes chattering way without—gregarious, leaves Him still at table, sitting studious, solitary. Sudden he starts—be-spelled, Even as one of eld, Touched by the triumphing wand of Fate or Fay— For, lo! a liquid voice Flutes, exquisite, to rejoice His inmost soul ... yet fill him with dismay, Lest—strength dissolved, and instant to obey Its charm—he takes his way, Will-less, across to where, Grey-eyed and dark of hair, A laughing girl, new-entered, sits with friends: Each time he, hung'ring, hears That voice, his heart holds tears, He feels that Life begins, that long search ends... Yet, 'mid such dear delight, Finds fierce and fresh affright, Lest, in a flash, he go Forward, fling eager arms incontinently Around her, crush her to him passionately, And then, with speech whose spate must match the Gulf Stream's flow, Talk out his soul, ask solace, seek for sympathy. Stern discipline, such strength As comes to those, at length, Who, faithful, give their all to self-set tasks: These—and allegiance owed To one who had shown, still showed, Him generous-hearted kindness—helped to mask Emotion, gave him corselet, shield and casque 'Gainst ache and urge to bask In the girl's aura ... to hold (Oh, but her voice was gold!) Himself aloof, and nothing to reveal... But at what strain, what cost, He walked, thus tempest-tost, Schooling himself, still steadfast to conceal! His midmost soul went crying At such abhorred denying, What time, those hours, those days, those months, be constantly Kept from her company for love, for fear, Spoke coldly when they met: oft-times, indeed, ungraciously, Lest she should guess how much he held her dear, Lest, too—since he walked already in 'Youth's Old-Age'— Herself she should learn and gauge, And, learning, gauging, laugh indifferently, Not dreaming how her voice, liquid, delectable, Divine, and deep in debt to Nature, not to Art, Exquisite, incomparable and ineffable, Drew, like some God-given bow, athwart his hungry heart. Those months move by. The girl Goes. The man, swift to hurl Himself into work, seeks yet more loneliness, Strives to slough off Love's pain, To rend, to cast his chain, Possess his soul again. ... So striving, finds success, Finds, too, large measure of forgetfulness... Although her aura, still, Stays on, more strong than will. A decade gone. A wooded Devon lane. A man, alas! no more in 'Youth's Old-Age'— One who shall never find such phase again, But, pressing on through Life's penultimate stage, Adown 'Old Age's Youth' makes pilgrimage. He sees a car stop. Hears a woman's voice, And, hearing this, knows heart thrill, soul rejoice. Free, now, he feels old barriers burst, borne down, All obstacles to understanding overthrown. They find reunion. Talk, (No barrier left to baulk The high communion of each proud, yet humble soul!) The man flings forth the truth, Tells all, implores her ruth For what seemed rudeness, roughness ... tells, protests his dole, Finds the last lingering cloud Which still remained to shroud Real understanding, melt and pass away. Black Night becomes bright Day, Naught lurks, now, to o'er-lay Emotions such as one high on Life's Hill may feel When Sex in him seems dead, And birth there has been, instead, Of such a sublimation as informs His being with Peace, not Storms: Which being—gone its bodily passionateness— Time has transformed into a Temple of Tenderness... So that to her, still young, In future may belong The Fruit and Flower of Friendship ... stimulus spiritual, strong: While as for the man, he asks no more, no less Than that he have, henceforth, the happiness Of hearing that magic voice—liquid, delectable, Divine, thrice deep in debt to Nature not to Art— Exquisite, incomparable and ineffable, Better than beauteous bird-note fluted from forest shade, Sweeter than golden song of nightingale in glade, Like viol soft and low, Blessed by some God-given bow, Sound, sometimes, to exalt, soothe, solace his sad, grateful heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EXPLICATION OF AN IMAGINARY TEXT by JAMES GALVIN TO GALLANT FRANCE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A FLORIDA SUNDAY by SIDNEY LANIER TO CARMEN SYLVA (QUEEN OF ROUMANIA) by EMMA LAZARUS STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 4. NEW JERSEY by CLARENCE MAJOR |