To a Chinese Screen
O, cunning triumph of celestial art,—
A dream woven in daedal broidery
To snare or solace an imperial heart!
O, poem congeal'd in pearl and ebony,
In coromandel-lacquer, silk and gold,
With gorgeous dragons fang'd! O, elegance—
Pulse from the purple heart of proud Cathay!
Who wouldst communion hold
With Beauty or with heron-plum'd Romance,
Let his deep gaze dwell on thine inwrought tapestry!
Musing beneath three flowering almond trees,
With almond eyes half-narrow'd to his dream,
In royal robes a mandarin sits. A breeze
Feathers the silver grass along the stream
Sun-glancing at his feet and idly shakes
Upon the limpid water where it takes
A deeper hue three rosy almond flowers;
And musing there throughout the tranquil hours
He murmurs sometimes in his reverie,
While an ivory bird in an ebony tree
Carols an amorous air,
And a green paraquete
With golden feet
Balances on his chair!
Forever dreaming dreams forever new
Of Life and Love through veil'd eternities,
Reproach him not,—he knows far more than you,
O, western youth with callow cruel eyes!
Let him inform you, novice, what you are,
And whence your shallow haughty culture comes,
And whither flows the river of your being;—
For there was born afar,
And bloom'd in Orient lore his learning plumbs
Each treasur'd thought you own, each rose of Wisdom's seeing!
But, soft! he speaks, if you have ears to hear:
“Gladly would I have given my very queue
For one June twilight with Confucius near
The cedars of T'ai-Shan,—once to renew
At his soul-flame my feeble taper's glowing!
For now, methinks, too barren are grown the years,
And life is but an aimless zephyr blowing
Out of a void into a void of tears …
The world is ruled by cynics—that is why
It writhes and perishes… In some brave season
Strong artist-men of clear creative reason
Shall chasten it of its iniquity,
And build upon the wreck of infamy
A nobler human order, nobly plann'd,—
A Golden City where creative men
In joy of equal labor, brain and hand,
May live in peace and plenty. Until then
It is a prison-house where Fear is jailer,
And Hope comes ever with a broken key! . .
And thou, my Friend, what art thou but a dream
That spins itself into Eternity?—
A phantom sail adrift without a sailor,
Or chart, or needle, on Time's ebbing stream,
Gliding like duckweed or this almond flower
Down to some timeless, far-resounding sea!
O, bubble blown upon Infinity,
Can phantoms dream of Him whose dream they dower?
I dream, therefore I am: I know no more,
Nor whether I am man or only seeming,
Nor what shall be, nor what has been before,—
A shadowy host upon the night wind streaming! . .
I have met force and fraud and lust for power,
Greed and corruption's poison, fear and hate,
There where men strut or groan a fretful hour
And find contentment always out of reach;—
Where all is Truth, and all Untruth, and each
Or less or more the helpless sport of Fate!
But neither Justice have I found nor Reason
In the dark chaos of your restless life,
And little virtue, and less hope of peace,—
Where thinking's sin, and to be kind is treason,
And there is only savage senseless strife,
And men are slaves, save as they find release
From joyless toil and lie-crowned tyrannies
In art or madness or a lover's bower,
In crime or sad religion's ecstasies,—
War or a banishing! . .
In one unhallowed, fleeting, storm-swept hour—
Your dreams and ardors, pomp and power—dust!
Your name and race and age naught but a gust
Upon the trackless desert perishing…
A jest, a sigh,
A tortured ‘Why?’—
And lo!—a vanishing!
And you, callow youth with a confident eye,
With your freezing smile and your polished hair,
Gazing at me with an impudent stare,
You are really the sorriest fool
That I ever have seen
Since I sat on my screen
In my gardens cool,
Musing and listening thoughtfully
While sweet with a divine despair
From her perch in yonder sable tree
A milk-white bird flutes rapturously
An immemorial air,
And a green parakeet
With golden feet
Preens on the back of my chair!”
Truth singing from the bough of Death and Pride
Pluming and tempting ever at the ear,
And Man the Dreamer whom the Gods deride
Torn by desire and duty, strife and fear…
Have I divined the Poem, Celestial sage?
Thine eyes have far too deeply rent the veil;
There is no power on earth that can assuage
This nameless grief! . . And yet, as doth a sail
At sundown gleam more brightly, so may we
In splendor greet the night—one star above—
And find, if not by reason then by faith
And brave serenity,
Somewhere the heart to live and laugh and love
And ride at peace into the stilly port of Death!
A dream woven in daedal broidery
To snare or solace an imperial heart!
O, poem congeal'd in pearl and ebony,
In coromandel-lacquer, silk and gold,
With gorgeous dragons fang'd! O, elegance—
Pulse from the purple heart of proud Cathay!
Who wouldst communion hold
With Beauty or with heron-plum'd Romance,
Let his deep gaze dwell on thine inwrought tapestry!
Musing beneath three flowering almond trees,
With almond eyes half-narrow'd to his dream,
In royal robes a mandarin sits. A breeze
Feathers the silver grass along the stream
Sun-glancing at his feet and idly shakes
Upon the limpid water where it takes
A deeper hue three rosy almond flowers;
And musing there throughout the tranquil hours
He murmurs sometimes in his reverie,
While an ivory bird in an ebony tree
Carols an amorous air,
And a green paraquete
With golden feet
Balances on his chair!
Forever dreaming dreams forever new
Of Life and Love through veil'd eternities,
Reproach him not,—he knows far more than you,
O, western youth with callow cruel eyes!
Let him inform you, novice, what you are,
And whence your shallow haughty culture comes,
And whither flows the river of your being;—
For there was born afar,
And bloom'd in Orient lore his learning plumbs
Each treasur'd thought you own, each rose of Wisdom's seeing!
But, soft! he speaks, if you have ears to hear:
“Gladly would I have given my very queue
For one June twilight with Confucius near
The cedars of T'ai-Shan,—once to renew
At his soul-flame my feeble taper's glowing!
For now, methinks, too barren are grown the years,
And life is but an aimless zephyr blowing
Out of a void into a void of tears …
The world is ruled by cynics—that is why
It writhes and perishes… In some brave season
Strong artist-men of clear creative reason
Shall chasten it of its iniquity,
And build upon the wreck of infamy
A nobler human order, nobly plann'd,—
A Golden City where creative men
In joy of equal labor, brain and hand,
May live in peace and plenty. Until then
It is a prison-house where Fear is jailer,
And Hope comes ever with a broken key! . .
And thou, my Friend, what art thou but a dream
That spins itself into Eternity?—
A phantom sail adrift without a sailor,
Or chart, or needle, on Time's ebbing stream,
Gliding like duckweed or this almond flower
Down to some timeless, far-resounding sea!
O, bubble blown upon Infinity,
Can phantoms dream of Him whose dream they dower?
I dream, therefore I am: I know no more,
Nor whether I am man or only seeming,
Nor what shall be, nor what has been before,—
A shadowy host upon the night wind streaming! . .
I have met force and fraud and lust for power,
Greed and corruption's poison, fear and hate,
There where men strut or groan a fretful hour
And find contentment always out of reach;—
Where all is Truth, and all Untruth, and each
Or less or more the helpless sport of Fate!
But neither Justice have I found nor Reason
In the dark chaos of your restless life,
And little virtue, and less hope of peace,—
Where thinking's sin, and to be kind is treason,
And there is only savage senseless strife,
And men are slaves, save as they find release
From joyless toil and lie-crowned tyrannies
In art or madness or a lover's bower,
In crime or sad religion's ecstasies,—
War or a banishing! . .
In one unhallowed, fleeting, storm-swept hour—
Your dreams and ardors, pomp and power—dust!
Your name and race and age naught but a gust
Upon the trackless desert perishing…
A jest, a sigh,
A tortured ‘Why?’—
And lo!—a vanishing!
And you, callow youth with a confident eye,
With your freezing smile and your polished hair,
Gazing at me with an impudent stare,
You are really the sorriest fool
That I ever have seen
Since I sat on my screen
In my gardens cool,
Musing and listening thoughtfully
While sweet with a divine despair
From her perch in yonder sable tree
A milk-white bird flutes rapturously
An immemorial air,
And a green parakeet
With golden feet
Preens on the back of my chair!”
Truth singing from the bough of Death and Pride
Pluming and tempting ever at the ear,
And Man the Dreamer whom the Gods deride
Torn by desire and duty, strife and fear…
Have I divined the Poem, Celestial sage?
Thine eyes have far too deeply rent the veil;
There is no power on earth that can assuage
This nameless grief! . . And yet, as doth a sail
At sundown gleam more brightly, so may we
In splendor greet the night—one star above—
And find, if not by reason then by faith
And brave serenity,
Somewhere the heart to live and laugh and love
And ride at peace into the stilly port of Death!
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