The Three Men-Spirits of the Dead
Over the dead bodies of the dead,
Over the too live minds of the dead,
Prevails the unknown goddess, death itself.
And what indeed is death,
Muffled and mute in the mute thoughts of the dead?
Romanzel, luckless poet of the dead,
Hovers on her, soaring round in word-lust.
He has the wings of a vulture,
The head of a bird vain of its manhood.
His feet are of lost roads and endlessness,
Hollowed up with anger, devil-toed.
And blacker than death, his body —
The black of furious silences.
Romanzel, doubtful if such abstruse goddess be
Terrible to know, since only silence-mighty,
Thinking amid the grim confusions
Struggling ribbon-wise where seems her head
To find a poetry of living death, resurrection
Of all that dropped down false in life, impossible —
Romanzel, spreading his tormented wings,
Spreads the blank sky of the blank-eyed dead.
Unidor, indifferent to the change
From world to other world not seen,
Holds the same task, contents the same desire.
With his blind eyes he builds the woman again
That death's veraciousness made nothing,
Even as in the lying sun she nightly faded
And each day must be anew stood up
Before his lying eyes, artificing sight.
Her name is Amulette, and saucy-fair she is,
Little image of death, of dead flesh moulded —
Close image of the far obsession,
Though never has he looked on death, uttered the word.
Unidor walks an indifferent sea, firmly.
But Amulette walks on land; he has devised
A little world in air suspended, as she is used.
And greedily Romanzel's hands reach down,
Though hidden among the incomplete trees her head.
Whatever brings life to mind is instant fire
In Romanzel's luckless drought of soul.
But not so with Mortjoy, our gentle favourite.
He is well advised that he is dead, and well pleased.
And well enough he sees, though blind, as death makes.
For his eyes are closed, he loves their blindness:
Faithfuller the quick, tumbled spectacle
Than when open-eyed he consented
To one poor numbered picturing at a time.
Groping in the sinister simplicity
Of her shop-attire (this merchant of more solemn marvels),
In one confiding gesture he claims
Her private, worthless treasures, not for sale,
Tucked in her apron like Egyptian rubbish,
Lest moneyed tourists, laughing through their pearls,
Think her a doting graveyard-wife, and misbehave.
Of such is Mortjoy's theatre, an earnest comedy
Complete of brief undoings, minute fatalities.
On death's travel-carpet, motionless and calm,
The once distracted dolls of chance succeed themselves.
Mortjoy is the man-spirit of the happy dead:
After live hours comes the longer time
Of narrowing hours, of scenes that hurry tears,
That move the lips with only " And the next?"
The longer, timeless time runs on as once
When death was first and life need not have followed —
The longer time of lightning prophecies
Too fast-ensuing to bode surfeit or lack.
Exaggerated absolute, where all or nothing happens —
How prospers death, the classic present,
Time before time, and afterwards!
Mortjoy, the preferred, at her side kneeling,
Makes play as might a knowledgeable child,
In wars grounded and in maps precise,
Imaginary battles and fond voyages taste.
More life in death stirs than in life.
Life is no more than those few chapters,
Of fearsome name among the fearful,
That turn away such eyes as dare not open
Whole-circle round on death, blinding quantity.
Mortjoy, gentle and brave, turned death wide-open eyes,
And death closed them, but bounteously.
Death does not little him with fear. " More, more!" he cries.
When death's a single horror, vast inundation,
Then may his bursting eyes spill over,
And the pride crash that made familiar with
The household mysteries of death, interior gossip.
But such, rather, is Romanzel's famed calamity,
Who had such pride, yet never came so near.
Mortjoy's pleasure is not the spy of fame.
Nothing's to tell, for all he gathers tales.
Death is the closed secret of his curiosity.
Ringlets of honour softly seal his brow.
And Unidor? He does not puzzle where, when, what, who.
His back is turned on death: staring straight before,
His eyes live by the conjured figurine
Whose sly, loose magic loses her each moment,
That the next moment she may show again.
Over the too live minds of the dead,
Prevails the unknown goddess, death itself.
And what indeed is death,
Muffled and mute in the mute thoughts of the dead?
Romanzel, luckless poet of the dead,
Hovers on her, soaring round in word-lust.
He has the wings of a vulture,
The head of a bird vain of its manhood.
His feet are of lost roads and endlessness,
Hollowed up with anger, devil-toed.
And blacker than death, his body —
The black of furious silences.
Romanzel, doubtful if such abstruse goddess be
Terrible to know, since only silence-mighty,
Thinking amid the grim confusions
Struggling ribbon-wise where seems her head
To find a poetry of living death, resurrection
Of all that dropped down false in life, impossible —
Romanzel, spreading his tormented wings,
Spreads the blank sky of the blank-eyed dead.
Unidor, indifferent to the change
From world to other world not seen,
Holds the same task, contents the same desire.
With his blind eyes he builds the woman again
That death's veraciousness made nothing,
Even as in the lying sun she nightly faded
And each day must be anew stood up
Before his lying eyes, artificing sight.
Her name is Amulette, and saucy-fair she is,
Little image of death, of dead flesh moulded —
Close image of the far obsession,
Though never has he looked on death, uttered the word.
Unidor walks an indifferent sea, firmly.
But Amulette walks on land; he has devised
A little world in air suspended, as she is used.
And greedily Romanzel's hands reach down,
Though hidden among the incomplete trees her head.
Whatever brings life to mind is instant fire
In Romanzel's luckless drought of soul.
But not so with Mortjoy, our gentle favourite.
He is well advised that he is dead, and well pleased.
And well enough he sees, though blind, as death makes.
For his eyes are closed, he loves their blindness:
Faithfuller the quick, tumbled spectacle
Than when open-eyed he consented
To one poor numbered picturing at a time.
Groping in the sinister simplicity
Of her shop-attire (this merchant of more solemn marvels),
In one confiding gesture he claims
Her private, worthless treasures, not for sale,
Tucked in her apron like Egyptian rubbish,
Lest moneyed tourists, laughing through their pearls,
Think her a doting graveyard-wife, and misbehave.
Of such is Mortjoy's theatre, an earnest comedy
Complete of brief undoings, minute fatalities.
On death's travel-carpet, motionless and calm,
The once distracted dolls of chance succeed themselves.
Mortjoy is the man-spirit of the happy dead:
After live hours comes the longer time
Of narrowing hours, of scenes that hurry tears,
That move the lips with only " And the next?"
The longer, timeless time runs on as once
When death was first and life need not have followed —
The longer time of lightning prophecies
Too fast-ensuing to bode surfeit or lack.
Exaggerated absolute, where all or nothing happens —
How prospers death, the classic present,
Time before time, and afterwards!
Mortjoy, the preferred, at her side kneeling,
Makes play as might a knowledgeable child,
In wars grounded and in maps precise,
Imaginary battles and fond voyages taste.
More life in death stirs than in life.
Life is no more than those few chapters,
Of fearsome name among the fearful,
That turn away such eyes as dare not open
Whole-circle round on death, blinding quantity.
Mortjoy, gentle and brave, turned death wide-open eyes,
And death closed them, but bounteously.
Death does not little him with fear. " More, more!" he cries.
When death's a single horror, vast inundation,
Then may his bursting eyes spill over,
And the pride crash that made familiar with
The household mysteries of death, interior gossip.
But such, rather, is Romanzel's famed calamity,
Who had such pride, yet never came so near.
Mortjoy's pleasure is not the spy of fame.
Nothing's to tell, for all he gathers tales.
Death is the closed secret of his curiosity.
Ringlets of honour softly seal his brow.
And Unidor? He does not puzzle where, when, what, who.
His back is turned on death: staring straight before,
His eyes live by the conjured figurine
Whose sly, loose magic loses her each moment,
That the next moment she may show again.
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