Classic Poem

I sing this song that you may know me better;
That I may know thee better;
And that we two may burn our false idols
At the same altar.

I come first to you,
Young, inland mariner on a sea of flowing grapes,
In purple France:
Shaking the sweet snow from my hardy shoulders
I come to you.
Long has my race, companioned by strong elements,
Misunderstood the liquid nature of your soul.
And you, with the same blindness as mine own,
Have called my silent Northmen cold and passionless.
Let us approach one another, comrade;
Look in mine eyes and I will look in thine;
And that fair light which falls when soul greets soul
Will be the first spark to arouse the fires
Which shall consume our idols.

Your people gave me to drink at the rare founts
Of Moliere, Hugo and Gounod.
My people renewed thy soul of art
With the clear flow of Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Keats.
A thousand pleasures of the heart and eye
We owe each other.
Upward reaching toward the same white light
Have all our yearnings been.
Only have our idols blinded us through the long, sad years.
Now the way is open:
Consume fires; flame fiercely;
For an idol does not burn readily,
And this can never be a Song of Better Understanding
Until all our false idols are translated into ashes.

Yesterday I said: " I will go kill a German:
I hate Germans: I hate their diet: I hate their aggressiveness.
So I buckled on my sword and sought out a Teuton.
And soon I found one sitting by the roadside,
And his head was bent in an attitude of profound thought.
Then I said, " Mine enemy I have come to kill thee. "
And he answered quietly, " I will let you slay me
If you will permit my body to fall on the floor of yonder chapel. "
So we journeyed to the chapel and entered its solitude;
But as I prepared my sword he quoted unto me,
In the rich accents of his thoughtful tongue, a song of Goethe.
His Goethe? nay; my Goethe? nay; our Goethe? yea.
And when I raised my sword I turned, savagely, and slew
Not him, but one of mine idols — my false idols.
Then from the chapel organ a soft sound crept with panther tread;
And through the windows of song passed, like a great wind,
All the pent-up passions of the ages. " The Appasionatta, " I cried:
His Appasionatta? Nay. My Appasionatta? Nay. Our Appasionatta? Yea.
And I swung my sword more savagely than before, and slew,
Not him, but all of mine idols — my false idols.
And when the last note had folded its head, like a tired child,
In the arms of silence, leaving our hearts, like sea beaches,
White and shining after the tempest has passed beyond,
Mine enemy and I sang together the greatest song of man:
The Song of Better Understanding.

And when we parted I said:
" All white men are my brothers: I will slay a white man no more.
Only are the black men mine enemies, and the yellow men.
I will go and kill an African or a man of China. "

And soon I found a yellow man sitting by the roadside:
And his head was bent in an attitude of profound thought.
Then I said as before, " Mine enemy I have come to kill thee. "
And he answered quietly, " I will let thee slay me
If thou wilt let my body fall on the soft sands of the sea-shore. "
" And why the sea-shore? " I said: and he replied unto me:
" There is a star which I love better than all stars;
And if I fall upon the sands my last look will be upon that star. "
Then from his lips flowed the wisdom of Confucius.
And my sword fell helpless and I said:
" I loved that star best of all stars in old England;
And I loved that truth of thy seer best of all truths:
Let us sing together; " and we, lovers of the same star,
Locked arms upon the rim of no-man's sea, and sang
" The Song of Better Understanding. "

What antangonism to America and her States
Shall override our granite debt to Emerson,
To Lowell, to Poe, to musical Lanier:
To Whitman who blasphemed the god of Technique;
To Whittier whose life was a gentle song!
What prejudice against Italian fury
Is justified when we unbare the page
Of Dante; or when eye and soul regale
In the majestic sweep of Michael Angelo!

I sing this song that you might know me better;
That I might know thee better.
For now is the day at hand when we shall behold
The dust of all our broken idols, our false gods,
Paving the streets where lusty mortals walk
Chanting the hymns of Barbary and her hosts.
O magnificent hosts! I can see them pass and repass,
Singing, in diapason of a universal love,
" The Song of Better Understanding. "