A Minor Poet by Amy Levy

"What should such fellows as I do,Crawling between earth and heaven?"

Here is the phial; here I turn the keySharp in the lock. Click!--there's no doubt it turned.This is the third time; there is luck in threes--Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me nowAnd freely I'll forgive you many wrongs!Just as the draught began to work, first time,Tom Leigh, my friend (as friends go in the world),Burst in, and drew the phial from my hand,(Ah, Tom! ah, Tom! that was a sorry turn!)And lectured me a lecture, all compactOf neatest, newest phrases, freshly culledFrom works of newest culture: "common good ;""The world's great harmonies;""must be contentWith knowing God works all things for the best,And Nature never stumbles." Then again,"The common good," and still, "the common, good;"And what a small thing was our joy or griefWhen weigh'd with that of thousands. Gentle Tom,But you might wag your philosophic tongueFrom morn till eve, and still the thing's the same:I am myself, as each man is himself--Feels his own pain, joys his own joy, and lovesWith his own love, no other's. Friend, the worldIs but one man; one man is but the world.And I am I, and you are Tom, that bleedsWhen needles prick your flesh (mark, yours, not mine).I must confess it; I can feel the pulseA-beating at my heart, yet never knewThe throb of cosmic pulses. I lamentThe death of youth's ideal in my heart;And, to be honest, never yet rejoicedIn the world's progress--scarce, indeed, discerned;(For still it seems that God's a SisyphusWith the world for stone).You shake your head. I'm base,Ignoble? Who is noble--you or I?I was not once thus? Ah, my friend, we areAs the Fates make us.This time is the third;The second time the flask fell from my hand,Its drowsy juices spilt upon the board;And there my face fell flat, and all the lifeCrept from my limbs, and hand and foot were boundWith mighty chains, subtle, intangible;While still the mind held to its wonted use,Or rather grew intense and keen with dread,An awful dread--I thought I was in Hell.In Hell, in Hell ! Was ever Hell conceivedBy mortal brain, by brain Divine devised,Darker, more fraught with torment, than the worldFor such as I? A creature maimed and marr'dFrom very birth. A blot, a blur, a noteAll out of tune in this world's instrument.A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfilBase functions. A high thing, yet all unmeetFor work that's high. A dweller on the earth,Yet not content to dig with other menBecause of certain sudden sights and sounds(Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpseOf angel faces 'thwart the grating seen)Perceived in Heaven. Yet when I approachTo catch the sound's completeness, to absorbThe faces' full perfection, Heaven's gate,Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to,And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold,Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men:"He would not dig, forsooth ; but he must striveFor higher fruits than what our tillage yields;Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!"Why play with figures? trifle prettilyWith this my grief which very simply's said,"There is no place for me in all the world"?The world's a rock, and I will beat no moreA breast of flesh and blood against a rock. . .A stride across the planks for old time's sake.Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in;Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced;We know some things together, you and I!Hold there, you rangèd row of books ! In vainYou beckon from your shelf. You've stood my friendsWhere all things else were foes; yet now I'll turnMy back upon you, even as the worldTurns it on me. And yet--farewell, farewell!You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leavesAnd fathomless great heart, your binding's bruisedYet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell;Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes,And pitiless world-wisdom!

For all menThese two. And 'tis farewell with you, my friends,More dear because more near: Theokritus;Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus' bard;(I've grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:)And one wild singer of to-day, whose songIs all aflame with passionate bard's bloodLash'd into foam by pain and the world's wrong.At least, he has a voice to cry his pain;For him, no silent writhing in the dark,No muttering of mute lips, no straining outOf a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound,A-throb with pent-up passion. . .Ah, my sun!That's you, then, at the window, looking inTo beam farewell on one who's loved you longAnd very truly. Up, you creaking thing,You squinting, cobwebbed casement!So, at last,I can drink in the sunlight. How it falls.Across that endless sea of London roofs,Weaving such golden wonders on the grey,That almost, for the moment, we forgetThe world of woe beneath them.Underneath,For all the sunset glory, Pain is king.

Yet, the sun's there, and very sweet withal;And I'll not grumble that it's only sun,But open wide my lips--thus--drink it in;Turn up my face to the sweet evening sky(What royal wealth of scarlet on the blueSo tender toned, you'd almost think it green)And stretch my hands out--so--to grasp it tight.Ha, ha! 'tis sweet awhile to cheat the Fates,And be as happy as another man.The sun works in my veins like wine, like wine!'Tis a fair world: if dark, indeed, with woe,Yet having hope and hint of such a joy,That a man, winning, well might turn aside,Careless of Heaven . . .O enough; I turnFrom the sun's light, or haply I shall hope.I have hoped enough; I would not hope again:'Tis hope that is most cruel.Tom, my friend,You very sorry philosophic fool;'Tis you, I think, that bid me be resign'd,Trust, and be thankful.Out on you! Resign'd?I'm not resign'd, not patient, not school'd inTo take my starveling's portion and pretendI'm grateful for it. I want all, all, all;I've appetite for all. I want the best:Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life.There's too much patience in the world, I think.We have grown base with crooking of the knee.Mankind--say--God has bidden to a feast;The board is spread, and groans with cates and drinks;In troop the guests; each man with appetiteKeen-whetted with expectance.In they troop,Struggle for seats, jostle and push and seize.What's this? what's this? There are not seats for all!Some men must stand without the gates; and someMust linger by the table, ill-suppliedWith broken meats. One man gets meat for two,The while another hungers. If I standWithout the portals, seeing others eatWhere I had thought to satiate the pangsOf mine own hunger; shall I then come forthWhen all is done, and drink my Lord's good healthIn my Lord's water? Shall I not rather turnAnd curse him, curse him for a niggard host?O, I have hungered, hungered, through the years,Till appetite grows craving, then disease;I am starved, wither'd, shrivelled.Peace, O peace!This rage is idle; what avails to curseThe nameless forces, the vast silencesThat work in all things.This time is the third,I wrought before in heat, stung mad with pain,Blind, scarcely understanding; now I knowWhat thing I do.There was a woman once;Deep eyes she had, white hands, a subtle smile,Soft speaking tones: she did not break my heart,Yet haply had her heart been otherwiseMine had not now been broken. Yet, who knows?My life was jarring discord from the first:Tho' here and there brief hints of melody,Of melody unutterable, clove the air.From this bleak world, into the heart of night,The dim, deep bosom of the universe,I cast myself. I only crave for rest;Too heavy is the load. I fling it down.

EPILOGUE.

We knocked and knocked; at last, burst in the door,And found him as you know--the outstretched armsPropping the hidden face. The sun had set,And all the place was dim with lurking shade.There was no written word to say farewell,Or make more clear the deed.I search'd and search'd;The room held little: just a row of booksMuch scrawl'd and noted; sketches on the wall,Done rough in charcoal; the old instrument(A violin, no Stradivarius)He played so ill on; in the table drawerLarge schemes of undone work. Poems half-writ;Wild drafts of symphonies; big plans of fugues;Some scraps of writing in a woman's hand:No more--the scattered pages of a tale,A sorry tale that no man cared to read.Alas, my friend, I lov'd him well, tho' heHeld me a cold and stagnant-blooded fool,Because I am content to watch, and waitWith a calm mind the issue of all things.Certain it is my blood's no turbid stream;Yet, for all that, haply I understoodMore than he ever deem'd; nor held so lightThe poet in him. Nay, I sometimes doubtIf they have not, indeed, the better part--These poets, who get drunk with sun, and weepBecause the night or a woman's face is fair.Meantime there is much talk about my friend.The women say, of course, he died for love;The men, for lack of gold, or cavillingOf carping critics. I, Tom Leigh, his friendI have no word at all to say of this.Nay, I had deem'd him more philosopher;For did he think by this one paltry deedTo cut the knot of circumstance, and snapThe chain which binds all being?