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The time or the place might be。 Were he sounding；
With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose；
Nigh to itself； the depth of a woman
Fooled with his brainless art； or sending
The midnight home with songs and bottles；
The cad was there； and his ease forever
Shone with the smooth and slippery polish
That tells the snake。 That night he drifted
Into an up…town haunt and ordered
Whatever it was with a soft assurance
That made me mad as I stood behind him；
Gripping his death； and waited。 Coward；
I think； is the name the world has given
To men like me； but I'll swear I never
Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him
Yes； in the back； I know it； I know it
Now； but what if I do？ 。 。 。 As I watched him
Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust；
Wet with a day's blown froth； I noted
That things were still； that the walnut tables；
Where men but a moment before were sitting；
Were gone； that a screen of something around me
Shut them out of my sight。 But the gilded
Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys
Flashed from the walls above； and the mirrors
And glasses behind the bar were lighted
In some strange way； and into my spirit
A thousand shafts of terrible fire
Burned like death； and I fell。 The story
Of what came then； you know。
But tell me；
What does the whole thing mean？ What are we；
Slaves of an awful ignorance？ puppets
Pulled by a fiend？ or gods； without knowing it？
Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation；
Or what do we do！ I tell you； Dominie；
There are times in the lives of us poor devils
When heaven and hell get mixed。 Though conscience
May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us
Away from our sins； it is lost or laughed at；
And then we fall。 And for all who have fallen
Even for him I hold no malice；
Nor much compassion： a mightier mercy
Than mine must shrive him。 And I I am going
Into the light？ or into the darkness？
Why do I sit through these sickening hours；
And hope？ Good God！ are they hours？ hours？
Yes！ I am done with days。 And to…morrow
We two may meet！ To…morrow！ To…morrow！ 。 。 。
Walt Whitman
The master…songs are ended； and the man
That sang them is a name。 And so is God
A name； and so is love； and life； and death；
And everything。 But we； who are too blind
To read what we have written； or what faith
Has written for us； do not understand：
We only blink； and wonder。
Last night it was the song that was the man；
But now it is the man that is the song。
We do not hear him very much to…day：
His piercing and eternal cadence rings
Too pure for us too powerfully pure；
Too lovingly triumphant； and too large；
But there are some that hear him； and they know
That he shall sing to…morrow for all men；
And that all time shall listen。
The master…songs are ended？ Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung；
And that no names are dead names。 When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand；
We write them there forever。
The Chorus of Old Men in 〃Aegeus〃
Ye gods that have a home beyond the world；
Ye that have eyes for all man's agony；
Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen；
Look with a just regard；
And with an even grace；
Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king；
Here on a suffering world where men grow old
And wander like sad shadows till； at last；
Out of the flare of life；
Out of the whirl of years；
Into the mist they go；
Into the mist of death。
O shades of you that loved him long before
The cruel threads of that black sail were spun；
May loyal arms and ancient welcomings
Receive him once again
Who now no longer moves
Here in this flickering dance of changing days；
Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath；
And the black master Death is over all；
To chill with his approach；
To level with his touch；
The reigning strength of youth；
The fluttered heart of age。
Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost
Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line！
Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release
Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom！
And thou； the saddest wind
That ever blew from Crete；
Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship！
Sing to the western flame；
Sing to the dying foam；
A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be！
Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day；
Bright； by the word of Zeus； with a golden star；
Wrought of a golden fame； and flung to the central sky；
To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore：
Whether or not there fell
To the touch of an alien hand
The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem；
Better his end had been
To die as an old man dies；
But the fates are ever the fates； and a crown is ever a crown。
The Wilderness
Come away！ come away！ there's a frost along the marshes；
And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water；
There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland
Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us。
There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn
Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad
For the glory that is gone from us； with a flight we cannot follow；
To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores。
Come away！ come away！ you can hear them calling； calling；
Calling us to come to them； and roam no more。
Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us；
There's an old song calling us to come！
Come away！ come away！ for the scenes we leave behind us
Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever；
And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night…wind；
That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains。
The songs that call for us to…night； they have called for men before us；
And the winds that blow the message； they have blown ten thousand years；
But this will end our wander…time； for we know the joy that waits us
In the strangeness of home…coming； and a faithful woman's eyes。
Come away！ come away！ there is nothing now to cheer us
Nothing now to comfort us； but love's road home：
Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us；
And a warm hearth waits for us within。
Come away！ come away！ or the roving…fiend will hold us；
And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring：
There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them；
There are none will own his enmity； there are none will call him brother。
So we'll be up and on the way； and the less we brag the better
For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know：
The frost that skips the willow…leaf will again be back to blight it；
And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see。
Come away！ come away！ there are dead men all around us
Frozen men that mock us with a wild； hard laugh
That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes；
And the long fall wind on the lake。
Octaves
I
To get at the eternal strength of things；
And fearlessly to make strong songs of it；
Is； to my mind； the mission of that man
The world would call a poet。 He may sing
But roughly； and withal ungraciously；
But if he touch to life the one right chord
Wherein God's music slumbers； and awake
To truth one drowsed ambition； he sings well。
II
We thrill too strangely at the master's touch；
We shrink too sadly from the larger self
Which for its own completeness agitates
And undetermines us； we do not feel
We dare not feel it yet the splendid shame
Of uncreated failure； we forget；
The while we groan； that God's accomplishment
Is always and unfailingly at hand。
III
To mortal ears the plainest word may ring
Fantastic and unheard…of； and as false
And out of tune as ever to our own
Did ring the prayers of man…made maniacs；
But if that word be the plain word of Truth；
It leaves an echo that begets itself；
Persistent in itself and of itself；
Regenerate； reiterate； replete。
IV
Tumultuously void of a clean scheme
Whereon to build； whereof to formulate；
The legion life that riots in mankind
Goes ever plunging upward； up and down；
Most like some crazy regiment at arms；
Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance；
And ever led resourcelessly along
To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters。
V
To me the groaning of world…worshippers
Rings like a lonely music played in hell
By one with art enough to cleave the walls
Of heaven with his cadence； but without
The wisdom or the will