ILLE

That is our modern hope, and by its light
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whether we have chosen chisel, pen, or
brush

We are but critics, or but half create,
Timid, entangled, empty, and abashed,
Lacking the countenance of our friends.

HIC

And yet,

The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself, That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.

ILLE

And did he find himself,
Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
A hunger for the apple on the bough
Most out of reach? And is that spectral
image

The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?
I think he fashioned from his opposite
An image that might have been a stony face,
Staring upon a Beduin's horse-hair roof,

From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned

Among the coarse grass and the camel dung. He set his chisel to the hardest stone;

Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life.

Derided and deriding, driven out

To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, He found the unpersuadable justice, he found

The most exalted lady loved by a man.

HIC

Yet surely there are men who have made their art

Out of no tragic war; lovers of life,
Impulsive men, that look for happiness,
And sing when they have found it.

ILLE

No, not sing,

For those that love the world serve it in

action,

Grow rich, popular, and full of influence; And should they paint or write still is it

action,

The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neigh-

bours,

The sentimentalist himself; while art
Is but a vision of reality.

What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?

HIC

And yet,

No one denies to Keats love of the world, Remember his deliberate happiness.

ILLE

His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
I see a schoolboy, when I think of him,
With face and nose pressed to a sweetshop
window,

For certainly he sank into his grave,
His senses and his heart unsatisfied;
And made-being poor, ailing and ignorant,
Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
The coarse-bred son of a livery stable

keeperLuxuriant song.

HIC

Why should you leave the lamp

Burning alone beside an open book,
And trace these characters upon the sand?
A style is found by sedentary toil,
And by the imitation of great masters.

ILLE

Because I seek an image, not a book;

Those men that in their writings are most wise

Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.

I call to the mysterious one who yet

Shall walk the wet sand by the water's edge, And look most like me, being indeed my double,

And prove of all imaginable things
The most unlike, being my anti-self,
And, standing by these characters, disclose
All that I seek; and whisper it as though
He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
Would carry it away to blasphemous men.
December 1915.

ANIMA HOMINIS

I

WHEN I come home after meeting men who are strange to me, and sometimes even after talking to women, I go over all I have said in gloom and disappointment. Perhaps I have overstated everything from a desire to vex or startle, from hostility that is but fear; or all my natural thoughts have been drowned by an undisciplined sympathy. My fellowdiners have hardly seemed of mixed humanity, and how should I keep my head among images of good and evil, crude allegories.

But when I shut my door and light the candle, I invite a Marmorean Muse, an art, where no thought or emotion has come to mind because another man has thought or felt something different, for now there must be no reaction, action only, and the world must move my heart but to the heart's discovery of itself, and I begin to dream of eyelids that do not quiver before the bayonet: all my thoughts have ease and joy, I am all