Oneiropolos
Come , Sakhi. Here within this edge of shade
We'll stand against the house-wall shadow-cooled.
There's no one left at noon in the Agora
To quib their fortune of my dozen birds.
The town—the world, these poor Athenians think—
Goes home and half asleep. Their prattling stops.
And burned by sunlight thro' the stifling hours,
Temple and house, statue and wall and road
Glow as hot copper.
But here shadow dwells;
And here by the sun-stricken afternoon
I stand leaning my head, and close my eyes.
A red light swims my brain awhile, then goes;
And unto memory I surrender me
Of all my master Brihadashua said,
My blessèd master pure and charitable
Who dwelt in Kashi by the holy stream.
Happy indeed was I, happy to count
A wizard in my kindred such as he,
Whose lips were wholly dedicate to truth,
Whose hand dispensed serene and wonderful
Peace to the spirit as a tree his shade.
To him, as one who rushes head aflame,
Kindled and dry with fever, toward shore,
I went; and most divinely pitiful
He taught me wisdom. To his voice I turned
As turns a lotus to the rosy dawn,
Filling with light, gathering treasure thence
To keep within its heart all the day long.
Sometime he spake, and all were blest; sometime
Silent we sat within the pale and help
Of all his thought. Continually did fall
The pleasant dew of patience from his eye,
Which looking ever beyond world and star
Was large as upper heaven. They were the days
When I had laid the world to rest within me
And, tho' with childish lips, did after him
Say as in dream the holy syllables.
He died,—rather, I heard him never more.
His final earthly errand, whilst his mind,
Quitting our vain and pitiable scene,
Dissolved, he gave me in trust. I quit the shore
Of holy Ganga's healing water-wave,
Long travelled, breathed of many airs, reviewed
Forests of sandal, where the Spring wind blew,
And tender-petalled lily-beds, whereo'er
The gray crane spanned his gracious, level flight.
Westward I followed, following every day
In quest of that he bade me. At the last
I beheld Sindhus, and my errand's done.
Hear, Sakhi, yet awhile my destiny.
The burning season shone. I stayed—too late.
The people's rumour told of a great host,
Yavanas named, from the utter unknown lands,
Generalled by a god and more innumerable
Than drops in rainy season; giants all,
That tramped about the edges of the world
And rose like a live night of crying birds
Across and thro' high heaven, then fell to earth—
What needs the many words? The Greeks were on.
One midday hour the world did leap apart,
And thence a thirsty multitude in riot,
With women, gold, flocks, armour, camels, coins;
Maddened with hunger for another world;
Each vagabond upon his empty heart
An empire's jewel scattering the light.
They sacked the land, then weary sat them down,
And with a million mouths and voices cried
They'd walk the wide and feeble earth no more.
So spake the children and the world obeyed.
Oceanward, between patient Sindhus' shores,
The locusts moved, leaving a piteous land,
With goods and gold and men, whereof was I.
Over a milky ocean torn with flame
And faced with greenish current, 'long a shore
Crusted with yellow sand, beneath a sky
Of endless sun, they lived and sailed and died.
Then for a little year the millions tramped
Thro' deserts flat as sea and gray as cloud,
Till they saw finally a shore. And ships
Bore them 'twixt isle and isle, after the sun,
Into the port yonder, Peiraios called,
To rest. 'T was home, they said; and all men wept.
I found their painted fanes and naked gods
And all these children babbling in the sun.
First did I hunger, knowing no trick or trade,
Knowing nothing that sold brings money in.
I talked not, nor could understand at all
This Grecian race of laughter, pleasure, song.
Pity, nor giving alms, nor anything
That makes the spirit pure, is here. They live,
And suffer the forgetfulness of life.
This is my tale: One night I walked abroad
Ere dawn a dreary hour, the market-place
More dark than any jungle. Cold it was.
I walked, when five cold fingers touched my arm,—
Beside, a Phrygian slave. Often I'd seen
Him and his fortune-table's dozen birds,—
“Oneiropolos” called, “seller of dreams.”
He looked me in the eyes and took my arm
And led me here; awhile rehearsed his tricks:
Teased with his forefinger a bird's soft throat,—
Which leapt on't, pecked and picked one single card.
So did the Phrygian seven times, and went.
Over Akropolis was golden dawn.
Their naked gods all bloomed with light. The dark
In violet veils dissolved down the steep heaven,
And I stood here, selling to Athens dreams.
A dying town filled of a feeble race,
Small gossips of their all-expressing tongue,
Dancers and frolickers, philosophers
Drunken and sense-tied to the trembling world.
Hither from fifty climes men come and come,
Women and children come to see—'t is strange!—
This city of the old and marble things.
'T was miracle, say they, what sights were seen
Here, Sakhi, one great hundred years agone—
For they count Time upon their nervous hand.
Galleys and chariots, beauty, victory, gold,
And gods they had, whose fair procession walked
With maidens, cattle, priests and horse; whereof
Up in the shadows of the fane, yonder,
Is marble picture by a studied hand.
So at their pretty game the children played
Building and singing on.—But all is gone.
'T is vision, tale of poets, memory, nothing;
Now there is void shadow, blown by wind,
And the unstoried year is rolled away.
Here in the dying town I sell them dreams,
Here where the Phrygian stood. At evening
I knock at yonder gate in the High Wall,
And enter. Courteously a gentle man
Leads me within, to shade. Upon his lips
Their chattering Greek is low and lovelier.
I sit me down. My supper bowl of rice
He gives, saying, “My friend, rejoice in peace.”
Down thro' his olive orchard, shadowy
And still and secret as the things of Ind,
The lily-like soft evening gathers dark.
Blest is his pious deed; for many hear
The spoken solace of his quietude.
To him what little coin I gather here,
Not in exchange or manner of the West,
I bring. For Epicurus aids the poor.
Peace! My words are many. Now peace to thee!
For yonder comes as ever at this time
Phryne, the rose and glory of their world.
Her veil is wove of sunrise, and her face
The white moon set between two clouds of black.
Her eye's a firefly and her voice a viol.
She walks as when a bird follows the sea.
Here daily falls her piece of gold,—she's rich
And timid as the shining meteor,
And hovers mothlike round her destiny;
For all her wings and beauty are for sale.
We'll stand against the house-wall shadow-cooled.
There's no one left at noon in the Agora
To quib their fortune of my dozen birds.
The town—the world, these poor Athenians think—
Goes home and half asleep. Their prattling stops.
And burned by sunlight thro' the stifling hours,
Temple and house, statue and wall and road
Glow as hot copper.
But here shadow dwells;
And here by the sun-stricken afternoon
I stand leaning my head, and close my eyes.
A red light swims my brain awhile, then goes;
And unto memory I surrender me
Of all my master Brihadashua said,
My blessèd master pure and charitable
Who dwelt in Kashi by the holy stream.
Happy indeed was I, happy to count
A wizard in my kindred such as he,
Whose lips were wholly dedicate to truth,
Whose hand dispensed serene and wonderful
Peace to the spirit as a tree his shade.
To him, as one who rushes head aflame,
Kindled and dry with fever, toward shore,
I went; and most divinely pitiful
He taught me wisdom. To his voice I turned
As turns a lotus to the rosy dawn,
Filling with light, gathering treasure thence
To keep within its heart all the day long.
Sometime he spake, and all were blest; sometime
Silent we sat within the pale and help
Of all his thought. Continually did fall
The pleasant dew of patience from his eye,
Which looking ever beyond world and star
Was large as upper heaven. They were the days
When I had laid the world to rest within me
And, tho' with childish lips, did after him
Say as in dream the holy syllables.
He died,—rather, I heard him never more.
His final earthly errand, whilst his mind,
Quitting our vain and pitiable scene,
Dissolved, he gave me in trust. I quit the shore
Of holy Ganga's healing water-wave,
Long travelled, breathed of many airs, reviewed
Forests of sandal, where the Spring wind blew,
And tender-petalled lily-beds, whereo'er
The gray crane spanned his gracious, level flight.
Westward I followed, following every day
In quest of that he bade me. At the last
I beheld Sindhus, and my errand's done.
Hear, Sakhi, yet awhile my destiny.
The burning season shone. I stayed—too late.
The people's rumour told of a great host,
Yavanas named, from the utter unknown lands,
Generalled by a god and more innumerable
Than drops in rainy season; giants all,
That tramped about the edges of the world
And rose like a live night of crying birds
Across and thro' high heaven, then fell to earth—
What needs the many words? The Greeks were on.
One midday hour the world did leap apart,
And thence a thirsty multitude in riot,
With women, gold, flocks, armour, camels, coins;
Maddened with hunger for another world;
Each vagabond upon his empty heart
An empire's jewel scattering the light.
They sacked the land, then weary sat them down,
And with a million mouths and voices cried
They'd walk the wide and feeble earth no more.
So spake the children and the world obeyed.
Oceanward, between patient Sindhus' shores,
The locusts moved, leaving a piteous land,
With goods and gold and men, whereof was I.
Over a milky ocean torn with flame
And faced with greenish current, 'long a shore
Crusted with yellow sand, beneath a sky
Of endless sun, they lived and sailed and died.
Then for a little year the millions tramped
Thro' deserts flat as sea and gray as cloud,
Till they saw finally a shore. And ships
Bore them 'twixt isle and isle, after the sun,
Into the port yonder, Peiraios called,
To rest. 'T was home, they said; and all men wept.
I found their painted fanes and naked gods
And all these children babbling in the sun.
First did I hunger, knowing no trick or trade,
Knowing nothing that sold brings money in.
I talked not, nor could understand at all
This Grecian race of laughter, pleasure, song.
Pity, nor giving alms, nor anything
That makes the spirit pure, is here. They live,
And suffer the forgetfulness of life.
This is my tale: One night I walked abroad
Ere dawn a dreary hour, the market-place
More dark than any jungle. Cold it was.
I walked, when five cold fingers touched my arm,—
Beside, a Phrygian slave. Often I'd seen
Him and his fortune-table's dozen birds,—
“Oneiropolos” called, “seller of dreams.”
He looked me in the eyes and took my arm
And led me here; awhile rehearsed his tricks:
Teased with his forefinger a bird's soft throat,—
Which leapt on't, pecked and picked one single card.
So did the Phrygian seven times, and went.
Over Akropolis was golden dawn.
Their naked gods all bloomed with light. The dark
In violet veils dissolved down the steep heaven,
And I stood here, selling to Athens dreams.
A dying town filled of a feeble race,
Small gossips of their all-expressing tongue,
Dancers and frolickers, philosophers
Drunken and sense-tied to the trembling world.
Hither from fifty climes men come and come,
Women and children come to see—'t is strange!—
This city of the old and marble things.
'T was miracle, say they, what sights were seen
Here, Sakhi, one great hundred years agone—
For they count Time upon their nervous hand.
Galleys and chariots, beauty, victory, gold,
And gods they had, whose fair procession walked
With maidens, cattle, priests and horse; whereof
Up in the shadows of the fane, yonder,
Is marble picture by a studied hand.
So at their pretty game the children played
Building and singing on.—But all is gone.
'T is vision, tale of poets, memory, nothing;
Now there is void shadow, blown by wind,
And the unstoried year is rolled away.
Here in the dying town I sell them dreams,
Here where the Phrygian stood. At evening
I knock at yonder gate in the High Wall,
And enter. Courteously a gentle man
Leads me within, to shade. Upon his lips
Their chattering Greek is low and lovelier.
I sit me down. My supper bowl of rice
He gives, saying, “My friend, rejoice in peace.”
Down thro' his olive orchard, shadowy
And still and secret as the things of Ind,
The lily-like soft evening gathers dark.
Blest is his pious deed; for many hear
The spoken solace of his quietude.
To him what little coin I gather here,
Not in exchange or manner of the West,
I bring. For Epicurus aids the poor.
Peace! My words are many. Now peace to thee!
For yonder comes as ever at this time
Phryne, the rose and glory of their world.
Her veil is wove of sunrise, and her face
The white moon set between two clouds of black.
Her eye's a firefly and her voice a viol.
She walks as when a bird follows the sea.
Here daily falls her piece of gold,—she's rich
And timid as the shining meteor,
And hovers mothlike round her destiny;
For all her wings and beauty are for sale.
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