Classic Poem

EPILOGUE M OUNTEBANK F EELS THE S TRINGS AT H IS H EART

In the blue twilight the puller of strings, half-tenderly
Tumbling his puppets away,—Punch, Judy, and Polly,—
Into the darkness again; Jack Ketch and Faustus,
Solomon, crowned with a crown of tinsel and silver,
Sheba with small hands lifted; Judas Iscariot
With a noose of frayed thin silk about his neck,
And the Devil himself in scarlet with white eyes leering,—
Tumbling them into their box, the cords relaxed,
The small world darkened, whereupon they danced and squeaked,—
Leaving them there in the dusk pell-mell together;
And turning away, at last, to look from a window
At a darker and greater world, ring beyond ring
Of houses and trees and stars, sky upon sky,
Space beyond silent space of clouds and planets:

Suddenly, there, as he stood at the darkening window
Watching the glimmer of uncounted worlds in the twilight,
A world so vast, so piercingly chorded with beauty,
Blown and glowing in the long-drawn wind of time,—
He saw himself,—though a god,—the puppet of gods;
Revolving in antics the dream of a greater dreamer;
Flung up from a sea of chaos one futile instant,
To look on a welter of water whirling with crimson;
And then, in an instant, drawn back once more into chaos.

. . . Was it enough, to remember that in that instant
He had cried out in a cry of rapture and anguish? . . .
Was it enough to believe,—if he could believe it!—
That the faint voice crying abruptly and strangely its anguish
Was the voice of himself? . . . Or only the voice of the gods? . . .
Was he no better than Judy, or Polly,—or Punch,
Capering about his cage of twittering dreams? . . .

Strange! As he looked from the height of the darkened window
At the glimmer of immortal worlds below and above,
Star beyond star, house beyond house,—soul beyond soul?—
He imagined that Judy, there in the box behind him,
Stirred her fellows aside and rose in the darkness
And quavered to him . . . ‘Listen! you puller of strings!
Do you think it just to call me into existence,—
To give me a name,—and give me so little beside? . . .
To Polly you give her laughter, to Punch his illusions,—
To me you give nothing but death!’

She wept after this,
Resting her small white elbows there on the box-edge,
And waited in silence. He, meanwhile, not turning towards her,
But resting, like her, his arms on the sill of the window,
Watched the dark world.

‘How shall I answer you, Judy? . . .
It is true you have little but sorrow and death at my hands—
It is true you seem hardly a shadow for Polly and Punch,—
And this I regret! You step for a moment from darkness
Turning, bewildered, your face in a twinkle of lamplight,
Lift sharply your hand,—and vanish once more, and for ever.
But Judy,—how else could I find you,—how even console you?
I too am a puppet. And as you are a symbol for me
(As Punch is, and Sheba—bright symbols of intricate meanings,
Atoms of soul—who move, and are moved by, me—)
So I am a symbol, a puppet drawn out upon strings,
Helpless, well-coloured, with a fixed and unchanging expression
(As though one said “heartache” or “laughter”!) of some one who leans
Above me, as I above you. . . And even this Some one,—
Who knows what compulsion he suffers, what hands out of darkness
Play sharp chords upon him! . . . Who knows if those hands are not ours! . . .

‘Look then at my mind: this tiny old stage, dimly lighted,
Whereon,—and without my permission,—you symbols parade,
Saying and meaning such things! You, now, with your death,
Crying out into my heart, if for only a moment!
Punch with his devils about him, his terror of darkness!
And Polly there laughing beside him—look now how you walk
On the nerve-strings of all I can know, to delight me, to torture,
To pass in a nightmare of gesture before me, how heedless
Of me,—whom our gods have ordained to exist as your world!
Think, now! I can never escape you. Did you call me a tyrant?
I desire to change you—and cannot! . . . I desire to see you
Under a pear-tree—(we'll say that the tree is in blossom—)
A warm day of sunlight, and laughing,—at nothing whatever! . . .
A green hill's behind you; a cloud like a dome tops the hill;
A poplar tree, like a vain girl, leans over a mirror
Trying on silver, then green, perplexed, but in pleasure;
And you there, alone in the sunlight, watch bees in the pear-tree,
Dipping the leaves; and you laugh—for no reason whatever!
Delightful! One moment, at least, no Punch can disturb you,
No Polly whirl dead leaves about you! You stand there untroubled . . .
Thus, then, I desire to see you, to have you exist
If only an instant; yet down come the shadows between us,
And all they have left me is—Judy, to whom I have given
A name, and so little beside!’

. . . There was silence a moment;
And when he turned back, expecting, perhaps, to see Judy
Leaning her small white elbows there on the box-edge,—
No, not a sign. The puppets lay huddled together,
Arms over heads, contorted, just where he had dropped them;
Inscrutable, silent, terrific, like those made eternal
Who stare, without thought, at a motionless world without meaning.