HIS name was Chance, Jack Chance, he said,
And that his family was dead.
He was a lucid fool, his eyes
Were cool and he beyond surprise.
Into the township Pollard Mill
He came in autumn alone one day,
Loafing along those roads which still,
Though dying in the grass, report
That lumber-sledges went that way.
He came idly and in our town
He raised a flight of birds, a brown
And silver flock, and underneath
Their wings were tinged with gold; his breath
Blew and the birds dipped and rose
As if they surely lived which were
But lies of the calm sorcerer.
Autumn came bringing free
Melancholy, but to me
Brought Jack, when I was sitting there
In the open barn door-way where
The sun moved in and I could get,
Drifting by, the sound and smell
Of late bees and of mignonette
From the dying garden by the wall,
And hear the thin defeated bell
Of distant time, and see the tall
Elms beyond the orchard slopes
Rising improbably, like hopes
Swaying above the mind, and I
Was sitting there and he came by.
Under his hat I saw his eyes
Measuring without disguise
The ripeness of my house,
And measuring myself, and he
Turned in and approached and spoke to me.
He had decided undismayed
This was the place for Chance, and I
The boy for him; and so he stayed.
And then the days moved gravely by,
Time drowned in fluent clarity
Flowing between him and me,
Who only lay along the walls
Unshamed of indolence, and heard
The dusty harvesters’ harsh calls
To sweating teams, loading the sheaves
On the steep withered fields their care
Was none of ours; or reasoned there
Where the mill-pond burned with leaves
And rustled at the dam, on those
Stark thoughts that rose
Out of cool spoken words, or we
Loafing in the arbor ate
Slowly the warm grapes, the rusty
Creaking swallows skimmed
The long ridgepoles, the day grew late
Easily, and dimmed.
At night we made a fire to mark
A spot of mirth against the dark,
There in a pasture which lay high
On the nearness of the sky.
Other countrymen would come,
Young farmers, farmers’ men and sons,
One after one they learned to come
And laugh with Chance and tap the old
Keg of cider, acrid gold,
Which we had borne carefully
Out of the cellar where it lay,
Drowsing wickedly it lay
Waiting for us to set free
Its vigor and its treachery.
Then Jack would sing his bawdy songs:
That old ballad which belongs
To timelessness, The Bastard King,
Or Doctor Tanner, or Mademoiselle,
Or Lil who died of letchering.
She died with her boots on, as they tell,
With a champion lad between her knees.
Or he would sometimes please,
If drinking brought delusion near,
To tell corrosive tales, the mere
Garments of lies, the cunning kind
Which echo somewhat in the mind,
And then they go, and you are more
Dull and baffled than before.
There went by then, in such a way,
Serene October; the last day
Came and the night was newly cold,
But the lire was high and the old
Cider burned within and we,
A dozen foolish farmers, kept
Alive the late hilarity
Of autumn, and the township slept.
Then Chance arose from where he sat
Against the keg and cocked his hat
Sideways and walking slow around
The fire, said ‘I have always found
Nothing new among much change;
But this I tell you now is strange:
It was at noon, the hour of sleep
For those who use their nights
In the deluding piracy
Of shadowy delights.
And so I slept, above the bank
Above the River Still,
Under an oak, the least of two
That rose under the hill.
But a sound crept through my nerves
And I woke and I could hear
Feet running fast and close,
Down the hill and near,
Then stop; and heard a noise like sobs
And stood up quietly
And peering saw that a breathless girl
Was clutching the other tree.
And then a man came following,
Loping leisurely,
And when he stood beside her said,
“I knew you would wait for me.”
And then she turned at bay; she was
Astonishingly rare,
A young ascetic fury she
Was something almost strange to me
With her honey fallen hair.
“Yes and have waited even too long,
Before now, to be glad,
Watching your insolence too long
Oh, you were the gorgeous lad
With your dark lovely face and all
The women you have had.
I have seen the rabbits follow you
Unasked and eagerly;
O ladies, you should see him now,
Begging a kiss of me.”
She ceased, and we all three were still
While he admired her,
And I kept hidden watching them,
For I have that character.
He did not mock her when he spoke,
“Where do they get these dull
Flash melodramas in their skulls?
And such a dainty skull.
Listen, I keep no list of names
For vanity; and I
Dislike the names and the odors and ways
Of women; I am shy
Of their domestic wills; and I
Am tired of the melting lie.
But there you are and sometimes love
Is more than remembered skill.”
“Love,” she said, “is the rust which ate
The clean rancor of my will.”
He raised his quiet hand to touch
Her hair, but she
Turned sharply down the bank and he
Now followed instantly.
And there below the godly stream
Was whispering in its beard,
And she cried, “Save me, River Still!”
Then stepped and disappeared.
Well so far nothing strange;
But after that the queer
Began, and I have seen these things,
And I, the bastard son of change,
Would dare to call them queer.
I saw the girl had gone entirely,
And in her place a dry
Shivering graceful sheaf of reeds
Sprang up, suddenly high;
And that he, following so close
That her hair was in his face,
Clutched and had no girl but had
Sharp reeds in his embrace.
He stepped back, looking at his hands
All laced with blood; a spike
Broke short and stood between his ribs
Most murderous like.
This feller was not eager now,
But only dazed,
And pulled the wet spike from his side,
Fumbling and amazed.
He stooped slowly to bathe his hands,
Then from his pocket drew
A folded knife and cut one reed.
Murmuring, “This will do.
Sometimes there’s music in these girls,
Sometimes,” and sitting then
He made a whistle which he tried
And changed and tried again.
He blew five even notes and stopped,
But the sound rippled away
Slowly, as if a sweet clang came
From the leaves and hummed away.
And then there came along the bank
A black majestic goat
With yellow eyes and gilded horns
And a white beard at its throat.
The goat lay down before his feet
Respectfully, dipping its head,
And the man laughed and, “Can this be
A messenger?” he said.
And played again and now more wild
And cloudily intricate,
And the goat arose and danced like one
Hieratic and sedate.
And that is all,’ said Chance, and then
He said, ‘So long’ and walked away
Casually, as if the night were day.
And we jumped up calling, and then
Stood silent for over us coldly fell
Five piercing notes, each like a spark;
We stood there stiffly and immersed,
Hearing laughter in the dark,
Until I spoke, being the first,
‘We had better go home now to bed;
We have drunk too much,’ I said.
Thereafter the rains beat down
The autumn, the drenched leaves came down
From the black trees, choking the ditches,
And over the sea came sons-of-bitches
With a hollow quarrel, the talking rats
Of England and of Europe slithered
Down the hawsers, doffed their hats
And squealed; and the plague spread and came,
Taking the cleanly name
Of honor for its strange device,
Even to our town; the conscript lice
Played soldiers over Pollard Mill
And pitched their camp on the River Still;
But no more Jack, and we were more
Dull and baffled than before.
About Women
Fair golden thoughts and lovely words’
Away, away from her they call,
For women are the silly birds,
And perching on a sunny wall
They chirp the answer and the all;
They hold for true all futile things
Life, death, and even love they fall
To dreaming over jeweled rings.
Their bodies are uncouthly made,
And heavy swollen like a pear,
And yet their conquered, undismayed
And childish lovers call them fair.
Their honor fills them full of care,
Their honor that is nothingness,
The mystery of empty air,
The veil of vain delightfulness.
Their subtleties are thin and pale,
Their hearts betray them in their eyes:
They are a simple flute, and frail,
With triple stops for playing lies.
These poor machines of life are wise
To scorn the metaphysic glow,
The careless game that laughs and dies,
The heady grace they cannot know.
Well, give them kisses, scatter flowers,
And whisper that you cannot stay;
We shall have clarity and hours
Which women shall not take away.
(Phelps Putnam)
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