Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Dance before the ArchAllan Updegraff
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Lights among the leafage swayed and flashed;
Piquant bosky odors filled the air,
Piquant as a Maenad’s flying hair
Late the dripping dogwood buds had lashed.
Then three fared forth together:
A wise old teacher of men,
A poet who laughed with the weather,
And a silent knight of the pen.
They walked in the rain-witched park
While the hours grew small and dark,
And their talk was light as a feather
That Bacchus blows at a mark.
All about, where branches laughed and leapt,
Glints of eyes looked out into the mist,
Little, golden, dancing, rainbow-kissed:
Little shapes and shadows flashed and crept.
Then the sage: “O wonderful weather!
Strange, eerie!” Then he of the pen:
“The pixies are out all together:
Valpurgis Nacht—Bacchus—Amen!”
He waved his arms and inclined
His face to the night, joy-blind.
Then the poet: “Oh, pluck me a feather
From the stretched gray wing of the wind!”
Out of mist-swirls iris-splotched with light,
Loomed a sudden beauty, marble, plain,
Arched and sombre, fronting with disdain
All the springtime turmoil of that night.
Then the sage: “The old Arch, in this weather,
Needs garlands.” Then he of the pen:
“The lost Roman thing! All together!
Get branches—we’re Romans again!”
So they took each boughs in their hands,
Obeying the ancient commands,
When laurel put forth a green feather
And Proserpine gathered her bands.
They waved their boughs;
They were austere-faced for pleasure
In the Spring’s house.
The sharp wind gave them glee,
The wind with a tang of the sea;
They drank it deep and at leisure
As a nobly offered rouse.
There were faint lights under their feet,
Each light with a halo of pearl;
There were lights in the night around,
Each blown-mist-tressed like a girl.
Faster their feet beat,
With a quick, glad sound.
“Io, Bacchus! Honey-sweet!”
“Io, Proserpine!
O golden! O divine!
Loosed again from the ground!”
With quick breath;
Below, around, lights glanced
As life from death.
“Io, Proserpine is dead:
But the Spring lives!
Io, Bacchus,—where’s he fled?
But the vine thrives!”
“Good hap to Aphrodite
And her doves’ red feet:
Redder than new wine
Are the lips of my sweet!”
“Io, Spring!
Young, new!
Fairer for the vast
Passionate old past:
Io, Io, Spring
I sing, I sing!
I am drunk with wine, with wine and the Spring!”
The air sang
Under their boughs;
They laughed, they played
With the mist that stang
Their mid-carouse.
“Io, Spring’s blood’s on my face
And in my hair!”
“Io, Spring, magical maid,
For me forswear!”
“The vine buds red,
The willow gold,
The lady birch is white
And slim in the night:
Oh, make my bed
With white and gold and red,
Or ever the year grows old
And cold!
Io, Io!
And the tale of the frost is told!”
Over asphalt polished by the rain
Loomed the sombre Arch amid the mist;
At its feet some boughs the Spring had kissed
Whispered to the driving wind’s refrain.
Then three fared forth together:
A wise old teacher of men,
A poet who sang with the weather,
And a silent knight of the pen.
They went arm-linked from the park
That none be lost in the dark;
And their hearts were light as a feather
That Bacchus blows at a mark.