ACROSS
THE COURTYARD
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That
is the window over there
With the closed shutters and the air
Of a deserted place, like those
Abandoned homesteads whose repose
Haunts us with mystery. Inside
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Who
knows what tragedy may hide?
This
window has been sealed up so
A fortnight now. A month ago
Just about dusk you should have seen
The vision I saw smile and lean
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From
that same window. Spring's return,
When daffodils and jonquils burn
Under the azure April day,
Is not more lovely nor more gay.
The
world—at least, our artist world |
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Where
tubes are pinched and brushes twirled
In the long task to reproduce
God's masterpieces for man's use—
Knows Jacynth for the loveliest
Of all its models and the best.
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Why,
half the portraits in the town,
From Mrs. Bigwig, Jr.'s down,
Have that same perfect taper hand.
(If you have wit to understand
A woman's vanity, you know
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Why
they should wish to have it so),
Those same long fingers smooth and round,
Faultless as petals, and not found
Twice in a generation. Well,
They're Jacynth's. But you need not tell
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The
trick. In this world art must live
On what the world's caprice will give.
Delightful folly! But far more
Delightful
beauty we adore
And follow humbly day by day,
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Her
difficult, enchanted way.
(Dear beauty, still beyond the reach
Of paint, or music, or of speech!)
We toil and triumph and despair,
Then on a morn look up, and there
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Some
girl goes by, or there's a dash
Of colour on the clouds—a flash
Of inspiration caught between
Chinks in the workshop's grey routine.
One hint of glory through the murk,
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And
God has criticized our work.
So
we plod on, and so one day
It happened toward the end of May,
When the long twilight comes, and when
Our northern orchards bloom again— |
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Even
our poor old courtyard tree,
Knowing the time that bids him be
One of the hosts that leaf and sing
In the revival of the spring,
Dons his green robe of joy. You know
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How
idle, then, a man will grow.
I had been sitting lost in thought
Of how our best dreams come to naught,
And we are left mere daubers still
For want of knowledge, lack of skill— |
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So many
of us are, I mean!
The door was open, and the screen
And curtains turned back everywhere
For the first breath of summer air,
That came in like a wanderer
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From
far untroubled lands, to stir
The prints along the wall, and bring
Our dreams of greatness back with spring.
Suddenly,
I looked up, aware
Before I looked, of some one there— |
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You
know how. In the doorway stood
A tall girl dressed in black. How good
A scrap of actual beauty is,
After our unrealities!
The copper-coloured hair; the glint
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Of tea-rose
in her throat's warm tint;
The magic and surprise that go
With level blue-grey eyes; the slow
Luxurious charm of poise and line,
Half-Oriental, half-divine,
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And
altogether human. Oh,
One must have known her then, to know
How faultless beauty still transcends
The bound where faultless painting ends.
But you may gather here and there
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Faint
glimpses and reports of her
In the best work of all the men
Who painted her as she was then,
Splendid and wonderful. To me,
For colour and for symmetry,
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In her
young glory there she seemed
The flame-like one of whom they dreamed
Who worshipped beauty in old days
With singleness of joy and praise;
Some great Astarte come to bless
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This
old world with new loveliness;
My own ideal come to life,
After the failure and the strife,
To prove I dreamed not all in vain
In poverty beside the Seine. |
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There came a sudden leap at heart
That made my pulses stop and start,
The surge and flood of sense that sweep
Over our nature's hidden deep,
When we look up and recognize
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Our
vision in an earthly guise.
Then reason must resign control
To the indubitable soul,
Put off despair, arise and dance
To the joy-music of romance.
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For one great year she posed for me;
Came in and out familiarly,
And made the studio her home
Almost—not quite; for always some—
What shall I say?—reserve or pride, |
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Mysterious
and aloof, belied
By the soft loving languorous mien,
Invested her, enthroned serene
Above importunings. Who knows,
If she had chosen as I chose— |
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Flung
heart and head and hand away
On the great venture of a day;
Poured love and passion and romance
In the frail mould of circumstance—
Had she but dared be one of two, |
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We might
have made the world anew!
However much it might have cost,
Who knows what good may have been lost,
What passing great reward?
One
day
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When
work was done she turned to say
Her soft good night, and tripped down-stair
With rustling skirts and her fine air
Of breeziness, humming a catch
From some street-song. I heard the latch
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Click
after her, and she was gone.
Next day I waited. It wore on
To afternoon, and still no sign
Of peril near this dream of mine.
A year went by, and not a word
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Of
the lost Jacynth could be heard.
May
came again; the wind once more
Was blowing by the open door,
And I saw something over there
Across the yard that made me stare. |
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Strangers
had recently arrived
On that third floor, and Fate contrived
One of her small dramatic scenes
Which make us wonder what life means,
And whether it is all a play
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For
our diversion by the way.
There at the window I caught sight
Of a girl's figure. The crisp white
Of the fresh gown passed and repassed,
Strangely familiar, till at last,
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"Jacynth,
of course! Who else?" I cried.
And on the instant she espied
Me watching her; quick as a flash
And smiling, ran, threw up the sash
To lean far out. "How do you do,
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My friend?"
"Why, Jacynth, how are you,
After this long, long time?" I said.
"Thank you, quite well." Her pretty head
Was tilted up, in every line
An old medallion rare and fine.
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"Yes, it's a long time, isn't it,
Since that first day I came to sit
For your great Lilith? Tell me how
They hung it at the Fair. And now
That we are neighbours once again,
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Do come
to see me." It was plain
From the unwonted vanity
Of tone, as she ran on to me,
Some strange ambition, plan, or hope
Had come to give her pride new scope.
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Somehow
she had acquired the chill
Of worldliness; I missed the thrill
Of eager radiance she had
When we were comrades free and glad.
Some volatile and subtle trace
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Of soul
had vanished from her face,
Leaving the brilliancy that springs
From polished and enamelled things.
The beauty of the lamp still shone
With lustre, but the flame was gone. |
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There
was so evident in her
The smug complacent character
Of prosperous security,
That when, with just a flick at me,
She added, gaily as before,
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"It
isn't Jacynth any more,
It's Mrs."—some one—here was I,
Too much astonished to reply,
Before she vanished. From that day
The rest is blank, think what you may.
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There
is her window, as you see,
Closed on a teasing mystery.
I
think, as I recall her here,
How much life means beyond the mere
Safety, convenience, and the pose
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Respectability
bestows;
The beauty of the questing soul
In every face, beyond control
Is dimmed by wearing any mask
That dull conformity may ask.
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How
almost no one understands
The unworldliness that art demands!
How few have courage to retain
Through years of doubtful stress and strain
The resolute and lonely will
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To follow
beauty, to fulfil
The dreams of their prophetic youth
And pay the utmost price of truth!
How few have nerve enough to keep
The trail, and thread the dark and steep
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By the
lone lightning-flash that falls
Through sullen murky intervals!
How many faint of heart must choose
The steady lantern for their use,
And never, without fear of Fate,
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| Be daring,
generous and great!
Where is she now? What sudden change
Clouded our day-dream? Love is strange!
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