354-5 E45 WINIFRED WELLES The H ES I TANT HEART NEW YORK: B. W, HUEBSCH Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021719103 PS 3545.E457H5 '"""" "'""' The hesitant heart. 3 1924 021 77^""'1{"5'^"""" WINIFRED WELLES ^ Tke Hesitant Heart New York B. W. Huebsch Mcmxix Some of these poems were first printed in the North American Review, The Century, The Liberator, The Smart Set, The Madrigal, The Poetry Journal and Contemporary Verse, to which due acknowledgment is made. Contents The Hesitant Heart 9 From a Chinese Vase 10 School II The Unfaithful April 12 Five O'clock 13 Loud Youth 14 Snowfall 15 Humiliation 16 Idyll 17 Cobweb 18 To Narcissus 19 One Voice 20 Driftwood 21 Windows 22 In Love 23 Variation 24 Hail and Farewell 2$ Plaint 26 The Violin 27 Keepsake 28 A Child's Song to Her Mother 29 Threnody 30 Two Songs of Bitterness 31 To a Mocking-Bird 33 Gesture 34 Language 35 A Tree at Dawn 36 A Tree at Dusk 37 Love Song from New England 38 Trespasser 39 Moonflowfer 40 Surf 41 The Misers 42 Lifetime 43 Communion 44 Talisman 45 Sympathy 46 Nocturne 47 The Child 48 My Heart Can't Break 49 Portrait of a Lady at the Piano 50 I've Lived so Long 51 Realities 53 Setting for a Fairy Story 54 Climb 56 The Hesitant Heart No, I shall never climb above the hill, But, vristful, pause halfway and take my fill Of wondering — Behind me lies the valley, hot and still, A roof-scarred thing. If, like a lagging cloud with slow, white feet, I should surmount the hill, would I then greet The spray-wreathed sea? And would the eager winds blow keen and sweet Up, up to me? Halfway, my craven heart shall ever bide, Content in hoping that the other side Shines on a silver shore. Yet fearful lest the high hills only hide More vale — and nothing more. [9] From a Chinese Vase Roaming the lonely garden, he and I Pursue each other to the fountain's brim, And there grow quiet — woman and butterfly — The frail clouds beckon me, the flowers tempt him. My thoughts are rose-like, beautiful and bright. Folded precise as petals are, and wings Uplift my dreaming suddenly in flight. And fill my soul with jagged colorings. The waters tangle like a woman's hair Above the dim reflection of a face — He thinks those are his own lips laughing there, His own breasts curving under silk and lace. How shall we know our real selves, he and I, Which is the woman, which the butterfly? [lO] School His seat was by a window. So he dreamed. How could he study while the sunlight gleamed In small, sweet shapes, like wild things tame enough To dart to him and touch his hands for love? While there were profiles carved in every cloud To mark as grim or ludicrous or proud. And agile shadowings to writhe and crawl Like ghostly spiders up and down the wall, He could not help but turn their way to look. His eyes, that would not follow down his book The muddy trudgings of deliberate words, Reflected blue and silver flights of birds. You would not think there was so much to trace Of wonderment on just a window space. But once, when a frail scrap of paper moon Enchanted him from ten o'clock, till noon. They moved him to the middle of the room. He learned his lesson then for very gloom, Until, came glowing to a nearby chair, A little girl with sunset in her hair. His soul recolored. The forlorn dreams came To warm themselves once more at this new flame. He pushed aside the dusty Greek. He had A different way to read the Iliad. While through cold ashes others groped to learn. He lit the towers of Troy and saw them burn. [ii] The Unfaithful April I saw a robin last year, I heard him fill his throat High in the trembling elm tree With note on gallant note. So splendidly his red breast Went flashing in the dew, I thought beneath his glad wings His heart had broken through. I hear the robin this year, His voice is sweet and strong, But I can not give him welcome Nor listen to his song. How can he bear the new leaves Around his last year's nest? How can he sing with old wounds Still red upon his breast? [12] Five o'clock t us go far away from buttered toast, id tea, and marmalade, and all of it. le feathered jostling of their hats, the wit ihumorous — I can not bear this host E warm, sweet women! Everything offends, le murmurous movement of each gleaming bead, i^ laughter on soft lips that do not feed much on tea as on their absent friends. knew you understood because your eyes ere beckoning across the crowd to me, 1 Child, who have so strangely learned to be ficonsciously, mysteriously wise ! 'e went away, unnoticed, from the room to the drip of slow, autumnal rain, id laughed, and drew deep breath, and laughed again, e were so glad to leave that candled gloom. brough the wet dusk the leaves came fluttering — felt one falling softly on my head ; I leaned down to kiss you and you said iorably, " You're such a dear old thing ! " [13 Loud Youth There is a great, sweet golden bell in me — It has a chime of flame, a flame so bright I seem to walk forever in its light, As gods do in their immortality. Such a tremendous joy would come to be. That chains would turn to wreaths of blowing white, And crutches drop for wings to flare in flight. If I could ring the bell that is in me. Oh if I could ! The stars would shake — and suns And moons collapse, and the hollow ways of death Fill with enough of echo to revive Such restlessness among the saintly ones, That the oldest of them all would catch his breath Remembering what it was to be alive! tnl Snowfall Enchantment on the river And magic on the lake, The world has turned to crystal, Don't speak or it will break! The road seems new, the valley An unfamiliar place, Where trees ^ are trimmed with spangles And stones with silver lace. A pink and white, furred rabbit With a star-tuft for a tail, Hops up the hill by moonlight And leaves a fairy trail. I think we mar the meadow So white, and smooth as suede, We ought to shine in satin Or glitter in brocade. Us] Humiliation How nakedly an animal Lies down on earth to die, Unmindful of the shining air, And unashamed of sky. But men and women under roofs Draw shades and hush the floor, And furtively they lay their dead Behind a darkened door. [i6] Idyll Not the wise, quiet pine nor the amorous, blonde oak Nor the tall, pale, lady elm tree. But you, who came invisible in a magic cloak. You, who were the wind, chose me. I, the white little birch, who had stood alone, serene, Content to listen and to stare — And I never saw your hands that tore my veils of green, Nor your lips that laughed in my hair. You held me and kissed me, I knew your strength and grace And dreams rose like sap in the spring. I trembled as with buds, but I never saw your face, I only heard you whispering. So yawning and careless you went on to field and sea, So here I am lonely and still" — Oh wind, wind, better to have broken me Than leave me with roots in the hill. [17] Cobweb It joins a dark pine to another tree; And shining through its bones a ray of sun Unearthed it like some graceful skeleton, Or an unfinished frame of faery As frail as words. Not even thought could be More carefully, more delicately spun — As fine a thread as that invisible one Of speech and silence between you and me. The spider lurks there blotched and poisonous. He is the monstrous god who can at will Belch beauty from a stomachful of spit; And dreaming of that silver binding us, Which Love unwinds and weaves, my heart grows still And cries that Love is lovely —^ isn't it? [i8] To Narcissus I have no beauty that is all my own, No special loveliness carved out of me, No glowing images wrought perfectly. Splendour of flesh or delicacy of bone. I am a pool, wherein you shall be shown How wonderful and starlike you can be, I am a mirror so that you may see Yourself most intimately and alone. When you lean to me and a dear, swift grace Sways in my body, and my lips and eyes Grow suddenly and exquisitely calm — Oh tremble and look deep into my face And see your own there, marvel and grow wise. Touch me and cry, " How beautiful I am ! " [19] One Voice You were the princess of the fairy tale Who spoke in emeralds instead of words, Whose laughter left an exquisite, bright trail Of sounds as winged and visible as birds. I never knew until yours went from me, That any voice could love my name so much. That just to speak it made it seem to be A fragrance and a color and a touch. My days are gestures of bewilderment, My nights are attitudes of listening, For fear you may have whispered as you went. And I shall lose the starlike echoing. [20] Driftwood Life gave me these — The beauty that can only branch in trees Who are content, knowing the roots' securities — The strength to stand up straight and bear the wings Of a brave ship on her adventurings — '' The bitterness of being broken, being tossed And driven on the waters and the winds, and lost In desolation, mist and stinging foam. And being beaten back at' last to home. Now love has kindled me — Strange that my beauty of a dear, green tree Should vanish into smoke and memory. Strange that the strength, magnificently mine. Should fall before the flame without a sign. But oh most strange that bitterness should be Drawn up in color after color out of me. [21] Windows Today I have been washing windows Where storms have left their stain, And marks were made in loneliness By someone's fingers — mine, I guess — On the outside smear of rain, On the inside blur of pain. I had forgotten that clean windows Can make such difference. That through a glass as clear as air. Landscapes seem painted on each square, That colors shapely and intense Can bring relief and recompense. I've looked so long through darkened windows Where my own reflection peers, I had forgotten there might be Things outside myself to see — I wonder if your eyesight clears For better vision after tears. [22] In Love No firefly more forlorn, more gravely strays Among the glories of the 'morning tree Than I, who glide almost invisibly Where apple boughs are white as brides' bouquets. Beneath the arches of the orchard ways, Only one tulip, that I start to see, As though my own heart had dropped out of me, Seems to have guessed that I, too, am ablaze. My blood is full of gleamings like seafoam, My body brims with something of the moon And shakes, as if with wings that would unfold. So, after dark, I bar the doors of home, 'Lest those, who think that I am grey at noon, Should stare at night to see that I am gold. [23] Variation Undesirous of a lover Daphne hid where cool ferns were- And the kind god of the river^ With the flesh and blood of her Made a green tree lovelier. What presence could fill a forest, Or footfall so fearful be, That a god must rise in pity To change a quiet tree Into me? [24] Hail and Farewell With tears and a faithful heart and brave mirth, Once on a time you watched to welcome me. Waiting and weariness and agony Until the last were what you thought me worth. But wearier than the months that wait for birth Are those that wait for death — How shall I be Still while you are so still? How shall I see Unbrokenhearted your slow steps from earth? So the white watchers gather near to hark The soul's approach, the heralding of the horn, And so they strain and listen for the tread Of the free soul retreating down the dark — Mothers who wait for children to be born. Children who wait for mothers to be dead. [25] Plaint I too would run like Nicolette Down aisles of rose and mignonette, And stain my knees with midnight dew Passing the ghostly gardens through, If I should know that loverly Young Aucassin awaited me! And I could leave without regret My warm white bed like Nicolette, And flee from roof and candle-light Into the deepest hour of night, If by the ivy-shadowed wall. I knew that Aucassin wi But I'll not tremble in Nor bruise my feet like i-^iuoicne. Only to dream of his embrace, Only to think I see his face; Feel nothing sweeter on my mouth Than heedless wind lips from the south, Only to stand unloved, alone, And listen to the fountain moan From stone to unresponsive stone. [26] The Violin Musician, give a voice to me! Oh quicken wodd and string, Unburden me of ecstasy, For I have songs to sing! Of faces forward through dark rains, Of torn but valiant feet, Of blood that runs in shrinking veins, Of broken hearts that beat. Of crooked boughs that have kept true The promise to fulfill. Of thw^arted roots that yet pursue Their purpose in the hill. Oh all you safe and smooth of heart Listen to song from me. Whose wooden throat was once a part Of the north side of a tree! [27] Keepsake You said they were brook trout — THose fairy blades of sun and moonlight You so gravely lifted out One by one from your basket -on the grass. And I held up two handfuls Of pink and green and white For everyone to see, And called the colors by a name, Wood-anemone. But of all those little dreams in cups Left brimming over on the moss. And of that big, breathless one We leaned across The fallen willow to give back again To deep and shoal — We never said 'a word, We never told a soul! [28] A Child's Song to Her Mother The lovely years went lightly by As April flowers go, And often you ■^ould laugh or cry To see how I could grow. The lonely years drift by in rain, As leaves in autumn do. I long, when we shall meet again, To be as tall as you. [ag] Threnody I never have known anyone so proud, So fierce for faith, so strong for nobleness. I never heard you wrhine nor cry distress. Nor saw you kneel nor knew your bright head bowed. Dreams, Love and Laughter were a swift, white crowd Of wings flashed upward from your loveliness. You carried Truth, wore Honor as a dress And wound yourself in Beauty like a cloud. Surely this is not you who lies so low. Smitten as others, yielding as they must With abject hands and smooth, submissive head. All fire and glory crumpled by one blow, Bewildered and beaten and brought to dust, This is not you, oh pitiful and dead! t30] Two Songs of Bitterness Dear to me is Ruth, a bowl of crystal She brims her heart with laughter and I look And see her clear as the dew on a cobweb, Or green water over white sand in a brook. Mary is dearer, color and story Are wound in her and like soft cloths unfold, And when she moves her footsteps are of silver, And where she will her touch can turn to gold. Oh sweet as wine is laughter with the loving, And speech with the living good as bread. But only with a ghost can I feast in silence. With Eunice, who is dearest, being dead. t30 The princess that I could not be, The fairy that was not for me, The game begun and never ended, The castle dreamed, the play pretended. The note unsung, the word unspoken. Whatever I have lost and broken, My doll, my heart, my promises, All these things Eunice is — When I lie down with her to rest, I'll find my dearest and my best Safe in her dust beneath the sod, Kept fair and clear and written plain. And then I shall believe again In elves and knights and love and God. [32] To a Mocking-Bird I was asleep, dreaming that I could see The north hills bowed and burdened with the snow, And the grey-bearded river old and slow, And the sick silences on vine and tree — When in upon my loneliness and me Light rushed, and sweetness tumbled down as though Windows had opened for white hands to throw Roses and roses from a balcony. Oh Bird, imperious for happiness, For moments gold as arrows in the air, I am the only dark in all daybreak! Let loose your avalanche of loveliness Over my heart, until I am aware How long I sleep — and sing me wide awake ! [33] Gesture My arms were always quiet, Close, and never freed. I was furled like a banner, Enfolded like a seed. I thought, when Love shall strike me, Each arm will start and spring, Unloosen like a petal. And open like a wing. Oh Love — my arms are lifted, But not to sway and toss; They strain out wide and wounded. Like arms upon a cross. [34J Language I made new speech for you, a secret tongue, Dearest and best of all in book or scroll — To hear it spoken was to hear it sung, I copied all of it upon my soul. There were those leafy letters, wreathed like vines, Such trellises of words as Sappho spoke — Heavy as silver flagons of old wines Some Latin phrases carved by stately folk. I could not find a sound for leavetakings Slower, more sorrowful than Spanish is. And the French names with flower-dusty wings Flew in and out among the sentences. So with my heart a voice made musical, I went to you and did not speak at all. [35] A Tree at Dawn I know that day will come for I have seen Under the sky three silver threads unravelling, The blackness whispers of green — A sound becomes a glimmering And waters waken. White from her sleep the Lily prays — A fragrance sways Where the grass is shaken. And as the last hour listens, lingering, Deep in my heart the Voice begins to sing. [36] A Tree at Dusk With secrets in their eyes the blue-winged Hours Rustle through the meadow Dropping shadow. Yawning among red flowers, The Moon Child with her golden hoop And a pink star drifting after, Leans to me where I droop. I hear her delicate, soft laughter, And through my hair her tiny fingers creep. . . . I shall sleep. [37] Love Song from New England In every solemn tree the wind Has rung a little lonesome bell, As sweet and clear, as cool and kind As my voice bidding you farewell. This is an hour that gods have loved To snatch with bare, bright hands and hold. Mine, with a gesture, grey and gloved, Dismiss it from me in the cold. Closely as some dark-shuttered house I keep my light. How should you know, That as you turn beneath brown boughs, My heart is breaking in the snow? [38] Trespasser I am among the careless dead Who do not rise to see Why I should hurry through their flowers Beneath their willow tree, Nor lift their hands from off their breasts To beckon me. But though I run so lightly through The myrtle's rambling mass, And though my feet step silently Above the blowing grass, And though they do not stir or speak — They know I pass. [39] Moonflower I can not be a banner swift and gay, A yellow glory or a scarlet flight, Superbly opening upward into light — While some are waving scarves I only pray. I am the one who hides her heart by day. Who does not dare to rise and blossom white Until the lovely moment before night. The interval of lavendar and grey. So love me delicately as the rain Fingers the leaves. Hold me as if asleep — Nor waken me with some too terrible Dear call or kiss, lest, stricken with the pain Of your close-beating heart, my heart should leap And break, finding the world too beautiful! [40] Surf Here are gardens growing, ruining in the deep, Where the frail foam pauses, then topples and unturns Forever and forever, v^onderful vvrhite ferns, Where feathers fly in colors and lights like lizards creep, Where the tvirining, vi'hite ivy shrivels and is rolled Glamorous and blow^ing into fragment and flake Beneath enormous orchids that only bloom to break. To crumble into smoke and turn to opal mould. And some waves like children — each one alight, alone — Hurry up the pathway and point and hesitate. Their torn blue rufSes tossing^ around them as they wait. As they turn and tiptoe seaward over shell and stone. So it is that wonderings flow in and out of me — Like little bells and tassels of foam along a beach They dream and sigh and whisper, whimper and reach For peace withdrawn as softly as sand from the sea. [41] The Misers We were so fearful lest we give too much And thereby wrench the sweetness from the song, Trembled to look too deep or kiss too long, And stood aloof when we yearned most to touch. Oh had we been content, less passionate For Love's eternity we had not lost The least of Love's eternal hours, whose cost We never dreamed until it was too late. So was life stripped of even memories To meet that time when we had no desire, That day we looked and turned away shamed eyes. Seeing but ashes where had once been fire. No splendid shadows of a well-lost heaven, But tearful ghosts of kisses never given. [42] Lifetime I am the river, I have been immense With hope, great as the inner heart of spring - The reeds have huddled to my whimpering Amid the noon-time's staleness and suspense. Between the ruins of magnificence, Stained and autumnal, mournfully I sing, And then among my white beards muttering Grow old, and sleep into indifference. I have no returning, onward is best, Close to the dark, sweet earth in every place, But with the sky's mark hidden in my breast. And a star's shadow falling on my face. Where shining spaces wait to fill with me, Death is the beautiful and bitter sea. [43] Communion With delicate, white hands the priest has laid His usual blessing on the wine and bread, And to each broken figure, each bent head. The symbol brought, the silver cup conveyed. The candles peer, uneasy and afraid, Like small, grey faces from the mournful dead, And up and down the aisles the organ's dread And doubt and grief and gravity have strayed. Softly the stained glass windows split apart. Their ineffectual angels pipe and pass — I am upright and proud. Whom I seek now Sudden and sure as dawn breaks in my heart — And I tread stars as intimately as grass. Touch light as though it were a golden bough. [44] Talisman He was a little boy and gentle, With the dim look in his eyes Of one accustomed to a temple And speech there with the wise. He went the adventurous way of beauty And passed unharmed without distress, And learned a secret for unlocking The spells of ugliness. He knew, like someone in a legend, The magic in the lowliest things,^ That stones are golden coaches really, And frogs are fairy kings. So when Death came, he saw her coming With a tall star in her hand. And turned from life as from enchantment At the waving of her wand. [45] Sympathy While all of you are bringing milk and bread And stroking me and saying I must rest, Remembrance beats like black wings in my head, And wolfish grief is clawing in my breast. I know that you are kind, that you mean well, And thanking you so quietly I seem So comforted that you could never tell I'm wondering why it is I do not scream. Oh crucjfy me! Nail my hands and feet! Strike in and turn the torture of a knife Heart-deep to loose my blood and take my breath ■ Pain would be good and suffering seem sweet. But keep your love for those who still love life. And do not feed me who am starved to death. t46l Nocturne I have grown pale and paler Since one went away, Who passed from me as softly As daylight leaves the day. My hair has lost its gleaming, The light has left my face, I am a grey-eyed wanderer In any lonely place. And on my heart is moonlight Like white rain on the sea, And I am of the evening As the evening is of me. A gentle moan, remembrance, A folded wing is love, Since my dream stepped into shadow On the soft feet of a dove. Now when thoughts of him arise And open in my soul. They are frailer than white roses In a silver bowl. [47] The Child The linden bough above the garden wall, The pleasant meadow and the pretty brook, What miles of dream they spread, what torrents shook, What majesty' they wore when I was small! Since I am grown they are not so at all. Absurd and dear as fairies in a book. They fade and dwindle and will never look Mighty again to me for I am tall. I shall grow taller, sometime I shall be Shoulder to shoulder with the full-grown cloud, And, looking down on life and death and birth. As I do now on grasses or a tree. Remembering myself shall laugh aloud And think, " Oh little Grief! Oh foolish Earth! " [48] My Heart Cant Break My heart can't break but' closes like a flower That waits in windless places for the day, Until the arrowy dawn finds some swift way To pierce its paleness with a gleaming hour. And when at last I look without offense Through windows and in mirrors that were yours, The stranger shadow in them reassures My heart that it has learned indifference. So hour and hour and hour and dark and light Go rustling softly by as women do. Trailing complacence in a silken dress. Until, crying with loneliness some night, I wake from that old dream of losing you To. find my hands closed tight on emptiness. [49] Portrait of a Lady at the Piano She spoke assent, decisively and clear, Flashed to her seat, flame-eyed and shining-lipped, As though she were a crystal that had slipped Down from the brilliance of the chandelier. Her hands glittered — We thought that we could hear Icewater on white marble as it dripped, Or yards of pale, blue satin deftly ripped To shreds, or falling fragments of a spear. Is there not anj^where deep down in her One long, soft note to penetrate this blur Of splintered music? Do bright, broken things Litter her soul, or has she somewhere stored In secret purple, like warm evenings. The steady darkness of some perfect chord? [50] I've Lived So Long I've lived so long companionless In this old house bowed down with years, I've learned to welcome loneliness, , Converse with dreams and sit with fears. Often and often in the night When I have laid some dull book down, One comes between me and the light With terrible, unrustling gown. Wistful as moonlight in the room Her face sways, luminous with fire Of eyes unsmothered by the tomb, Of lips remembering still desire. And there beside the lute she stands With mournful little motionings, And stretches out her pulseless hands And only thrusts them through the strings. I No way to bring her longing near Who has no heart to beat and break, Nor any way that she can hear The sound her lost touch can not make. [51J Oh who will sit here wondering Some other night and watch me steal Close to an unforgotten thing With hands that reach but do not feel? [52] Realities When I stand listening in my heart at night, I hear them leaping through the loneliness Ringing their colored bells, and less and less I grieve as they come flashing into sight. The lover Dreams run first, boy-like and bright, Then lusty Ghosts and ruddy Fairies press And crowd to kiss my hair or touch my dress. Substantial as the stars, as real as light. I My heart grows dark with the returning day, And flames no more, but flickers and grows faint. Faces fade by me in a ghostly stream, Voices of people are a faroff plaint. I move uncertainly, and grope my way Among them, like a shadow or a dream. [53] Setting for a Fairy Story This is a lonesome place. The water is as peaceful as a face, That moods have smoothed and dreams made exquisite. And where your paddle gleams and slips, It seems as if one sighed and closed his lips. And softly and as sly As ghostly cats, the long white mists prowl by. Oh I can tell We are not wanted here! There is some spell Those dwarfs of trees, who squat around the lake. Are squinting through the dusk to see us break. So desolate a place ... so full of wonder. . . . Now near, and far, and over us and under, A million million frogs entreat. Their thin, entangled threads of voices meet And mingle with the tree-toads', jarring sweet And whirring strong as tiny motors might. And leader of them all far down the night. One huge, wet-bellied, moss-mouthed crier Twangs like a taut bronze wire. The way grows narrower, the voices less. Only the water-lilies in distress Hold up their horrified white hands, and cling Close to each other shuddering. And I am troubled by their breath. That smells of mystery, or sleep, or death. [54] And was it death or sleep or mystery, That slew the knighthood in so brave a tree, And left him torn to bowels, stripped to bone, Abject and mutilated and alone? His body, broken but still marvellous. Darkens and bars the way for us. And so we leave our boat and move Timidly through a fearsome grove. Where witches' shadows huddle as we go — It ends — as sudden as a blow. And here are blessed, blue-lit spaces! The fireflips everywhere. Like tips of wands are waving in the air. And we can see our, faces Dimly, like faces in a well. So quieted beneath that star. We have forgotten that there was a spell. And kiss, and laugh to find how real we are! And then, as if she heard our laughter. And longed to tiptoe after, Amazingly alone and still. And very fairy-queenlike on the hill. The moon uprises, darling as of old. So we go home, resplendent in her gold, Safe in her glory, And happy as the ending of a story. Mount Misery Brook [55] Climb My shoes fall on the house-top that is so far beneath me, I have hung my hat forever on the sharp church spire, Now what shall seem the hill but a moment of surmounting, The height but a place to dream of something higher! Wings? Oh not for me, I need no other pinions Than the beating of my heart within my breast; Wings are for the dreamer with a bird-like longing. Whose dreams come home at eventide to nest. The timid folk beseech me, the wise ones warn me, They say that I shall never grow to stand so high; But I climb among the hills of cloud and follow vanished lightning, I shall stand knee-deep in thunder with my head against ' the sky. Tiptoe, at last, upon a pinnacle of sunset, I shall greet the death-like evening with laughter from afar, Nor tremble in the darkness nor shun the windy midnight, For by the evening I shall be a star. [56]