r PS 
 
 DRY POINTS 
 
 1887-1920 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY MARTYN HOYT 
 
PRESENTED Vf{ f <A^^ 
 
DRY POINTS 
 
HENRY MARTYN HOYT 
 Self Portrait 
 
DRY POINTS 
 
 STUDIES IN 
 BLACK AND WHITE 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY MARTYN HOYT 
 
 1887 — 1920 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENJET 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FRANK SHAY 
 
 1921 
 

 Copyright, 1921, by 
 FRANK SHAY 
 
 
LIST OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Early Poems (1908-1911) 
 
 The Land of Dreams, 23 
 
 Rome, Sunset, 24 
 
 John Keats, 25 
 
 The Pawn Shop, 26 
 
 Before a Portrait of Rembrandt, 27 
 
 The Fishers, 28 
 
 The Spell, 31 
 
 The Wee Mannie, 33 
 
 The Tower Casement, 36 
 
 Poems Written During 1920 
 
 Dedicatory, 39 
 
 Nomad, 40 
 
 Coliseum, 41 
 
 On the Fly-Leaf of "Renascence," 42 
 
 1917-1919, 43 
 
 Hyperion to a Satyr, 44 
 
 The Master of The World 
 
 A Comedy in One Act, 51 
 
"HENRY" 
 
 Thirteen years ago this summer there were 
 three of us on a hillside in Northern California, 
 one sitting on a campstool with a field easel and 
 color-box before him^ one sprawled out beside 
 the painter, his eyes shaded by a very old hat, — 
 the third, some twelve years younger than the 
 two recent Yale graduates, a small boy in 
 knickerbockers, watching through goblinlike 
 glasses the antics of a curly brown dog who ran 
 and yelped, chasing red-winged blackbirds 
 through sunflecked ripples of silvery wild-oats 
 on the slope below. 
 
 In the company of myself and my brother, 
 "Henry" was quietly painting, his very thick, 
 black eyebrows drawn together with concentra- 
 tion, his very white teeth gleaming in a sudden 
 smile as we exchanged serious theories mixed 
 with badinage. He was full of oddly apposite 
 quotations from many well-loved books. One of 
 '[ 7 ] 
 
his favorite brightly-colored bow-ties showed 
 like a large butterfly at the throat of his 
 painter's smock. His fine erect head with its 
 dark hair, his vivid coloring, made an arresting 
 "composition." Extraordinarily sympathetic 
 hazel eyes he had, that flashed with pleasure in 
 beauty, sparkled with amusement, roved from 
 mine to the tableau of Stephen watching 
 "Prince" — back to his canvas — out again to the 
 landscape. He talked animatedly. His fund 
 of literary reference and typically Henrj'^esque 
 catchwords seemed inexhaustible. 
 
 That is the first picture that comes into my 
 mind, a snapshot of one morning in a particu- 
 larly golden summer, when Youth possessed all 
 the ages, when Time moved slowly and majesti- 
 cally over us with the tranced beauty of a sum- 
 mer cloud. 
 
 "Henry" — his full name was Henry Martyn 
 Hoyt — was born at Rosemont, Pennsylvania, in 
 1887, the son of Henry Martyn Hoyt, Jr., and 
 Anne McMichael, his wife. He was of Colonial 
 American stock on both sides, English on his 
 father's, Scotch-Irish and French on his 
 mother's. His paternal grandfather was Gov- 
 ernor of Pennsylvania and his maternal great- 
 grandfather an early Mayor of Philadelphia. 
 
 [ 8 ]■ 
 
His father was Solicitor-General of the United 
 States, under President Roosevelt. From both 
 parents he inherited high integrity, intelligence, 
 wit and imagination. He and I first met at 
 college on both being elected to the editorial 
 board of the Yale Record. He drew pictures 
 and made verse. I also made verse. 
 
 We enjoyed many glorious evenings. And we 
 were always talking Keats, Kipling or Brown- 
 ing. It was to Henry that I owed my persever- 
 ance into the intricacies of Browning, having 
 been bothered by Robert's "obscurity" before 
 that. We sat up late reciting favorite poetry 
 and discussing all the people we didn't like. We 
 sat up late questioning the universe and plan- 
 ning great futures. We were together as much 
 as possible, with one member of the firm in 
 "Academic" and the other way down College 
 Street in the fastnesses of ShefF. We liked 
 each other on sight and continued to like each 
 other. We strove occasionally, in fantastic 
 ways, to annoy others. 
 
 His complete independence of attitude and 
 the individuality with which he did or said any- 
 thing marked him out immediately from among 
 all the other men I knew. He observed the life 
 around him keenly. His comments were usually 
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
unexpected and always pungent. He loved his 
 own group of friends and enjoyed their society. 
 He was always witty and instinctively on the 
 side of the underdog. 
 
 But under all his nonsense and enjoyment of 
 the hour you felt a constructive, logical mind at 
 work, almost austere in its desire for the truth 
 about things. No one could fool Henry or put 
 him off with an insufficient explanation. Neither 
 could he be "talked down." Younger than most 
 of the men in his class, his mind was far more 
 alive, alert, restless and questioning than the 
 average. And he was always ready to express 
 himself with biting vehemence where sham was 
 detected. 
 
 Yet I think he was one of the most funda- 
 mentally friendly, kind and guileless men I have 
 ever known. His heart responded instantly to 
 any genuine appeal. By converse it never re- 
 sponded to merely bogus sentimentality, which 
 he hated and ridiculed. 
 
 College life usually casts men in a mould from 
 which they never wholly escape. No one en- 
 joyed more keenly the academic environment on 
 its aesthetic side than Henry. But nothing 
 could ever have cast him in a mould. He was 
 siii generis from the start — and to the end. 
 [ 10 ] 
 
He had a very high quality of spiritual 
 courage. His presence was engaging. And 
 steadily there grew within him the desire for 
 genuinely artistic expression. He graduated 
 from Yale one month after his twentieth birth- 
 day, and a first compromise between the study 
 of the law and his own wish to paint sent him 
 to the Harvard Architectural School in Boston 
 the next fall, after a summer spent abroad. 
 
 The following summer (1908) he came out to 
 visit me and my family in California. I was 
 then endeavoring to make a start at independent 
 writing. During the summer Henry and I 
 wrote and criticized poetry together. Some of 
 his earliest poems were written at the big study- 
 table we both remembered so well for years 
 afterward, in a large French-windowed room in 
 the Commanding Officer's quarters at Benicia 
 Arsenal. When he returned to the East we 
 kept up a lavish correspondence for a year or 
 more, its paper and envelopes fantastically 
 decorated with drawings in colored inks. Of 
 course his own drawings were joys forever, and 
 far superior to my own in technique. I remem- 
 ber one in which we were depicted as pouring 
 oil upon the Hudson River, and applying the 
 torch. We had the dream then of living to- 
 
 [ II ] 
 
gether in "a garret aloof" in New York and 
 working out highly artistic — and incidentally 
 penniless — Bohemian destinies. But when I 
 finally did come East, Henry was studying art 
 at the Boston Museum, under Tarbell and 
 Benson and Philip Hale. He paid several visits, 
 however, to New York, to foregather with my- 
 self and Sinclair Lewis, rooming together then 
 down in Greenwich Village. 
 
 Henry travelled abroad again in France, Ger- 
 many and Italy. In his twenty-fifth year he 
 married Alice Gordon Parker. His wife was 
 also an artist. As I myself married in the fol- 
 lowing year and became a Long Island com- 
 muter, Henry and I necessarily saw much less 
 of each other than formerly. 
 
 He had gone to Spain on his wedding-trip 
 and often afterward maintained that Spain was 
 the country of the world to live in. 
 
 Meanwhile his draughtsmanship had per- 
 fected itself, his mastery of both painting and 
 etching had rapidly increased. Before the War 
 came he had made great advances as an inde- 
 pendent artist. He followed with utter sin- 
 cerity, fine instinct and constant discrimination 
 the dictates of his own artistic conscience. He 
 [ 12 ] 
 
strove for the very highest development of 
 great and genuine gifts. 
 
 His first child, Constance^ was born a year 
 after his marriage. His second, Henry M. 
 Hoyt, 4th, several years later. Both children 
 adored him. His amusing simplicity and lively 
 sj^mpathy always drew children to him. His 
 diverting personality fascinated them. 
 
 For he could always play with the greatest 
 gaiety ; but his intellect became more and more 
 vitally interested in the new revolt that was 
 changing the industrial situation in America, in 
 the new order of thought that was replacing the 
 old, in all modern social developments and ex- 
 periments. A juvenile admirer of Robin Hood, 
 Malory and Mark Twain, an early "discoverer" 
 of H. G. Wells, one who as an undergraduate 
 read Ibsen and Shaw with gusto, delighting also 
 in the poems of John Davidson, the novels of 
 Thomas Hardy, the socialistic ideas of William 
 Morris, — Henry was never likely to ossify into 
 philosophical or political conservatism. There 
 was always in him a strong and decided strain 
 of sympathy for the lot of the common laborer, 
 and a desire for what William James called 
 "tough-mindedness" in facing the grimmest 
 facts of life. His admiration went out to any 
 [ 13 ] 
 
writer or philosopher who endeavored to unveil 
 any actual truth about life. He read modern 
 economics and did a deal of thinking. I fear my 
 own persistent aesthetic romanticism irritated 
 him a good deal at one time^ though he always 
 retained a fine appreciation for the full flavor 
 of old books — Burton's "Anatomy/' Rabelais, 
 the Elizabethan dramatists, the numerous old 
 ballads and catches that he could troll so di- 
 vertingly. And surely no one could give to a 
 fine Spring day more romance and glamour 
 than he! 
 
 He liked to call himself a Socialist. Yet 
 there was never a more ingrained individualist. 
 I do not mean in any selfish sense — but the in- 
 dependence of his personality was too intense 
 for it to be otherwise. So his revolt remained 
 largely intellectual. He never attached himself 
 to any organized movement. 
 
 On the other hand, Henry never worshipped 
 any art in the sense that he felt it the most 
 important thing in the world. An art to him 
 was, rather, a jolly craft at which to work, im- 
 portant in its place, but not nearly so important 
 as the evolution of human society or the living 
 of a full and useful life. He would have been 
 unbelievably happy in a Wellsian Utopia — per- 
 [ 14 ] 
 
haps even happier as a Renaissance guildsman 
 or artist. He always had a great interest in 
 other professions and other trades. He could, 
 I feel sure, have made himself either a good 
 physician or a highly skilled carpenter. He 
 was clever with his hands and thoroughly en- 
 joyed making himself useful in many ways 
 about his own home. In the Air Service in 
 France he took the same vivid interest in 
 photography. I have known few men who could 
 talk as entertainingly or with such a fund of 
 information upon such a variety of subjects — 
 from the philosophies of William James and 
 Bergson to the dexterity of John J. McGraw at 
 playing "baby ball." As his friend, John 
 Storrs, the sculptor, said to me, "What an eye 
 he had! He enjoyed everything from a master- 
 piece of painting to a prizefight !" 
 
 If this picture seems highly colored, I can 
 only say that the man's personality was vivid in 
 the extreme. He carried himself with a certain 
 air, often slightly aggressive, his grave or 
 brightly amused eyes taking in everything that 
 went on about him. "He wore an overcoat of 
 glory." 
 
 Well, "what's become of Waring.^" He has 
 left us his brilliant paintings, his admirable 
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
etchings and drawings^ these poems and this 
 play, chosen from among the scattered work he 
 contributed occasionally to various magazines. 
 The play and some of the poems here included 
 have never before been published. But they are 
 at best such fragmentary testimony to what he 
 might have lived to do in literature ! Who can 
 really recapture the man from them, who did 
 not actually know him? In five minutes of his 
 energetic talk I have found more genuine amuse- 
 ment and authentic inspiration than in nine out 
 of any ten books I read. In his letters — but his 
 correspondence was a delight. 
 
 Yes, I loved my friend. I loved him better 
 than any man I have ever known. We were 
 constantly together during his last year, and I 
 found him, one evening, August 25, 1920, dead 
 in his studio apartment where we were tem- 
 porarily living together. With what fortitude 
 he met the bitterest period of his life — that last 
 year on earth — I know deeply. His efforts to 
 help others, his intense desire to find some way 
 of life that would be regenerative, some sort of 
 leaven. He and I passed through hours of the 
 greatest happiness and hours of the greatest and 
 blackest bitterness together. My efforts to help 
 him were futile, of no avail. 
 [ 16 ] 
 
But no, he wouldn't want me to say that. It 
 was perhaps impossible for any friend to have 
 helped him much during the final period — 
 though I feel others helped him more than I. 
 In any event, such confidences as passed be- 
 tween us are forever sacred. And Henry is 
 gone. 
 
 But one remembers small last things, — like 
 our standing at the open window of the studio in 
 the blue evening and his breathing, of the still 
 and wistful-starred night sky, ''Such beauty!'* — 
 like his last words to me at the foot of the 
 Sixth Avenue Elevated stairs, that last morning, 
 "Well, I'll see you — later." We cannot possibly 
 know just when he made up his mind to end his 
 life. 
 
 All it meant to him — this life! It meant so 
 much. It tortured him so deeply and yet he 
 wrung from it so much and such exquisite 
 pleasure. And the times when he was most 
 happy were of such an utter simplicity — friends, 
 his family, summer evenings, talk to the ac- 
 companiment of some handiwork, snatches of 
 song, Italian restaurant suppers, lamplight, the 
 reading of poetry, firelight, mildly hilarious 
 pilgrimages through moonlit streets, — friends, 
 friends, friends. . . . He made many and 
 [ J7 ] 
 
various friends that last year. He spent him- 
 self in friendship, in the causes of his friends, 
 in exuberance over their success, in sympathy 
 for their troubles. 
 
 I cannot, for myself, believe that a spirit such 
 as Henry's is wasted. Certainly it is anything 
 but wasted in the sense that he did not leave 
 behind him lasting evidence of his great artistic 
 versatility. And his personality will remain an 
 inspiration and a splendid memory in the hearts 
 and minds of all who knew him. Beyond that, 
 however, I myself believe in a reason and a 
 purpose for such spirits which does not exhaust 
 itself merely upon this imperfect world. It is 
 this faith, largely, that helps me to live. 
 
 The work that follows speaks for itself. He 
 enlisted upon America's entry into the war and 
 served as a sergeant aviator in Italy and as a 
 First Lieutenant in the Photographic Section of 
 the Air Service in France. He did not believe 
 in war as a true solution of anything. Neither 
 do I. He felt bitterly disappointed in the re- 
 actionary aftermath of the War. So do many 
 of us still. He was an honest man and a brave, 
 intellectually as well as physically. Of old and 
 thoroughly American stock he was yet one of a 
 new generation of pioneers, sworn to service 
 [ 18 ] 
 
against dulness, deadness, contemporary cant 
 and tyranny, and ancient sham. He lived and 
 died in that service — in the service of truth and 
 of Man's immortal soul. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSE BENET. . 
 New York City, February, 1921. 
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 1908-1911 
 
THE LAND OF DREAMS 
 
 Ah, give us back our dear dead Land of Dreams ! 
 The far, faint misty hills, the tangled maze 
 Of brake and thicket; down green woodland 
 
 ways 
 The hush of summer, and on amber streams 
 Bright leaves afloat, amid the foam that creams 
 Round crannied boulders, where the shallows 
 
 blaze. 
 Then life ran joyous through glad, golden days 
 And silver nights beneath the moon's pale beams. 
 
 Now all is lost. There glooms a dark morass 
 Where throbbed the thrush across the dappled 
 
 lawn. 
 Oh, never more shall fairy pageants pass, 
 Nor dance of light-limbed satyr, nymph and 
 
 faun. 
 Adrift among the whispering meadow-grass. 
 On wind-swept uplands, yearning toward the 
 
 dawn. 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
ROME, SUNSET 
 
 A rosy flush spreads sweeping o'er the tiles 
 Flaming from dome and portico, and where 
 Some slim gold cross spires upward like a 
 
 prayer, 
 Flashes a misty halo to the miles 
 Of tiering roof-tops. Where the distance smiles 
 The clouds go slowly streaming down the fair 
 Far vistas of the sunset seas that flare 
 Saffron, afoam round pearl and silver isles. 
 
 Palely the quiet hem of twilight falls, 
 And, as a far-off bell begins to peal 
 Along the valley, cloaks the rise and slips 
 Over the lifting skyline's serried walls. 
 The city pauses, vesperal, to feel 
 The timid breath of evening on her lips. 
 
 [ 24 ] 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 Seer of a beauty inexpressible, 
 
 Master of melody and quiet thought, 
 
 Thou art the real world-teacher, one who 
 
 wrought 
 Magic undreamed of by the gods, until 
 The earth stood breathless, captive to thy will, 
 Who recked not of earth's favors, heeding 
 
 naught 
 But high ambition, fantasies that sought 
 Only thy perfect mission to fulfill. 
 
 Thou raised the vanished days of Greece again, 
 Clothed in new splendor, and the Orient land 
 Was thy familiar garden; then death smote 
 Thy life out with excess of joy and pain. 
 As when, upon some all-too-poignant note. 
 The harpstring snaps beneath the player's hand. 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
THE PAWNSHOP 
 
 The spectres of a thousand hopes and fears^ 
 Gathered together from the ends of earth, 
 Have found a haven. In this house of dearth 
 They crouch amid the dust of faded years, 
 Hostages held to settle waste's arrears. 
 Worthless is their unutterable worth, 
 Tinged with the gayness of a far-off mirth. 
 Stained by the sadness of forgotten tears. 
 
 Wild Caprice has her will of them, and flings 
 Each one aside. For brighter baubles. Life 
 Has passed them by. Dead passions intermix 
 Among a motley of discarded things — 
 A broken music-box, a rusty knife, 
 A baby's rattle by a crucifix. 
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
BEFORE A PORTRAIT OF 
 REMBRANDT AS AN OLD MAN 
 
 Rembrandt, thy youth was splendid as some tale 
 
 Of one who held a genie's secret spell 
 
 By which to charm the world, — unlock each cell 
 
 And rock-built treasure house, and to prevail 
 
 Over all chance of danger, like the mail 
 
 Of famed Achilles, when so many fell 
 
 Round Troy's high towers and golden citadel, — 
 
 So conquering, it seemed thou couldst not fail. 
 
 Out of the darkness of thy later years 
 Rose that full glowing light, the utmost art, 
 Born of the poignant searchings of thy heart, 
 Perfect, untouched by either hopes or fears: 
 The triumph all too great for joy, apart, — 
 The tragedy of life too deep for tears. 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
THE FISHERS 
 
 The swaying tackle dips and droops 
 Down from the star-beseeching mast, 
 The bent-back sculler swings and stoops. 
 The caster makes his cast ; 
 While fast and fast and still more fast 
 The little floats run down to lee, 
 An arc across the evening sea. 
 To net who knows what mystery. 
 
 For when they draw the dripping meshes, 
 
 Sagging with unknown weight. 
 
 Will they be bright with silver fishes, 
 
 A shining mass that slips and threshes 
 
 Among the cruel, baffling meshes, 
 
 A goodly ocean freight, 
 
 Or weed and kelp and coarse sea cress, 
 
 Or only emptiness? 
 
 Green, glancing fathoms under us 
 What sunken wreckage sleeps? 
 What age-old treasure wondrous. 
 Great spoil of tempests thunderous 
 White-maned across the deeps? 
 Scarce swinging in the ebbing tide 
 The weighted seine slips sheer. 
 [ 28 ] 
 
A ripple whispers overside — 
 What salt sea spectre pearly-eyed? 
 The murdered buccaneer ! 
 
 Some night, perchance, of starry wonder, 
 
 Of slight and subtle air, 
 
 Some stranger form may cleave asunder 
 
 The waves in phosphor garlands fair. 
 
 Such wealth of yellow hair ! 
 
 A drowned girl? Nay, but mark the twining, 
 
 Green-darkening and silver-shining. 
 
 Below the rope-scarred rail ; 
 
 Such terror-stricken, captured splashing. 
 
 Such fear, and swiftly struggling lashing 
 
 Of gorgeous fish's tail ; 
 
 White shaken breasts and startled eyes 
 
 Above the straining coils. 
 
 Pleading with sea-wild, dumb surprise 
 
 A world of unguessed agonies — 
 
 A mermaid in the toils ! 
 
 The swinging tackle droops and dips 
 Down from the star-beseeching mast. 
 The sculler's oar-blade slides and slips. 
 From swell to swell the coble trips. 
 The caster makes his cast. 
 While fast and fast and still more fast 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
The bubbles spin from depths below, 
 Whenas the nets in silence so 
 Down through the many-shifting sea 
 To snare who knows what mystery. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
THE SPELL * 
 
 As I came up the sandy road that lifts above the 
 sea, 
 
 Thrice and thrice the red cock crew, 
 
 And thrice an elfin bugle blew 
 From the Gates of Faerie. 
 
 And riders passed me on the left, and riders on 
 the right, 
 
 Clad in cramoisie so fine. 
 
 Phantom riders nine and nine, 
 That faded with the night. 
 
 The dawn was flushing in the east as I won to 
 my door. 
 
 And there within the ingle dark 
 
 One had drawn a cantrip mark 
 Upon the earthen floor. 
 
 The thatch was matted o'er with weeds, the well 
 was choked with stones. 
 There lay a shroud upon the bed 
 Draped and drawn from foot to head, 
 
 As white as dead men's bones. 
 
 [ 31 ] 
 
I ran and shouted down the street, but none 
 would heed my cry. 
 
 I screamed across the market-place. 
 
 Never a burgher turned his face. 
 In silence they passed by. 
 
 Oh, none could hear and none could see the man 
 they used to know. 
 
 For he is witched for seven years, 
 
 He who in the dawning hears 
 The elfin bugles blow. 
 
 As I came up the sandy road that lifts above the 
 sea, 
 
 Thrice and thrice the red cock crew. 
 
 And thrice an elfin bugle blew 
 From the Gates of Faerie. 
 
 * This poem, written some ten years before, was 
 accepted for magazine publication on the morning of 
 the day of the author's death. 
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
THE WEE MANNIE 
 
 The dusk was dropping yesterniglit as I came 
 o'er the down, 
 And syne I saw a mannie small, 
 Bent and crooked, swart and small, 
 Standing by the kirkyard wall 
 
 And peering toward the town. 
 
 Then soft I put the highway's width between the 
 wall and me. 
 
 He looked so eerie in the dark, 
 
 Strange and eerie in the dark; 
 
 And thrice I heard the wolf-hound bark 
 That crouched beside his knee. 
 
 But oh, his eyes were unco' sharp to pierce 
 through mist and mirk. 
 He called me softly by my name, 
 Wooed and called me by my name. 
 Wooed me till at last I came 
 
 And stopped before the kirk. 
 
 And as I stopped before the kirk, my heart was 
 cold with dread. 
 My heart was cold with dread and fear, 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
Clutched by icy hands of fear, 
 For faintly, faintly I could hear 
 The wailing of the dead. 
 
 They wailed and whispered in the wind that 
 whispered down the sky, 
 They drifted 'mongst the headstones white, 
 Like the headstones weird and white. 
 Saints ! It was a fearsome sight 
 
 To watch them whirling by. 
 
 Then straight the mannie clasped my hand, and 
 straight he clasped my waist. 
 He whistled shrill an elfin tune, 
 Shrill and sweet a magic tune, 
 And drew me toward their rigadoon. 
 
 I crossed myself in haste. 
 
 The stars spun round above my head, the earth 
 beneath my feet. 
 I clung against the cross of stone. 
 Clutched the holy cross of stone. . . 
 Faith, I stood there all alone 
 Upon the naked street ! 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
And nevermore at dusk of day will I come o'er 
 the down 
 Lest I should see that mannie small, 
 Bent and crooked, swart and small. 
 Standing by the kirkyard wall 
 
 And peering toward the town. 
 
 [ 86 ] 
 
THE TOWER CASEMENT 
 
 Dumb trembling lips of darkness brushed my 
 face, 
 
 The crawling shadows clung- around my feet, 
 As slowly I toiled upward toward the place 
 
 Where love and I might meet. 
 
 Harsh hissed the stone beneatli my weary tread. 
 
 Mocking my labor. Could my quest be vain? 
 I knew not if by falsehood I was led 
 
 Whitlier my soul was fain. 
 
 Tlicn, clear against the rosy death of night. 
 Showed the pale, narrow window. All the 
 stair 
 
 Was paved with glory in the morning light 
 I knew my love was there. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
POEMS WRITTEN DURING 
 1920 
 
DEDICATORY 
 
 I could not feel 
 That I had crowned 
 Your brow around 
 With flowers meet, 
 Till at your feet 
 I laid this song, 
 Not fine, not strong, 
 And incomplete. 
 
 But from a heart 
 Too full to speak 
 Aptly, the weak 
 Words fall; ah, hear! 
 Or far or near. 
 Through good or ill, 
 For their plain will 
 Accept them, dear. 
 
 [ 39 1 
 
NOMAD 
 
 From the far, secret sources of the Nile, 
 Lost springs among the creepers that festoon 
 The foothills of the Mountains of the Moon 
 Whose loins bear whispering jungle, mile on 
 
 mile 
 Upward, toward changeless snow, your chang- 
 ing smile 
 Leads back across the ages, like some tune 
 Wrung from the wailing pipe where women 
 
 croon 
 Minor, around the acrid fires the while. 
 
 Strange beasts, strange burdens, and still 
 
 stranger tents 
 Patched from the lion's golden skin, whose lair 
 Only the burning desert knows, come down. 
 Pitching between the river and the town 
 Their nomad camp ; strange sounds and stranger 
 
 scents 
 Beat round, but in the midst is only you 
 Smiling beneath crisped elf-locks starred with 
 
 dew. 
 Midnight's pale planets in your midnight hair. 
 
 [ 40 ] 
 
COLISEUM 
 
 Love^ I can see you standing starry-eyed 
 Above the struggle in the sun-drenched cirque 
 Untouched^ untroubled by the savage work 
 Of man^ or finer fury of the pied, 
 Striped, maned, or dappled beasts that crouched 
 
 and cried 
 Below the parapet, or from the murk 
 Of the barred beast-pits snarled and turned to 
 
 lurk 
 Low in the sand some mumbled bones beside. 
 
 Over the purple-patched campagna clouds 
 Go marching westward orderly and fair, 
 Rank on close rank; the green and orient sky 
 Roofs the far Adriatic where mists lie 
 Dreaming on mountainous Dalmatia 
 And cliff-built hill-towns lost to stinking crowds, 
 Dust, and salt sweat, bright blood and shining 
 
 fascia. 
 Still you stand rapt, look forth beneath your 
 
 crown 
 Of myrtle, while faint breezes of the town 
 Twist the mysterious mazes of your hair. 
 
 [ 41 1 
 
ON THE FLY-LEAF OF "RENASCENCE" 
 
 Brown hermit thrush^ heart's flame in checkered 
 
 shade 
 Where the high meadow reaches to the pines 
 And birches, silver-slender in long lines 
 Broken by fire-slain russet deadwood made 
 Glorious when golden, slanted sunbeams fade 
 Into profimdity verdurous. Like bright wines 
 You pour your wild melodious anodynes 
 Down to a world unwonted, unafraid 
 Of the world's heedless, harsh stupidity, 
 Loud laughter, sudden vip'rous hate, weak tears. 
 With "all the lost adventurers your peers" 
 You sound your heaven-high clarion to destroy 
 The fool's heart, — that same poignant cry set 
 
 free 
 New England, England, Italy, and Troy ! 
 
 [ 42 ] 
 
1917-1919 
 
 There are a few things I shall not forget: 
 Midnight on Montmartre — Sacre Coeur — and 
 
 where 
 The hill drops westward down that plunging 
 
 stair, 
 The few blue lights, a fine-drawn, far-flung net 
 Where once the boulevards blazed; aloft, the 
 
 fret 
 And chatter of the rotaries — and there. 
 There shrieks the siren, wheeling searchlights 
 
 flare, 
 The raiders' rhythm drugs my ear-drums yet. 
 
 Midnight in Tours against some moonlight wall, 
 Piedmont in chestnut-time, at Rimini 
 Red sails acluster, — going to the wars, 
 Breasting the night-chop of the Irish Sea, 
 The transport's deck in darkness, over all 
 Lifeboats swung outboard, black against the 
 stars ! 
 
 [ 43 ] 
 
HYPERION TO A SATYR 
 
 Friend, I can see you there among the reeds, 
 With that briglit, onyx eye, aslant to eatcli 
 My every movement, and brown, flattened 
 
 thighs 
 Showing each corded muscle flex and roll 
 As you shift weight to this heel and to that. 
 Squatting among crushed leafage and sweet 
 
 grass. 
 Ah, goat-legs, are you still as sensitive 
 As once you were, with ear attuned to catch 
 The smallest breath of all the forest sounds. 
 The farthest hollo, rumored Echo's call 
 Fainting and frail from some blue, misty hill, 
 The booming hive or just one wind-blown bee. 
 The leap of fish through thunderous waterfalls? 
 If but your mind could match the senses' edge. 
 So keen, it more than takes the place of mind, 
 And builds a primitive greatness round your 
 
 soul ! 
 For what is mind but something shallow, bright 
 As this small polished disk of bronze I hold 
 So aptly in the hollow of my hand 
 To watch you, plumb you, study you at ease? 
 Thus you grow bolder, hold yourself secure, 
 
 [ M ] 
 
Feeling that since my back is squarely turned 
 
 And eyes are ever in the front of heads 
 
 There is no slightest chance to be observed. 
 
 Well, instinct is at fault, but there's no need 
 
 To feel superior about a bit 
 
 Of polished metal for itself, its trick 
 
 Of showing, if one hold it close enough. 
 
 Earth, air, and water in this little round 
 
 My hand encompasses with such an ease. 
 
 Move I it slightly, and the giddy clouds 
 
 Go pouring slantwise in a cataract. 
 
 And the sun reels and riots in the sky. 
 
 Now once more back to hold the water-weeds, 
 
 Mallow and marsh-grass by the river's edge. 
 
 And you drawn down between close-sheltering 
 
 stalks, 
 A little frightened by the gesture made 
 When the sun rolled, a gold bead, in my palm. 
 Do you remember our first meeting, our 
 Instant and certain friendship, sympathy? 
 How much I loved you — loved you? — love you 
 
 still. 
 But that was long, so very long ago. 
 And earth and heaven have grown old toward 
 
 death. 
 Weary and desperate and full of tears. 
 We will not think on that, for when there yawns 
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
Between the far, fair hills we left and those 
 High, austere mountains that were our first 
 
 goal, 
 A chasm full of meagreness and stones, 
 When we draw first breath on the hard-won 
 
 height, 
 We but glance downward, then look far across, 
 With a slight, certain sadness for the past. 
 That land was beautiful, those hills were fair. 
 Earth was a course to run and heaven a hope, 
 A. wider field to master in good time. 
 Do you remember? Still, I do not know 
 If memory is quite the thing I mean. 
 For I am certain that you felt as I 
 Felt then, and if the image of that time 
 Is gone, or never lived beyond its one 
 Moment, it makes no difference at all. 
 At least rate, satyr, I got much of you, — 
 A trick of treading, soft as thistle-down. 
 To steal upon shy creatures and surprise 
 Their ways, their loves, and all their little 
 
 life,— 
 A brood of querulous, downy pheasant chicks, 
 The business and importance of the ant. 
 Serpents impersonal, liquid and aloof. 
 Or butterflies that have no will at all 
 [ 46 ] 
 
Once they have burst their cerements^ got 
 
 free. . . 
 If, as we rubbed warm shoulders^ poring down 
 Rapt^ on some little drama of the dust, 
 You reached a brown hand, rapid as the flash 
 A fish makes, striking at a summer fly, 
 Catching and crushing the life out with a laugh, 
 After the first cold impact of surprise 
 I knew that it was nothing to be held 
 Blameworthj'^, brutal in you, but the drive 
 Of sphynx-faced nature working toward her 
 
 ends. . . 
 
 [Uncompleted] 
 
 [ 47 ] 
 
THE MASTER OF THE WORLD 
 
THE MASTER OF THE WORLD 
 
 Scene : A street in the outskirts of the town 
 of Corinth. On the right a house-wall, with two 
 windows, one above the other, the lower one 
 protected by a bronze grill. Front, a deep 
 archway, no door visible. At the bach, and con- 
 tinuing the wall of the house, a garden wall. 
 Above the wall a few branches of laurel show 
 against a cold blue shy. On the left two small 
 shops, scarcely more than booths. That toward 
 the front is a wine shop with a bush over the 
 door, a wisp of awning over the window, and a 
 long rough wooden bench in front. The second 
 is no more than a stall the whole front of which 
 is open. A few fowls, bunches of onions and 
 cheeses in nets hanging from the lintel-beam, 
 and some Wooden measures full of barley in 
 front show it to be the shop of a foodvendor. 
 A willow cage holding a magpie hangs on a 
 hrachet at the rear corner. The whole scene is 
 flooded with early morning sunlight, left to 
 right. The food-vendor comes out of his booth. 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
He is a small man, fattish and growing hald. 
 He is drest in a dirty greyish- yelloiv chiton, 
 rather too short for him, and a pair of worn 
 sandals. He surveys his stock with a rather 
 rueful air. 
 
 The Foodvendor. A fine show it makes, but 
 M^hat can I do? These accursed farmers bring 
 what they want, when they want. And the 
 prices they demand ! [^He makes a move to re- 
 arrange a hunch of onions, draping it against 
 one of the wooden measures.] What chance is 
 there for the honest tradesman to make a living? 
 [Pause.] The citizens are as bad; such a to-do 
 over the smallest rise in prices. You would 
 think that a few coppers more for a fowl or a 
 bunch of onions was a crime on my part. Now 
 by the gods, was there ever a scurvier bit of 
 fortune than this : on the very day when I needs 
 must make a brave show of my wares to catch 
 the trade of the newcomers across the way, 
 there isn't a countryman has come crying his 
 truck along the street, and it long after sun-rise. 
 Sloth I can't abide, nor immorality. They must 
 be up to all sorts of beastliness on the farms to 
 lie so late of a morning. 
 
 [The wine seller comes out of his shop and 
 [ 52 ] 
 
leans against the door-jamb. He is a huge man 
 with a round red face on which he keeps an ex- 
 pression of mock gravity. His sleeves are rolled 
 up to his shoulders and an enormous wine- 
 stained apron covers his chiton from armpit to 
 knee.^ 
 
 The Wine Seller. Still talking, neighbor? 
 If it's to yourself yon are speechifying, you had 
 better look to your wits; they'll soon be addled 
 on that fare. If it's the magpie who is the 
 audience, he's as deaf as a post, and if it's me, 
 why I've other things to listen to. I'm married 
 myself. 
 
 The Foodvendor. Good morning, neighbor. 
 I suppose you are right and one should not 
 shout one's troubles to the street, but it's as 
 empty as an old wine-skin of yours. 
 
 The Wine Seller. Empty, yes. But you 
 mentioned the new arrivals and who knows but 
 they may be looking out one of those windows to 
 see what all the noise is, and overhearing your 
 little plots to get their trade. Put a brave front 
 on it and they'll be the making of you yet. 
 
 The Foodvendor. It's easy for you to talk, 
 
 friend, and be cheerful. Your trade's good, 
 
 without any shifts and tricks, and pretending a 
 
 prosperity you haven't got. With us it's all a 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
question of the tone of the establishment: if 
 you've a choice thing, the early artichoke, the 
 milk-fed capon, the rich will pay any price for 
 it and no miserable haggling over the last cop- 
 per. But I've no capital. And the wealthy 
 farmers never even stop to ask me if I want to 
 buy. 
 
 The Wine Seller. Ho, ho! And no won- 
 der, when they hear you bargaining with some 
 half-starved yokel to beat down the price of his 
 wizened pippins. You have such a desperate 
 pleading way with you, friend, it would melt a 
 heart of brass. 
 
 The Foodvendor. Well, I don't know why 
 it is this world should be such a mad place. We 
 all know it is necessary to eat to live, and that 
 it is not necessary to drink, — I don't drink. 
 \The wine seller raises his eyebrows as though 
 expressing doubt of the foodvendor's really liv- 
 ing.^ And yet they'll haggle with me over a 
 mere nothing and then waste a score as much 
 making hogs of themselves, sitting on your bench 
 swilling wine. [Plaintively^ It isn't good for 
 the tone of my shop to have them there, shout- 
 ing their bawdy songs and laughing. It 
 frightens the maidservants so that they go down 
 the street to my rivals. 
 
 [ 54 ] 
 
The Wine Seller. Our old argument, 
 friend. When will the world settle it? As for 
 me_, I hold with Epicurus, by inclination, and 
 because it's good business. [With excitement] 
 Why, Zeus, man, one year of good wine and 
 good talk is worth more than a lifetime of 
 pale. . . But what's the use, and anyway, 
 here comes the newcomers' servant girl, so I'll 
 leave you to make an impression with the "tone" 
 of your shop. [The wine seller goes into his 
 shop.] She'd only have eyes for my beauty if I 
 stayed. 
 
 [The maidservant enters from the archway 
 right. She is a girl of about fifteen, with a 
 merry face browned by the sun. Her hair is 
 tied up in a woolen cloth, from under which red 
 curls show. She wears a long white chiton with 
 a green border {Greek fret) and carries a basket 
 on her arm. As she is turning right, the food- 
 vendor coughs in what he considers to be a 
 fetching manner.] 
 
 The Foodvendor. Ahem! Good morning, 
 my girl. [Suddenly afraid that he is being too 
 dignified, and descending swiftly to a wheedling 
 manner] Aren't you looking for a nice fat fowl, 
 or a fine cheese, or maybe a bunch of onions to 
 
 [ 55 ] 
 
boil in white sauce? Come, look, here's of the 
 best, straight from the farms this morning. 
 
 [The girl pauses uncertainly, smiles at the 
 foodvendor in a friendly fashion, showing strong 
 xvhite teeth, and turns left toward his shop.\ 
 
 The Foodvendor [at her elhoxv^ Just look. 
 My stock is rather short this morning, because 
 I've sold almost everything already to the 
 steward of a noble who is giving a great feast 
 today. But what is left is of the freshest. 
 
 The Maid. The freshest, you say.'* [Pull- 
 ing a few feathers from the breast of one of the 
 fowls] Why, what do you take me for. I wasn't 
 born and raised on a farm for nothing. Your 
 fowls were killed last week and your onions 
 have gone to seed. 
 
 The Foodvendor [zohining] I do my best, 
 young woman. It's all this unfair competition 
 with those who have capital back of them. 
 [Coaxingly] You may know all about a farm, 
 but you've things to learn of our city ways. 
 Look you, it will be worth your while to buy 
 from me. I'll make it worth your while. That's 
 something you didn't know. Now this is the 
 way it is. . . . 
 
 The Maid [interrupting] Oh, I know all 
 about that. I may be a country girl but I 
 [ 56 ] 
 
wasn't born yesterday. They will make me the 
 same offer at all the other shops. But I've some 
 pride in what I do know and so you needn't 
 hope that I'll buy poor when I can find the best;, 
 all for a bit of ribbon or even a pair of gilt 
 sandals, come to that. [Changing the subject 
 crisply] That cheese is good; I'll take it. 
 
 [She unhooks the cheese, places it in her 
 basket, and gives money.] 
 
 The Foodvendor. Bu-but wait; you haven't 
 paid me enough. I gave more than that to the 
 farmer's wife who . . . 
 
 The Maid. Nonsense ! I know what you 
 give for a cheese of that size and quality. Now 
 I'm off to see if the other dealers are as bad as 
 you are. But we'll understand each other 
 sooner or later, never fear. That is, you'll 
 understand me. I understand you now. [Goes 
 off right front.] 
 
 [The hawker enters from left rear, around 
 corner of the foodvendor's shop. He is a tall, 
 skinny man with a red nose and an air of great 
 sophistication. He has a short russet chiton 
 and a faded blue cloak flung over one shoulder 
 in what is now the Spanish manner. He cocks 
 his head at the magpie, resting his tray on one 
 hip.] 
 
 [ 67 ] 
 
The Hawker. Well, old timer, and how are 
 you today? Poorly, thanks be to the gods? 
 You always were a sardonic fellow. But with 
 more sense in one of your tail-feathers than 
 your master has in all of his pursy little body. 
 
 [The foodvendor starts angrily and goes off 
 right front, bristling with offended dignity.] 
 
 The Foodvendor [muttering as he goes] 
 Professional jealousy! [Exit.] 
 
 The Hawker [taking something from his 
 tray and holding it between thumb and fore- 
 figer] Here's something for you, my brave one, 
 my little pied actor. Oh, how he can strut, and 
 rant in pantomime. Take it, take it, it's whole- 
 some. They all eat them, from prince to beggar, 
 and spit the skins out anywhere, till the seats at 
 the theatre are as dirty as the floor of your 
 cage. But now I'm fouling my own nest and a 
 wise bird never does that, unless he's locked up 
 in a prison as you are, my prince of fowls. 
 [Confidentially] Speaking of princes, I'll tell 
 you a secret that they don't know in this sleepy 
 suburb. Guess who is coming to town today? 
 Incognito, of course, as the barbarians of Rome 
 have it, but here just the same. [In an impres- 
 sive whisper] ALEXANDER THE GREAT! 
 
 The Magpie. Alexander the Great! 
 [ 58 ] 
 
The Hawker. So that breaks your silence, 
 does it? I'd no idea you were impressed by 
 worldly pomp and magnificence. I thought you 
 were the perfect philosopher, the complete 
 cynic, like Diogenes. Well, I must hawk my 
 wares to the crowds which will gather like flies 
 over carrion when the rumor gets about. 
 [Going] Empty-heads! Wind in the skull, 
 wind in the mouth, wind in the belly. [He goes 
 out right front, crying, off] BEANS ! WHO'S 
 FOR BOILED BEANS? [Farther off] 
 Golden beans — golden as amber from the 
 Sicilies, golden as honey, golden as a little hen 
 pheasant's eye! Who's for be-e-eans? 
 
 [As the sound of the hawker's cries grow 
 fainter, a rumbling is heard from left rear and 
 an old man appears, rolling before him a great 
 empty cask. He settles it with its open end 
 toward the front, in the angle formed by the 
 wall of the house and the garden wall. Up to 
 this time his face has not been turned toward 
 the audience, and there is nothing impressive in 
 the bowed figure clad in one shapeless grey 
 woolen garment like a voluminous sack, which 
 reaches to within two or three inches of the 
 knee. He wears no sandals.] 
 
 The Old Man [Turning and facing front, 
 [ 69 ] 
 
with one hand on the rim of the cask\ Beans. 
 [His face is remarkable, with a lofty, craggy 
 forehead, around which grow thick grey curls 
 in great disorder. His eyebrows, bushy and 
 tangled, almost hide his eyes, which are sur- 
 rounded by wrinkles of laughter and deep 
 thought. His nose is large and formless, his 
 mouth broad and mobile under the curling 
 beard, which is only streaked with grey.] 
 Golden beans ! What is gold ? Mere dross, an 
 inferior metal except for the chance that it is 
 difficult to find. Amber, they say is unlucky, 
 honey is cloying, and a little hen pheasant's eye 
 is hard and lustful. Why not say golden as — 
 sunlight. I must suggest it to him, in such a 
 way as not to hurt his feelings. [He smiles and 
 shakes his head.] I'm getting soft and senti- 
 mental in my old age, but this weather and this 
 sun-drenched corner [sits down in opening of 
 cask and stretches out his legs] would make 
 anybody's peace with the world. [He half 
 closes his eyes and his face takes on a look of 
 great gentleness. Musing] After all, these 
 simple spots show me that humanity is not so 
 bad and stupid as I sometimes think. 
 
 [The foodvendor enters right front with his 
 arms laden with vegetables and a large b^sket<, 
 
 [ 60 ] 
 
He does not notice the old man hut goes straight 
 to his shop-front and begins to arramjt his 
 new stock, muttering to himself.] 
 
 The Foodvendor. Slipped out to the city 
 gate and found a farmer very drunk. Ho, ho ! 
 They think they are sharp, these country boors, 
 but I was one too many for him. Bought him 
 three cups of wine and saved their price five 
 times over in what I paid for his truck. 
 
 The Wine Seller [appearing in his door- 
 way] So, my moral friend. You are not blind 
 to the virtues of Bacchus after all ! 
 
 The Foodvendor [whining and on the de- 
 fensive] Well, you know that in driving a bar- 
 gain it is everybody for himself. Besides, if I 
 were to . . . [He turns and catches sight of 
 the cash with the old man half asleep in it. As 
 the latter does not look at all dangerous, he 
 adopts a blustering manner.] We-el, what are 
 you doing there, old fellow.^ You must be off 
 now, with your cask. We don't allow that sort 
 of thing in this neighborhood. It's bad for the 
 tone and it's bad for trade. 
 
 The Old Man [raising his head and looking 
 
 at the foodvendor with such fury that the latter 
 
 jumps as though he had been stung] WE ! 
 
 [With cold scorn] Where got you the brilliant 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
and quaint idea to use that word "we" ? You've 
 no title to the land where your miserable hut 
 stands, the hut itself is as leaky as an old 
 sieve — a breath would blow it away. [Lower- 
 ing his voice] But don't think that would make 
 me scorn you. This house of mine [rapping 
 with his knuckles on the side of the cask] well, 
 it is not impressive architecturally speaking, 
 nor especially spacious. But it is weather- 
 proof, and — it suits me, it suits me. 
 
 The Foodvendor [taking heart at the milder 
 tone and beginning to bluster again] I'll have 
 you know that I am an honest tradesman and 
 you are [he searches for the most crushing 
 word] a beggar. 
 
 The Old Man [barking] A beggar? Homer 
 begged his bread. And you an honest man, you 
 shadow, you lousy wisp? By Zeus, he calls it 
 virtue to lie by his wife through cowardice and 
 lust after the little maidservants who buy his 
 stale carrots. He calls it sobriety to be too 
 mean and too dyspeptic to drink a glass of wine 
 himself, and yet if it is a question of cheating 
 some poor befuddled oaf, he will do his all to 
 make him as drunk as a pig. There's not a fine 
 thought conceived, there's not a beautiful word 
 spoken in that sty of yours. A blue-faced ape 
 [ 62 ] 
 
would think shame to have you claim cousinship 
 with him. Now go, and don't dare to so much 
 as to look askance at me again. 
 
 [The foodvendor, utterly crushed and out- 
 raged in his feelings, shuffles over to the bench in 
 front of the wine-shop and collapses on it. He 
 is almost in tears. During the whole of the pre- 
 ceding dialogue the wine seller has been leaning 
 against the door-jamb with his arms clasped 
 across his stomach to control his laughter.] 
 
 The Wine Seller. Don't you know who 
 it is.^ 
 
 The Foodvendor. Know who it is? I 
 should hope not. Why, he isn't human ! I never 
 had anybody speak to me like that in my life — 
 not the finest gentleman among all the nobles, 
 not the bravest soldier in the army. [Sobbing] 
 It isn't fair to outrage a man's feelings that 
 way, it isn't decent. He knows I'm afraid of 
 him and he takes advantage of that. I'll never 
 be able to hold up my head again. It is enough 
 to break the spirit of an Alexander. 
 
 The Wine Seller. Oh, cheer up, you'll get 
 over it, you'll live it down, in fact I wouldn't be 
 surprised to hear you boast of the conversation 
 with pride, after a few days. 
 [ 63 ] 
 
The Foodvenuor [almost speechless] Witli 
 pride? 
 
 The Wine Seller. Yes, because it isn't 
 everybody who could get such a flow of lan- 
 guage out of him. 
 
 The Foodvendor. But who is he? 
 
 The Wine Seller. Just — Diogenes. 
 
 The Foodvendor. Diogenes.^ [He glances 
 furtively in the direction of the old man, looks 
 azcMy as the latter stirs slightly, and begins to 
 feel himself all over, very gently, as though he 
 liad just had a miraculous escape. Briglitening] 
 Diogenes.^ Well, really you know, that changes 
 the state of affairs. That's very interesting and, 
 now, — interesting. Why, he's a famous char- 
 acter. He's very well known. He'd even be 
 fashionable if he would let people make a fuss 
 over him. At least so I've been told. But I'd 
 as soon ask a wild boar to a feast, he's that 
 savage. But he is a privileged character. Oh, 
 yes, and if he'll only stay here, he'll be very 
 good for trade. I wonder if there is any way to 
 suggest an arrangement, an arrangement of 
 mutual advant — . . . 
 
 The Wine Seller [interrupting] Good Pol- 
 lux, and will you be sticking your head into that 
 liornet's nest again .^^ That's the worst of you 
 [ 64 ] 
 
smart business men^ with your hole and corner 
 suggestions and your arrangements of mutual 
 advantage. You've no sense of proportion and 
 think that the hook that will hold a minnow will 
 serve for a whale. You might as well suggest 
 an arrangement with Mount Olympus. 
 
 [Enter three carters right front. They are 
 covered with dust and hold ox-goads with the 
 rather graceful solemnity of the half -drunk.] 
 
 First Carter. Well^ boys, what did I tell 
 you.'' As pretty a little wine shop as ever 
 thirsty eyes gazed on, and a bench which will 
 just hold us three. [Singing in a maudlin, 
 manner] 
 
 As pretty as thirsty eyes could see. 
 And a bench which will hold us three. 
 
 Second Carter. If you don't hold your 
 tongue, and hold your liquor, the bench will 
 hold only two. I can't stand mixed metaphors 
 or mixed drinks, and nobody can stand your 
 singing. 
 
 Third Carter. He means no harm. Any- 
 way, let's drink. Mine host, three cups of wine, 
 and swiftly, as we want to get back where the 
 crowd is thickest. [The wine seller goes in and 
 returns almost immediately with three leather 
 I 65 ] 
 
cwps and a skin of wine. Handing a cup to each, 
 he fills them from the skin.^ 
 
 The Three Carters [together, drinking] 
 Good stuff. [They wipe their mouths and rise.] 
 
 [The maidservant enters right front, crying, 
 with her basket hanging empty from one hand.] 
 
 First Carter. Don't cry, my little one, 
 don't cry, my pretty duck. 
 
 Second Carter. Leave her alone, fool! 
 
 Third Carter. Don't snap at him like that. 
 Can't you enjoy a drink or so without criticizing 
 everybody? Be courtly, as I am. Like this: 
 [Turning to the girl with a deep bow] Fair one, 
 why these tears .^ Though they become your 
 cheeks like pearly dewdrops on the damask rose, 
 yet . . . 
 
 Maidservant. Stop ! 
 
 Foodvendor. Hoity-toity, where are your 
 manners, miss ? Is this the way they teach you 
 to answer a civil question in the country? And 
 how about your market basket? Empty, eh? 
 We aren't so smart as we thought we were when 
 making game of the stock of a humble merchant ! 
 
 Second Carter. Damn you, don't speak to 
 her like that ! 
 
 First Carter. And the man who says a 
 [ 66 ] 
 
word against the country will have to reckon 
 with me ! 
 
 Third Carter. You little sneering scorpion, 
 somebody ought to step on you. 
 
 [At this general outburst of disapproval the 
 foodvendor hacks toward his shop followed hy 
 the three carters in a chorus of criticism. The 
 girl, forgotten hy attacker and defenders alike, 
 stands irresolute, wiping her eyes on her hare 
 arm and grimacing like a small child, to keep 
 down her sohs.^ 
 
 Diogenes [softly^ Come here, child. [He 
 rises, takes the hasket from her gently, reverses 
 it so that it forms a low stool, and makes her sit 
 down on it. In the meantime, the foodvendor 
 has slipped round the corner of his shop, left 
 rear, and disappeared, followed hy the three 
 carters.] Let's see, the basket is empty. But 
 don't cry any more, I'm sure we can fix it all 
 right if we only think. Don't cry. You can tell 
 me about it in a minute or so. Or I will begin. 
 You went down the street and bought a fowl. 
 
 Maidservant. A peahen. 
 
 Diogenes [nodding] Yes, a peahen. And 
 then you were looking for early artichokes. 
 
 Maidservant [brightening] Yes, and carrots, 
 and I found such good ones. And figs. The 
 [ 67 ] 
 
figs are wonderful this year. There was a 
 crowd and it got thicker all the time. 
 
 Diogenes. Crowds do. That's why I avoid 
 them now. 
 
 Maidservant. And there was a long man, a 
 man with a funny nose who . . . 
 
 Diogenes. The beanseller? 
 
 Maidservant. The beanseller. He cried out 
 in a loud voice, hawking his beans. [Breath- 
 lessly] And then there were soldiers, oh such 
 beautiful men, like young gods. And the crowd 
 pressed forward, and I saw a young man among 
 the soldiers. A god he was, with fair copper 
 colored hair in tight curls like carved metal, and 
 the bridge of his nose was like the prow of a 
 swift ship. At least, I never saw such a ship, 
 but it made me think of that, and lots of excit- 
 ing things. Then I stood on tiptoe, for I am 
 very small, and my basket slipped and every- 
 thing tumbled in the dust. But the crowd only 
 laughed and trampled by me, and the soldiers 
 closed in and I did not see my beautiful man 
 any more. [»So?>*.] 
 
 Diogenes [patting her head] Crowds, crowds. 
 
 Here we are, with our little baskets full of 
 
 household virtues, and we see the rare thing, the 
 
 fine thing, or anyway the thing that seems fine 
 
 [ 68 ] 
 
to us. And our souls stand on tiptoe with joy. 
 Then the crowd pitches all our little virtues in 
 the dust, and laughs. [Shaking himself, to 
 throw off his disgust.] Anyway, we can fill your 
 basket again, so cheer up, child. 
 
 Maidservant. Oh, I wasn't crying about the 
 marketing. My mistress can beat me for that, 
 but it was really an accident and I can stand it. 
 I had to cry because the young man was so 
 beautiful. 
 
 Diogenes. Oh. [A long pause.] Just like 
 a philosopher to overlook that. 
 
 Maidservant. And that's why I was so 
 furious at that silly fool of a carter who tried to 
 speak like a poet. 
 
 Diogenes. I see. 
 
 [The foodvendor enters, left rear, rubbing his 
 hands and chuckling. He approaches the wine 
 seller, who has been leaning against his doorway 
 half asleep and shows him in pantomime how he 
 defied and worsted the three tipsy carters. The 
 wine seller, utterly bored, closes his eyes.] 
 
 Diogenes [looking at the foodvendor in a ter- 
 rifying manner] Worm! [The foodvendor 
 trembles.] Bring me a peafowl, artichokes and 
 carrots. [The foodvendor, as though hypno- 
 tized, gets the things and brings them over, 
 [ 69 ] 
 
standing before Diogenes in a panic. Diogenes 
 rises, helps the maidservant to her feet, picks 
 up her basket a7id places the things in i<.] 
 
 Diogenes. Here^ child. {Hands her the 
 basket,} And if your mistress asks whom you 
 were talking with, say that the philosopher 
 greets the daughter of the philosopher, and that 
 he was sitting at the feet of wisdom. She will 
 understand. 
 
 FooDVENDOR [aside^ That's more than I do. 
 
 Maidservant. Yes, father. And how can I 
 thank you for being so nice to me.^ 
 
 Diogenes [smiling^ Well, if you should be 
 dusting and sweeping the upper chamber, and 
 if your heart should feel like singing, I shall be 
 here to listen and enjoy. 
 
 {The maidservant smiles and runs out right 
 through the archway. \ 
 
 Foodvendor. And who's to pay for all this? 
 I'm a virtuous man and . . . 
 
 Diogenes. Out of your own mouth you are 
 answered. Virtue is its own reward. {^Turns 
 his back on the foodvendor who retires into his 
 shop, shaking his head. The wine seller smiles, 
 then lies down on his bench and sleeps.] 
 
 Song [off] 
 
 [ 70 ] 
 
"MAN HAS A SOUL—" 
 
 Man has a soul must be wed to sorrow, 
 Scourged by passion and faith and joy; 
 Spurning today to attain tomorrow, 
 Spending the blood he cannot re-borrow, 
 Building on what he must first destroy. 
 
 Crushed, dispirited, broken, faithless. 
 Sunk to the rock-walled belly of earth 
 He shall stand up, and old scars na'theless 
 Quit his body and leave it scatheless, 
 Cold, impersonal in rebirth. 
 
 And when the new soars up and over, — 
 As spring succeeds to the months of rain, 
 With fresh life starring mead and cover. 
 The earth gives back to her perfect lover 
 Passion and faith and joy again. 
 
 Diogenes [looking up at the windozv] Youth, 
 lyric youth. So hopeful, so passionate, mys- 
 terious and sad. But [changing his tone and 
 walking over to the magpie* s cage] I can think 
 until my brain reels, and there is always some- 
 thing, some simple thing that I cannot foretell. 
 I should have known why she was crying, but — 
 I'll never learn everything. 
 [ 71 ] 
 
The Magpie. Never learn everything. 
 
 Diogenes Poor pie, have you found that out 
 in your bitter prison .f' Poor pie. [With a sud- 
 den characteristic change to fury.] By the gods, 
 the stupid cruelty of man is beyond belief. To 
 keep a live thing, a winged thing that can scale 
 the heavens and sport among the clouds mewed 
 up in a filthy bundle of willow wythes ! Here. 
 [Takes down the cage and opens its door.] Go, 
 fly, be free! [The magpie makes no effort to 
 get out hut clings fast to his perch.] There is 
 a symbol of man's soul. Freedom, the greatest 
 gift of all, becomes something to shrink from 
 with terror, to hound, to stamp out when the 
 world gets too used to metes and bounds. Oh, 
 for a few, a very few wild spirits who dare look 
 freedom in the face, to take her like lovers. 
 [He closes the door of the cage and rehangs it 
 on its hook.] Friend, you are right, the time 
 has gone for you. [He walks over to his cask 
 and crawls inside as the haivker enters right 
 front. The latter is swinging his empty tray by 
 one hand and is in great spirits.] 
 
 The Hawker. If one grew lusty on laugh- 
 ing, Hercules would be a stripling by compari- 
 son. Gods, what a quaint animal it is, our citi- 
 zenry. Fill its eves with the sight of soldiers, 
 ' [ 72 ] 
 
its ears with the squalling of brass trumpets, 
 and its belly with boiled beans. Then it will 
 purr like a barred tomcat on top of a sun-lit 
 wall. [He sees the wine seller sleeping and goes 
 over and places the empty tray on his stomach.] 
 Ho, my Spartan youth, you have come home be- 
 neath your shield! [The wine seller opens his 
 eyes and heaves the tray off with a slight motion 
 of his body.] Or maybe I should call you Poly- 
 phemus heaving the Sicilian villages into the 
 sea. 
 
 The Wine Seller. If I'd known your tray 
 was empty, I would have saved my strength, 
 jackdaw. What, all the beans sold.'^ Industry, 
 industry, what a jewel thou art. 
 
 The Hawker. Industry nothing. They 
 rushed at me with money in their hands and had 
 the whole stock off my tray and bulging their 
 fat cheeks before you could empty a cup of wine. 
 Which reminds me, I've earned a slight libation 
 to the fair god Bacchus. [The wine seller 
 starts to rise.] No, friend, don't trouble your- 
 self. I can get it; and shall I draw for two? 
 [The wine seller nods.] Good. [The hawJcer 
 goes into the shop and returns with two cups of 
 wine.] Drink, my golden tapster, my little 
 terra-cotta Ganymede! [The wine seller sits 
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
up and they drink. The hawker throws hack 
 his head.] How it glads the gullet. I like to 
 stretch my neck and make flat the throat ; then 
 I can feel it all the way down. 
 
 The Wine Seller. Good wine. And there 
 are madmen who say that it is wicked to drink. 
 But I won't call them men. Stupid cows; 
 camels. [He tosses the empty cup through the 
 door.] Great Olympus, as if fools and knaves 
 couldn't spoil the finest things in this world. 
 It's all in the way you take life. There's no 
 harm in the good grape, it's in the . . . 
 
 The Hawker. I know. But don't you re- 
 member how we had to call for the barber- 
 surgeon, the little Esculapius, and he put a round 
 dozen of leeches on your neck to break the fit 
 the last time you got on that subject? 
 
 [Tzvo men enter right. They are both young, 
 in the early twenties, and have the physique and 
 clear bronzed skin of people who spend their 
 lives in the open. They are dressed in long 
 woolen cloaks which fall in great simple folds 
 from shoulder to heel, so that it is impossible to 
 tell their rank, except that they follow the pro- 
 fession of arms. The taller is dark-haired and 
 rather slight in build, though pozverful. The 
 other arrests attention immediately, the atten- 
 [ 74 ] 
 
tion first being drawn to the superb set of the 
 round head on the great neck, which rises like 
 a Doric column from the grey cloak. His hair 
 is red-gold and curls in archaic rings all over his 
 head and around the small, beautifully set ears. 
 His eyes, intensely blue, have the rapt, in- 
 scrutable look of the great idealist or great 
 egoist. The way he handles his body shows per- 
 fect coordination and his voice, even when 
 pitched in a whisper, has the flexibility and 
 power of an organ. His bearing is that of a 
 demi-god. There are blue circles under the eyes 
 of both and a slight pallor showing through the 
 tan.] 
 
 Dark Soldier [moving toward the archzvay] 
 Where can he have taken himself off to? He's 
 as elusive as a squadron of Parthian horse. 
 And it's like his pleasant habit of charging out 
 of the theatre when the crowd begins arriving, 
 to slip out to this suburb on the day of days. 
 
 Fair Soldier. If he was trying to pique my 
 interest he could not have adopted a better shift. 
 But his strength is that he does not care. 
 
 Dark Soldier. Sire^ I am not sure of that. 
 It is one thing to scorn the ordinary pomps and 
 powers of life and another to be indifferent to 
 [ 75 ] 
 
world power. Lives there a man whose soul can 
 put aside the offers of the master of the world? 
 
 Alexander. I do not know, friend, but 
 [catching sight of the cask] I think we have run 
 the lion to his lair. 
 
 Dark Soldier. Yes, surely. That's his new 
 house. They say that when that gross army 
 contractor, grown proud of his sudden riches, 
 was boasting of his marvelous morals, Diogenes 
 answered that the god Bacchus had dyed the 
 walls of his bedchamber with Tyrian purple. 
 
 [They advance toward the cask and regard 
 the sleeping philosopher. The wine seller and 
 the hawker sit up straight on the bench. The 
 latter shows rising excitement, which he com- 
 municates to his huge companion by indicating 
 in dumb show that the newcomer is Alexander. 
 The foodvendor appears, eyeing the two cloaked 
 figures, appraising them as possible customers; 
 starts forward, thinks better of it, and remains 
 half in his shop with his neck craned forxvard.] 
 
 Alexander. What a daunting thing is sleep. 
 How that mimic death does take the beholder by 
 the throat, and give him pause. A great purge 
 for pride. 
 
 [The maidservant comes out of the arched 
 doorway, right, and begins to sprinkle the 
 [ 76 ] 
 
ground with water from an earthenware jar, 
 dipping it out with her hand.^ 
 
 Maidservant. Down^ dust ! Shall I be al- 
 ways sweeping and driving you outside to the 
 kitchen-midden^ and you flying in gaily by the 
 window again? [Sings\ 
 
 The earth gives hack to her perfect lover 
 
 Passion and faith and joy again. 
 
 [At the sound of the singing, Alexander 
 glances toward her, smiling, and she sees him 
 for the first time. Her face goes white, she sets 
 down the jar very gently and leans against the 
 arch as though faint. In a whisper to herself] 
 
 Maidservant. My beautiful one ! 
 
 [Three or four people enter left rear, among 
 them one of the carters. Two women enter 
 right front and all stand as though sensing 
 something great about to happen.^ 
 
 Dark Soldier. Diogenes. 
 
 Diogenes [waking and sitting up in his cask, 
 with a look of annoyance] Who are you, and 
 what do you mean by disturbing me? 
 
 Alexander [slipping his cloak from his 
 shoulders with the horn actor's sure instinct for 
 the dramatic, so that it slides to the ground, 
 leaving him superh in his golden armor, over a 
 vermilion tunic] The son of Philip. 
 
 [ 77 ] 
 
Dark Soldier. Alexander the Great! 
 
 All [except the maidservant, in varying 
 tones of wonder, awe and admiration] Alexan- 
 der the Great ! 
 
 Diogenes. Yes. And I the son of Icesias 
 the swindler. 
 
 Alexander [calling on all his art to draw 
 some response from the philosopher] Diogenes, 
 I greet you. Though conqueror of the world, 
 with armies at my back whose mastery is such 
 that none has ever seen the like, I stand before 
 you as man to man, as equal, and only ask: 
 what, from my power, can I do for you? 
 
 [Carried away by his own half -unconscious 
 pentameters, he steps forward and casts a 
 shadow on the reclining figure. The dark 
 soldier stoops and picks up the cloak. Diogenes 
 looks at the resplendent figure for several 
 moments, apparently quite unmoved. The crowd 
 stands breathless with tension.] 
 
 Diogenes [quietly] You can stand out of the 
 sunshine. 
 
 [Alexander does not take in the import of the 
 answer for a few seconds, and, puzzled, steps 
 backward out of the light. Slowly his face 
 darkens as the full quality of the rebuff sinks 
 into his brain. The dark soldier stands like a 
 [ 78 ] 
 
statue, with Alexander's cloak over his left arm 
 and his right hand half drawing his sword from 
 under his cloak. Alexander's fury reaches a 
 climax and his face passes into an expression of 
 deep thought, touched with sadness. He bows 
 silently to Diogenes, then turns to the dark 
 soldier, takes the cloak and wraps it around 
 himself .\ 
 
 Alexander [<o the dark soldier, gently] And 
 I was weeping for new worlds to conquer ! [He 
 walks sloivly front, his head bowed, and then 
 turning to his left with military precision, goes 
 out right front, followed by the dark soldier.] 
 
 [The whole crowd has stood as though turned 
 to stone and remain so for a minute or two. 
 Then the maidservant, coming to life, darts from 
 the arch and stands before Diogenes.] 
 
 Maidservant [with passion, stamping her 
 foot] YOU HORRID OLD MAN! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
\ 
 
''--"'ml- 
 
 LIBRARY OF ,CONGRg=> 
 
 015 908 466 8^ 
 
 WM^M&S^mK^^SSm 
 
 
 DRY POINTS 
 
 1887-1920 
 
 BY 
 HENRY MARTYN HOYT