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 SONNETS FROM THE PATAGONIAN 
 
BOOKS hy DONALD EVANS 
 Published by Kicholas L. Brown : 
 
 Discords 
 
 Two Deaths in the Bronx 
 
 Nine Poems erom a Yaletudinarium 
 
 Sonnets erom the Patagonian 
 
 Special Edition of the last title on Etruria (Italian 
 hand-made) paper limited to 28 numbered copies, 
 signed by author and publisher. Insert — one full 
 sonnet written in the author's hand. $15.00. 
 
 This ediiion is limited to 750 copies. 
 
Connets fro??i the T)atagonian 
 
 rr\o?iald 'pvans \ 
 
 'Philadelphia JsTicholas A -^'^"^''^ 1 01 8 
 

 BY 
 
 Nicholas L. Brown 
 
 
 JliN -5 1918 
 
 ©CI. A 4 9925 3 1,1^^ 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 My dear Cormvall Hollis: 
 
 With the Allied cause cruinbling away it is high time 
 lue thought of aesthetics. As a triste jest I said that to 
 you the other day, and your reply was a plea to let you 
 write a preface for a new edition of my forgotten Sonnets 
 from the Patagonian. I am at last persuaded, and ivho hut 
 you should do the preface? 
 
 With Mitteleuropa a fact it should he apparent to any 
 honest, thinking man that lue are losing the War. Perhaps, 
 in a larger sense, ive have already lost the War and the 
 dv^h of the Anglo-Saxon is come. Then ive are at last 
 joined with the Hellenes and Latins in the descending 
 scale, and it is the Teuton now approaching the penhelion, 
 ivith the Slav, yet to conquer, in the far distance. But 
 that is an eye-survey for eternity, and we have merely to 
 do with the finite present. So we may still think of 
 resistance, and not yet abandon hope of postponing defeat. 
 
 It is now the hour for the supreme test of America, and 
 she too must fail, as our Allies have failed, before the Huns 
 unless somewhere she can find the beauty and the strength 
 of the human soul ivith which to give battle. For the first 
 time in history it is souls, not guns, that will ivin the War, 
 and remember, my dear friend, that Beauty is more neces- 
 sary than food that the soul may live. 
 
We are all hut engulfed m erro7\ We say that we do not 
 hate the Gei^man people; it is the Kaiser we are fighting. 
 A pitiful self-delusion ! It must he the German people we 
 hate as an overshadowing race, if our fight is to have even 
 the excuse of the inflamed passion of the survival of the 
 fittest. We must acknowledge the Kaiser as the symhol of 
 the hest organized form of government, unless we are 
 franhly anarchists; the most efficient, the most powerful, 
 the most nearly approaching a practical socialism,. Let u^, 
 therefore, start afresh. We hate the German people, for 
 they have threatened our complacent supremacy as lords 
 of the world. Now we are at least truthful. 
 
 Thus far, the Allies have failed signally as a miKtary 
 force. The Europeans have forgotten how to fight, and we 
 in America have never learned. We have put too much 
 faith in materialism, and hetrayed the Soul and Beauty. 
 There is more to life than living, and more to an army than 
 arms. The moment is here that demands lue scrap the 
 military leaders, as such, and seelc stronger. Why not then 
 turn to the Poets to direct the War, for, lo! it was the 
 Poets who in seven days won the Irish Revolution. None 
 hnows better than you how I begrudge giving the ever- 
 turhulent West Britons any praise, any glory, hut there_ is 
 the simple truth. They vanquished the foe because they 
 first had conquered fear, and then nought could stand 
 against them. 
 
 If we could purge ourselves of our fear of Germany we 
 should capture Berlin. Could I enlist a Battalion of Irre- 
 proachables, whose uniforms should he ivallcing suit, top hat 
 and pumps, and their only weapon an ebony stick, and sail 
 tomorrow, we should march down TJnter den Linden in a 
 month, provided ivrapped in our kerchiefs we carried the 
 Gospel of Beauty, and a nonchalance in the knot of our 
 cravats. 
 
Verily, verily, men are I'lUed solely hecaicse they fear 
 death, and turn their haclrs on Beauty, for only ugliness 
 and error can destroy, and ugliness in the end destroys 
 itself. 
 
 There is really no horror in the ^Yar. Even in the 
 ridiculous luay tee are now fighting it is all a shabby, stupid 
 sham. That chap Griffith gave us a more realistic spectacle 
 in'"The Birth of a Nation." Far too few men are actually 
 hilled and wounded, and the job is much too large for the 
 materialists. They do not hnoiu how to employ effectively 
 the huge forces they have raised into being. 
 
 If somehow we can grope our way bach to the springs 
 of Beauty all may yet be saved, but it will require the 
 sacrifice of everything we have. For myriads it will mean 
 the offering of their lives, for that is all they possess, and 
 it must be done freely, gladly, ivith their souls purified, 
 if it is to avail anything. Pride, ambition, selfishness, self- 
 ivill must go, or lue perish blind miserables. 
 
 For myself, you know I am willingly in service as a 
 common soldier, although some years beyond conscription 
 age. Ungrudgingly I gave up alcohol — almost a lifelong 
 necessity — and for months I, the Epicurean, have been 
 dispassionately measuring the supposed hardships of ivar 
 that I might truly understand what a soldier has to 
 undergo. With Beauty in the bloodbeat privation is noth- 
 ing. What can touch me noiv except the amusing joy of 
 giving up for the conim.on good? Yet who actually loves 
 humankind less than I? But the subordination idea in- 
 trigues me, possesses me, satisfies me. How better can I 
 prove my patent of snobbery and my innate right cordially 
 to dislike my fellowmenf 
 
 The social degradation involved in functioning as an 
 enlisted man was and, of course, is the worst of the annoy- 
 ances. I am neither young enough nor sufficiently demo- 
 
cratic to enjoy day after day a helow-stairs statits. It is a 
 trial, I confess, hut I venture to persuade myself that I do 
 all that is required of me with admirable abasement and 
 detachment. Occasionally, indeed, it is capital fun to play 
 the anonymous cipher. I am often urged to obtain a com- 
 mission. But I cannot quite do that, for would not that be 
 a confession that I hadn't the pluck to stick it out? I must 
 remain as I am. Many of my contemporaries are finding 
 the khaki an easy means of increasing their literary reputa- 
 tions. Wise brothers, ye have chosen your roles. I prefer 
 mine. 
 
 Before you have seen my book through the press I may 
 be dead. With all my heart I hope I shall not come back, 
 for then impersonally I shall have fallen for a cause in 
 luhich I have no faith. What m,ore distinguished end for 
 an incurable poseur? Have I not been called that? Plant, 
 I beg you, mignonette to encircle my arrowroot fields. 
 
 What has all this to do with the Sonnets from the Pata- 
 gonian? If you will read my tuords aright they will give 
 the key to my poems, should you, my beloved ffollis, still 
 lack a key. The volume when it first appeared was not 
 liked by divers nice people — it was thought nasty — but 
 none put it down till he liad finished it; a terror was oh 
 him lest he miss a word. And the terror was the Sword 
 of Beauty which slayeth all. Intrepidity .... 
 
 But you shall interpret the poems yourself. 
 
 DONALD EVANS. 
 
 I have broken my engagement to iu7'ite a preface^ but 
 have given you, gentle Reader, the Poet's letter instead. 
 
 CORNWALL H0LLI8. 
 
INDICES 
 
 Love in Patagonia 
 
 Love in Patagonia: p. 15 
 
 Portraits of Igor Vyvyan 
 
 In the Vices : p. 19 
 En Monocle : p. 20 
 
 Portrait of the Fan Fan 
 Loving Kindness : p. 23 
 
 Portrait of Mme. Hyssain 
 
 Theatre dii Nord : p. 27 
 
 Portrait: In Mbmoriam 
 Failure at Forty: p. 31 
 
 Portrait of a Gtentleman and a Lady 
 Aspens at Cresheim: p. 35 
 
PORTEAIT OF MiCHAEL PeTER 
 
 Birthday Piece No. 2 : p. 39 
 
 Portraits of Mabel Dodge 
 
 Her Smile: p. 43 
 
 The Last Dance at Dawn : p. 44 
 
 Portrait of Carl Van^ Vechten 
 In the Gentlemanly Interest : p. 47 
 
 Portraits of Louise Norton^ 
 Buvense d' Absinthe: p. 51 
 Extreme Unction: p. 52 
 The Jade Vase : p. 53 
 
 Portraits of the Autpior 
 
 Epicede : p. 57 
 In the Falklands: p. 58 
 The Noon of Mght: p. 59 
 Fifth Avenue: p. 60 
 
LOVE IN PATAGONIA 
 
 To 
 
 Carl Van V edit en 
 
LOVE IN PATAGONIA 
 
 FORGETTING her mauve vows the Fania fled, 
 Taking away her moonlight scarves with her- 
 There was no joy left in the calendar, 
 And life was but an orchid that was dead. 
 Even our pious peacocks went unfed — 
 I had deserved no treachery like this, 
 For I had bitten sharp kiss after kiss 
 DevoutW, till her sleek young body bled. 
 
 Then Carlo came ; he shone like a new sin — 
 Straightway I knew pearl-powder still was sweet, 
 And that my bleeding heart would not be scarred. 
 I sought a shop where shoes were sold within. 
 And for three hundred francs made brave my feet. 
 And then I danced along the boulevard ! 
 
 15 
 
PORTRAITS OF IGOR YYVYAN 
 
 To 
 
 Pitts Sanborn 
 
IN THE VICES 
 
 GAY and audacious crime glints in his eyes. 
 And his mad talk, raping the commonplace. 
 Gleefully runs a devil-praising race, 
 And none can ever follow where he flies. 
 He streaks himself with vices tenderly ; 
 He cradles sin, and with a figleaf fan 
 Taps his green cat, watching a bored sun span 
 The wasted minutes to eternity. 
 
 Once I took up his trail along the dark. 
 Wishful to track him to the witches' flame. 
 To see the bubbling of the sneer and snare. 
 The way led through a fragrant starlit park, 
 And soon upon a harlot's house I came — 
 Within I found him playing at solitaire ! 
 
 19 
 
EN MONOCLE 
 
 BOEN with a monocle he stares at life, 
 And sends his sonl on pensive promenades 
 He pays a high price for discarded gods, 
 And then regilds them to renew their strife. 
 His calm moustache points to the ironies, 
 And a fawn-coloured laugh sucks in the night, 
 Full of the riant mists that turn to white 
 In brief lost battles with banalities. 
 
 Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread 
 For blue pumps that are ardent for the air ; 
 Features are fixtures when the face is fled, 
 And we are left the husks of tarnished hair ; 
 But he is one who lusts uncomforted 
 To kiss the naked phrase, quite unaware. 
 
 20 
 
POKTRAIT OF THE FAN FAN 
 Imitatefl from "Discords'' 
 
 To 
 
 Donovan Blades 
 
LOVING KINDNESS 
 
 Moscow 
 
 HER flesh was lyrical and sweet to flog, 
 For the whip blanched her blood, though every vein 
 Flooded with hate shot a hot flow of pain, 
 And her screams were muffled by a brackish fog. 
 He loved her, yet his passion could but fret 
 Unless he lashed her to an awkward rage — 
 But when his hand wrote terror on her page 
 He knew exultant joy of feigned regret. 
 
 Theirs was a bond that poured the wine of fear. 
 And he drained her stiffened limbs with cruel art. 
 He taught her that all tenderness had fled 
 Till she would beg the hurt to taste the tear. 
 And when she bent to kiss her quivering heart 
 It lit a Chinese candle in his head. 
 
 23 
 
POETKAIT OF MME. HYSSAIN 
 
 To 
 
 John Darhy 
 
THEATRE DU NORD 
 
 Tashl-end 
 
 SHE was tired to tears, and yet there were no tears, 
 Only the dead seas of indifference 
 Meeting the languors of a nerveless sense. 
 For she had played the roles for twenty years. 
 The queen called for her satins, while the drab 
 Demanded love, and the wild hunger tore; 
 The woman raged to touch the flame once more. 
 But the worn-out emotions could not stab. 
 
 There were the thousand parts she had essayed, 
 And the three thousand gowns that she had worn. 
 Into the ragbag each frock found its flight. 
 Crumpled and ravished of a film-proud shade. 
 And every script is wandering forlorn, 
 Gnawed by the mirage of an opening night. 
 
 27 
 
PORTRAIT: IN MEMORIAM 
 
 To 
 
 Tlugh Camphell 
 
FAILURE AT FORTY 
 
 HE SAW there was no choice to left or right — 
 Time that had marked him for the least of sages 
 Pointed the hour, and several blotted pages 
 Stood witness to the struggle in the night. 
 Behind him lay a happiness that might 
 Have made him shine a figure through the ages ; 
 Before him loomed a toiling at mean wages, 
 Alternative to sinking out of sight. 
 
 This much was sure— he never need retrace ; 
 
 The leagues that he had travelled were an ending. 
 
 There wound no footpath to a sunlit place, 
 
 Where he might nurse his dreams, with peace attending. 
 
 No promised jo}^ would quicken the day's pace, 
 
 N'or write the past a blunder still worth mending. 
 
 31 
 
PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN AND 
 A LADY 
 
 To 
 
 Enid ^Yelsh 
 
ASPENS AT CRESHEIM 
 
 SHE liad become a stranger suddenly, 
 Just as all men were strangers ; then he knew 
 Why she must be an alien — even she !' 
 Since there was nought her human love could do 
 To give him the last access to her soul. 
 Returning came his years as wholly vain — 
 Repeated payment of inutile toll 
 To reach a shrine he would not seek again. 
 
 It scarcely left him sad to find how wrong 
 Had been his vision of won womanhood — 
 This yearning ache that he had held so long 
 For a full mingling of their separate blood. 
 Freed, solitary now, with unscared eyes 
 He gazed anew at life safe from surprise ! 
 
 S5 
 
rORTRAIT OF MICHAEL PETER 
 
 To 
 
 Fania Marinoff 
 
BIRTHDAY PIECE NO. 2 
 
 THERE is what is and what there is is fair, 
 But most is yet to come- to what is here ; 
 Here is the most to come from out a 3'ear, 
 For from the year there comes all there is there. 
 Song for the minnow and a crystal pool, 
 And all is said of all there was to say, 
 Yet all must say the all, since every day 
 A nuptial kiss the wise man gives a fool. 
 
 An ear of corn from the blind red sunburnt earth 
 Blandly lies in the sun divinely green, 
 Diso^vTiing what the earth and sun have done. 
 Kisses and corn and a pool to crown the birth. 
 With once to come what never before has been, 
 And here is there what there is here begrm. 
 
 39 
 
POETEAITS OF MABEL DODGE 
 
 To 
 
 Louis Slier win 
 
IIEE SMILE 
 
 Laggan 
 
 HER hidden smile was full of little breasts, 
 And with her too white hands she stroked her fears^ 
 The while the serpent peered at her arched ears. 
 And night's grim hours stalked in, unbidden guests. 
 A noise was in her eyes that sang of scorn, 
 And round her voice there gleamed a nameless dread. 
 As though her lips were hungry for the dead, 
 Yet knew the food of dawn would be forlorn. 
 
 The cold hours ebbed, and still she held her throne; 
 Across the sky the lightning made mad play, 
 And then the scarlet screams stood forth revealed. 
 She turned her back, and grasped a monotone; 
 It answered all; she lived again that day 
 She triumphed in the tragic turnip field. 
 
 43 
 
THE LAST DANCE AT DAWN 
 
 Firenze 
 
 AND she was sad since she could not be sad. 
 And ever}^ star fled amorous from the sk}^ 
 ■ Her pampered knees fell under her keen e3'e 
 And it came to her she would not go mad. 
 The gaucheries were turning the last screw, 
 But there was still the island in the sea. 
 The harridan chorus of eternit}^, 
 That let her smile because he saw she knew. 
 
 She even dared be impudent again, 
 
 And bit his ear; the deaths were far away. 
 
 A Black Mass sounded from the treasure vaults — 
 
 She tried to rouge her heart, yet quite in vain. 
 
 The crucifix danced in, beribboned, gay, 
 
 And lisped to her a wish for the next waltz. 
 
 44 
 
PORTRAIT OF GAEL VAN VECHTEN 
 
 To 
 
 Gertrude Stein 
 
m THE GENTLEMANLY INTEEEST 
 Piccadilly 
 
 HE polished snubs till they were regnant art, 
 Cui'ling their shameless toilets round the hour. 
 Each lay upon his lips an exquisite flower 
 Subtly malign and poisoned for its part. 
 The path of victims was no wanton plan — 
 He had bowed his head in sorrow at his birth. 
 For he had said long ere he came to earth 
 That it was no place for a gentleman. 
 
 But always a heart-scald lurked behind the screen. 
 And somehow he missed the ultimate degrees. 
 He saw a beggar at the daylight^s fall 
 And then he rose and robbed him for the scene; 
 And when they called him cad he found release^ — - 
 He felt he had used the finest snub of all. 
 
 47 
 
PORTEAITS OF LOUISE NORTON 
 
 To 
 
 Donald Evans 
 
BUVEUSE D^ABSINTHE 
 Rue d' Aphrodite 
 
 HER voice was fleet-limbed and immaculate, 
 And like peach blossoms blown across the wind 
 Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind, 
 Hung with soft dawns that danced a shadow fete. 
 A silken silence crept up from the South, 
 The flutes were hushed that mimed the orange moon, 
 And down the willow stream m)'' sighs were strewn. 
 While I knelt to the corners of her mouth. 
 
 Lead me afar from clamorous dissonance, 
 For I am sick of empty trumpetings. 
 Choking the highways with a dusty noise. 
 Here I have found her sweet sheer utterance, 
 And now I seek the garden of the wings 
 Where I may bathe in sounds that life destroys. 
 
 51 
 
EXTEEME UNCTION 
 
 ACEOSS the rotting pads in the lily lake 
 Her gesture floated toward the iris bed, 
 • Wrapped in a whispered perfume of the dead. 
 And her gaze followed slowly in its wake. 
 Now was -the summons come she must obey, 
 For Beauty pleaded from the charnel house, 
 For violet nights and violent carouse 
 To free her from the cerements of decay. 
 
 Crapulous hands reach out to strangle thee. 
 And every moment is a winding-sheet. 
 With bats to chant corruption's litany. 
 Be thou a torch to flash fanfaronade, 
 And as the earth crumbles beneath thy feet 
 Flaunt thou the glitter of a new brocade ! 
 
 52 
 
THE JADE VASE 
 
 Pittsburgh 
 
 HE had hunted for it to the alley's end, 
 Yet when he found tlie jacle vase he was sad, 
 Low-pulsed with ennui for the praise he had 
 Poured into bowls that merely did not offend. 
 A wall of glass held back his worshipping, 
 And his eyes that drank this miracle of stone 
 Acknowledged the discovery not his own — • 
 Still the vase was there, and tliat was everything. 
 
 He thought back over all the songs he had sung. 
 And all the hours his heart like waving grain 
 Had swayed to music. And the joys now dead 
 Seemed haunting coins to meagre beauty flimg. 
 Poignantly he longed to call them back. In vain ! 
 But they were the last words that the poet said. 
 
 53 
 
PORTRAITS OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 To 
 
 Comic all Hollu 
 
EPICEDE 
 
 WISTFULLY shimmering, shamelessly wise and 
 weak, 
 He lives in pawn, pledging a battered name ; 
 He loves his failures as one might love fame, 
 And listens for the ghost years as they speak. 
 A fragrance bright and broken clasps his head. 
 And wildwood airs sing a frayed interlude. 
 While cloaked he comes in a new attitude 
 To play gravedigger if the word be said. 
 
 He swore he would be glad and only glad. 
 And turned to Broadway for the peace of God. 
 He found it at the bottom of the glass, 
 For where the dregs lay it was less than sad. 
 And mid the murmur when the dance was trod 
 He heard the echo of a genius pass. 
 
 57 
 
IN THE FALKLANDS 
 
 FOR his soul when homeless then is at home. 
 And in a paradise where shadows wane 
 He draws droll figures on the windowpane 
 To lure his vagrom fellow souls to Eome. 
 There is a potent rancour in the moon, 
 Hunting for those who love him still, three 
 Gleam back. But with detached anxiety 
 He vows that he will alienate them soon. 
 
 He said that love had but two words, the last 
 And first, and joy in flying laces lay. 
 He watched each kiss to kill it at stark ease — 
 His strangler's hands carve prayers for the past— 
 And chastely he spends an hour every day 
 Erecting tombstones to carnalities. 
 
 58 
 
THE XOON OF N"IGHT 
 
 THE fictive tear be holds in reverence. 
 And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek ; 
 It is a dim dominion he must seek. 
 To gain some raiment for his impotence. 
 Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings, 
 And barren smiles are trained for tragedy ; 
 He ties up parcels of mock gaiety. 
 And labels them with many worshippings. 
 
 Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste 
 
 At scattered sources of lost loveliness, 
 
 With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats. 
 
 He knows his gems are turned to glassy paste — 
 
 But he thanks God aloof from all distress, 
 
 For he knows sewers run beneath the city streets. 
 
 59 
 
FIFTH AVENUE 
 
 AND when discovery marred the best disguise 
 Pie winced a sigh^ bowed to a spoiled deceit, 
 ■ And donned the damask draperies of defeat 
 To woo dishonour as an enterprise. 
 Hisi self-betrayal had its tenderness 
 And reared an outland refuge for his pride. 
 For all were baffled telling how he lied, 
 Since more than any guessed he would confess. 
 
 He died a hero in Fifth Avenue 
 One yellowed day saving a tattered man. 
 But in the litter of his passing breath 
 A prayer lay lest one should misconstrue. 
 It was an accident — and he began 
 A last profound apology to death. 
 
 60 
 
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