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He'll out of 'em enough to shake the tree
Of life itself and bring down fruit unheard…of；
And； throwing in the bruised and whole together；
Prepare a wine to make us drunk with wonder；
And if he live； there'll be a sunset spell
Thrown over him as over a glassed lake
That yesterday was all a black wild water。
God send he live to give us； if no more；
What now's a…rampage in him； and exhibit；
With a decent half…allegiance to the ages
An earnest of at least a casual eye
Turned once on what he owes to Gutenberg；
And to the fealty of more centuries
Than are as yet a picture in our vision。
〃There's time enough； I'll do it when I'm old；
And we're immortal men；〃 he says to that；
And then he says to me； 〃Ben； what's ‘immortal'？
Think you by any force of ordination
It may be nothing of a sort more noisy
Than a small oblivion of component ashes
That of a dream…addicted world was once
A moving atomy much like your friend here？〃
Nothing will help that man。 To make him laugh；
I said then he was a mad mountebank；
And by the Lord I nearer made him cry。
I could have eat an eft then； on my knees；
Tail； claws； and all of him； for I had stung
The king of men； who had no sting for me；
And I had hurt him in his memories；
And I say now； as I shall say again；
I love the man this side idolatry。
He'll do it when he's old； he says。 I wonder。
He may not be so ancient as all that。
For such as he； the thing that is to do
Will do itself； but there's a reckoning；
The sessions that are now too much his own；
The roiling inward of a stilled outside；
The churning out of all those blood…fed lines；
The nights of many schemes and little sleep；
The full brain hammered hot with too much thinking；
The vexed heart over…worn with too much aching；
This weary jangling of conjoined affairs
Made out of elements that have no end；
And all confused at once； I understand；
Is not what makes a man to live forever。
O no； not now！ He'll not be going now：
There'll be time yet for God knows what explosions
Before he goes。 He'll stay awhile。 Just wait：
Just wait a year or two for Cleopatra；
For she's to be a balsam and a comfort；
And that's not all a jape of mine now； either。
For granted once the old way of Apollo
Sings in a man； he may then； if he's able；
Strike unafraid whatever strings he will
Upon the last and wildest of new lyres；
Nor out of his new magic； though it hymn
The shrieks of dungeoned hell； shall he create
A madness or a gloom to shut quite out
A cleaving daylight； and a last great calm
Triumphant over shipwreck and all storms。
He might have given Aristotle creeps；
But surely would have given him his ‘katharsis'。
He'll not be going yet。 There's too much yet
Unsung within the man。 But when he goes；
I'd stake ye coin o' the realm his only care
For a phantom world he sounded and found wanting
Will be a portion here； a portion there；
Of this or that thing or some other thing
That has a patent and intrinsical
Equivalence in those egregious shillings。
And yet he knows； God help him！ Tell me； now；
If ever there was anything let loose
On earth by gods or devils heretofore
Like this mad； careful； proud； indifferent Shakespeare！
Where was it； if it ever was？ By heaven；
'Twas never yet in Rhodes or Pergamon
In Thebes or Nineveh； a thing like this！
No thing like this was ever out of England；
And that he knows。 I wonder if he cares。
Perhaps he does。 。 。 。 O Lord； that House in Stratford！
Eros Turannos
She fears him； and will always ask
What fated her to choose him；
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him；
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years；
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age； were she to lose him。
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him；
And Love； that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him；
Her pride assuages her almost；
As if it were alone the cost。
He sees that he will not be lost；
And waits and looks around him。
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him；
Tradition； touching all he sees；
Beguiles and reassures him；
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed of what she knows of days
Till even prejudice delays
And fades； and she secures him。
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion；
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion；
And home； where passion lived and died；
Becomes a place where she can hide；
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion。
We tell you； tapping on our brows；
The story as it should be；
As if the story of a house
Were told； or ever could be；
We'll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen；
As if we guessed what hers have been；
Or what they are or would be。
Meanwhile we do no harm； for they
That with a god have striven；
Not hearing much of what we say；
Take what the god has given；
Though like waves breaking it may be；
Or like a changed familiar tree；
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven。
Old Trails
（Washington Square）
I met him； as one meets a ghost or two；
Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel。
〃King Solomon was right； there's nothing new；〃
Said he。 〃Behold a ruin who meant well。〃
He led me down familiar steps again；
Appealingly； and set me in a chair。
〃My dreams have all come true to other men；〃
Said he； 〃God lives； however； and why care？
〃An hour among the ghosts will do no harm。〃
He laughed； and something glad within me sank。
I may have eyed him with a faint alarm；
For now his laugh was lost in what he drank。
〃They chill things here with ice from hell；〃 he said；
〃I might have known it。〃 And he made a face
That showed again how much of him was dead；
And how much was alive and out of place；
And out of reach。 He knew as well as I
That all the words of wise men who are skilled
In using them are not much to defy
What comes when memory meets the unfulfilled。
What evil and infirm perversity
Had been at work with him to bring him back？
Never among the ghosts； assuredly；
Would he originate a new attack；
Never among the ghosts； or anywhere；
Till what was dead of him was put away；
Would he attain to his offended share
Of honor among others of his day。
〃You ponder like an owl；〃 he said at last；
〃You always did； and here you have a cause。
For I'm a confirmation of the past；
A vengeance； and a flowering of what was。
〃Sorry？ Of course you are； though you compress；
With even your most impenetrable fears；
A placid and a proper consciousness
Of anxious angels over my arrears。
〃I see them there against me in a book
As large as hope； in ink that shines by night。
For sure I see； but now I'd rather look
At you