Conrad Aiken

HE IMAGINES THAT HIS PUPPET HAS A DARK DREAM AND HEARS VOICES

First Voice

From Punch, the Immortal Liar

Pave the sky with stars for Punch!
And snare in flowers a moon for him-
With white rose-trees and apple-trees,
And cherubim and seraphim!

Second Voice

Third Voice

Look! he comes! how tall he is!
A crown of fire is on his head;
The sky unrolls before his feet,
Green mountains fear his tread.

The meteors now like dolphins dive
Into the white wave of the sky;

Blue moons and stars around him sing,
And suns triumphant cry!

Build a house of gold for Punch,
Of gold without and silk within;

With floors of glass-and let there be
For ever there a silver din

Of music's many instruments

In slow and low amazement heard:

In every window-niche a cage,

In every cage a singing bird.

Build it in a kingdom far:

In a forest green and deep;
Where no tears nor sorrows are,
But only song and sleep.

There to the noise of wind in trees
And many rivers winding down,
Let him forget the cares of earth
And nod a kingly crown!

Fourth Voice

Like a tower of brass is Punch,

Fifth Voice

And great and stately is his pace;

There is no other as tall as he--
None with so fair a face.

Fall down, fall down, you kings of men—
Fall down before him! This is he

For whom the moon pursues her ghost

And demons bend the knee.

Woe unto you, you miscreants

Who dare the lightnings of his eyes!

His hand, how strong! His wrath, how just!
His brow, how white and wise!

Solomon, clown, put by your crown;
And Judas, break your tree:

Seal up your tomb and burn your cross,
Jesus of Galilee!

For here walks one who makes you seem

But atoms that creep in grass:

You are the pageant of his dream,

And he will bid you pass.

Let Rome go over the earth in gold

With trumpets harshly blown!

For here comes one whose splendor burns
More gloriously, alone.

Heliogabalus, laugh your last!

Queen Sappho, lie you down!

Sixth Voice

Punch the immortal shakes the seas
And takes the sun for crown.

Sheba, now let down your hair

And play upon it with your hands,
While girls from Tal and Mozambique
Parade before in sarabands.

Play him songs inaudible

With white hands braceleted and slim,
Or shake your hair and let it fall
And softly darken him.

Cling to him, while cymbals far
Are sweetly smitten in the dusk,
And mænads, under a haughty star,
Break the white rose for its musk:

Cling to him, with your lips

Feed his heart on crumbs of fire
That shall, perpetually, delight,
But never slay desire!

Seventh Voice

Open a window on the world

With all its sorrow, and then

When he has heard that sound a space,

Close it fast again. . . .

Sweet will it be, lapped round with ease

And music-troubled air,

To hear for a moment on the wind

A sound of far despair;

And then to turn to lights again,

And fingers soft on strings,

While Sheba slips her bracelets off

And spreads her arms and sings.

Sweet will it be, to hear far off
That gusty sound of pain,
And to remember, far away,

A world of death and rain;

And then, to close the window fast,

And laugh, and clap soft hands,

While girls from Tal and Mozambique

Parade in sarabands.

Close now the window! Close it well! . . .

That slow lament of pain

Was but the dissonance that makes
Dull music sweet again.

Eighth Voice

Death, you will wear a chain of gold,
And wreaths of roses white and red;
And night-long will you dance for him
With garlands on your head.

Bring a cup and pour him wine,

And dance for him; for this is he

Who plays a jocund tune for you
But will not set you free.

Or go with thongs to scourge the world
And lay it waste; and then come back
To sorrow before him in a cage
And garb yourself in black.

A cage of gold he keeps for you! . . .
There he will watch you dance,
And fill his cup, immortally,
And laugh at circumstance.

Ninth Voice

There is a fountain in a wood
Where wavering lies a moon:

It plays to the slowly falling leaves
A sleepy tune.

. . . The peach-trees lean upon a wall
Of gold and ivory;

The peacock spreads his tail, the leaves
Fall silently...

There, amid silken sounds and wine
And music idly broken,

The drowsy god observes his world
With no word spoken.

Arcturus, rise! Orion, fall! ..
The white-winged stars obey
Or else he greets his Fellow-God;
And there, in the dusk, they play

A game of chess with stars for pawns
And a silver moon for queen:
Immeasurable as clouds above
A chess-board world they lean,

And thrust their hands amid their beards,

And utter words profound

That shake the star-swung firmament

With a fateful sound! . . .

The peach-trees lean upon a wall

Of gold and ivory;

The peacock spreads his tail; the leaves Fall silently. . .