Daniel Boone
1735-1820 When Daniel Boone goes by, at night, The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.
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There were three stout pillars that held up all The weight and tradition of Wingate Hall. One was Cudjo and one was you And the third was the mistress, Mary Lou. Mary Lou Wingate, as slightly made And as hard to break as a rapier-blade. Bristol's daughter and Wingate's bride, Never well since the last child died But staring at pain with courteous eyes. When the pain outwits it, the body dies, Meanwhile the body bears the pain. She loved her hands and they made her vain, The tiny hands of her generation That gathered the reins of the whole plantation; The velvet sheathing the steel demurely In the trained, light grip that holds so surely. She was at work by candlelight, She was at work in the dead of night, Smoothing out troubles and healing schisms And doctoring phthisics and rheumatisms, Guiding the cooking and watching the baking, The sewing, the soap-and-candle-making, The brewing, the darning, the lady-daughters, The births and deaths in the negro-quarters, Seeing that Suke had some new, strong shoes And Joe got a week in the calaboose, While Dicey's Jacob escaped a whipping And the jellybag dripped with its proper dripping, And the shirts and estrangements were neatly mended, And all of the tasks that never ended. Her manner was gracious but hardly fervent And she seldom raised her voice to a servant. She was often mistaken, not often blind, And she knew the whole duty of womankind, To take the burden and have the power And seem like the well-protected flower, To manage a dozen industries With a casual gesture in scraps of ease, To hate the sin and to love the sinner And to see that the gentlemen got their dinner Ready and plenty and piping-hot Whether you wanted to eat or not. And always, always, to have the charm That makes the gentlemen take your arm But never the bright, unseemly spell That makes strange gentlemen love too well, Once you were married and settled down With a suitable gentleman of your own. And when that happened, and you had bred The requisite children, living and dead, To pity the fool and comfort the weak And always let the gentlemen speak, To succor your love from deep-struck roots When gentlemen went to bed in their boots, And manage a gentleman's whole plantation In the manner befitting your female station. This was the creed that her mother taught her And the creed that she taught to every daughter. She knew her Bible—and how to flirt With a swansdown fan and a brocade skirt. For she trusted in God but she liked formalities And the world and Heaven were both realities. —In Heaven, of course, we should all be equal, But, until we came to that golden sequel, Gentility must keep to gentility Where God and breeding had made things stable, While the rest of the cosmos deserved civility But dined in its boots at the second-table. This view may be reckoned a trifle narrow, But it had the driving force of an arrow, And it helped Mary Lou to stand up straight, For she was gentle, but she could hate And she hated the North with the hate of Jael When the dry hot hands went seeking the nail, The terrible hate of women's ire, The smoky, the long-consuming fire. The Yankees were devils, and she could pray, For devils, no doubt, upon Judgment Day, But now in the world, she would hate them still And send the gentlemen out to kill. The gentlemen killed and the gentlemen died, But she was the South's incarnate pride That mended the broken gentlemen And sent them out to the war again, That kept the house with the men away And baked the bricks where there was no clay, Made courage from terror and bread from bran And propped the South on a swansdown fan Through four long years of ruin and stress, The pride—and the deadly bitterness. Let us look at her now, let us see her plain, She will never be quite like this again. Her house is rocking under the blast And she hears it tremble, and still stands fast, But this is the last, this is the last. The last of the wine and the white corn meal, The last high fiddle singing the reel, The last of the silk with the Paris label, The last blood-thoroughbred safe in the stable —Yellow corn meal and a jackass colt, A door that swings on a broken bolt, Brittle old letters spotted with tears And a wound that rankles for fifty years— This is the last of Wingate Hall, The last bright August before the Fall, Death has been near, and Death has passed, But this is the last, this is the last. There will be hope, and a scratching pen, There will be cooking for tired men, The waiting for news with shut, hard fists, And the blurred, strange names in the battle-lists, The April sun and the April rain, But never this day come back again.
1735-1820 When Daniel Boone goes by, at night, The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.
It rained a lot that spring. You woke in the morning And saw the sky still clouded, the streets still wet, But nobody noticed so much, except the taxis And the people who parade. You don't, in a city. The parks got very green. All the trees were green Far into July and August, heavy with leaf, Heavy with leaf and the long roots boring and spreading, But nobody noticed that but the city gardeners And they don't talk. Oh, on Sundays, perhaps you'd notice: Walking through certain blocks, by the shut, proud houses With the windows boarded, the people gone away, You'd suddenly see the queerest small shoots of green Poking through cracks and crevices in the stone And a bird-sown flower, red on a balcony, But then you made jokes about grass growing in the streets And gags and a musical show called "Hot and Wet." It made a good box for the papers. When the flamingo Flew into a meeting of the Board of Estimate, The new mayor acted at once and called the photographers. When the first green creeper crawled upon Brooklyn Bridge, They thought it was ornamental. They let it stay. That was the year the termites came to New York And they don't do well in cold climates—but listen, Joe, They're only ants, and ants are nothing but insects. It was funny and yet rather wistful, in a way (As Heywood Broun pointed out in the World-Telegram) To think of them looking for wood in a steel city. It made you feel about life. It was too divine. There were funny pictures by all the smart, funny artists And Macy's ran a terribly clever ad: "The Widow's Termite" or something. There was no Disturbance. Even the Communists didn't protest And say they were Morgan hirelings. It was too hot, Too hot to protest, too hot to get excited, An even African heat, lush, fertile and steamy, That soaked into bone and mind and never once broke. The warm rain fell in fierce showers and ceased and fell. Pretty soon you got used to its always being that way. You got used to the changed rhythm, the altered beat, To people walking slower, to the whole bright Fierce pulse of the city slowing, to men in shorts, To the new sun-helmets from Best's and the cop's white uniforms, And the long noon-rest in the offices, everywhere. It wasn't a plan or anything. It just happened. The fingers tapped slower, the office-boys Dozed on their benches, the bookkeeper yawned at his desk. The A. T. & T. was the first to change the shifts And establish an official siesta-room; But they were always efficient. Mostly it just Happened like sleep itself, like a tropic sleep, Till even the Thirties were deserted at noon Except for a few tourists and one damp cop. They ran boats to see the big lilies on the North River But it was only the tourists who really noticed The flocks of rose-and-green parrots and parakeets Nesting in the stone crannies of the Cathedral. The rest of us had forgotten when they first came. There wasn't any real change, it was just a heat spell, A rain spell, a funny summer, a weather-man's joke, In spite of the geraniums three feet high In the tin-can gardens of Hester and Desbrosses. New York was New York. It couldn't turn inside out. When they got the news from Woods Hole about the Gulf Stream, The Times ran a adequate story. But nobody reads those stories but science-cranks. Until, one day, a somnolent city-editor Gave a new cub the termite yarn to break his teeth on. The cub was just down from Vermont, so he took his time. He was serious about it. He went around. He read all about termites in the Public Library And it made him sore when they fired him. So, one evening, Talking with an old watchman, beside the first Raw girders of the new Planetopolis Building (Ten thousand brine-cooled offices, each with shower) He saw a dark line creeping across the rubble And turned a flashlight on it. "Say, buddy," he said, "You'd better look out for those ants. They eat wood, you know, They'll have your shack down in no time." The watchman spat. "Oh, they've quit eating wood," he said, in a casual voice, "I thought everybody knew that." —and, reaching down, He pried from the insect jaws the bright crumb of steel.
(For, though not to, D. M. C.)
The member with the face like a pale ham
Settles his stomachs in the leather chair.
The member with the mustard-color hair
Chats with the member like a curly ram,
Then silence like the shutting of a clam,
Gulps, and slow eating, and the waiters’ stare—
Like prosperous leeches settling to their fare
The members gorge, distending as they cram.
And I am fiery ice—and a hand knocks
Inside my heart. Three hours till God comes true,
When there’s no earth or sky or time in clocks
But only hell and paradise and you.
Life bows his strings! I shout the amazing tune!
…The dullest member drops his coffee spoon.