VIII

Lights go out

And the stark trunks of the factories

Melt into the drawn darkness,

Sheathing like a seamless garment.

And mothers take home their babies,

Waxen and delicately curled,

Like little potted flowers closed under the stars.

Lights go out

And the young men shut their eyes,

But life turns in them...

Life in the cramped ova

Tearing and rending asunder its living cells...

Wars, arts, discoveries, rebellions, travails, immolations, cataclysms, hates...

Pent in the shut flesh.

And the young men twist on their beds in languor and dizziness unsupportable...

Their eyes — heavy and dimmed

With dust of long oblivions in the gray pulp behind —

Staring as through a choked glass.

And they gaze at the moon — throwing off a faint heat —

The moon, blond and burning, creeping to their cots

Softly, as on naked feet...

Lolling on the coverlet... like a woman offering her white body.

Nude glory of the moon!

That leaps like an athlete on the bosoms of the young girls stripped of their linens;

Stroking their breasts that are smooth and cool as mother-of-pearl

Till the nipples tingle and burn as though little lips plucked at them.

They shudder and grow faint.

And their ears are filled as with a delirious rhapsody,

That Life, like a drunken player,

Strikes out of their clear white bodies

As out of ivory keys.

Lights go out...

And the great lovers linger in little groups, still passionately debating,

Or one may walk in silence, listening only to the still summons of Life —

Life making the great Demand...

Calling its new Christs...

Till tears come, blurring the stars

That grow tender and comforting like the eyes of comrades;

And the moon rolls behind the Battery

Like a word molten out of the mouth of God.

Lights go out...

And colors rush together,

Fusing and floating away...

Pale worn gold like the settings of old jewels...

Mauves, exquisite, tremulous, and luminous purples

And burning spires in aureoles of light

Like shimmering auras.

They are covering up the pushcarts...

Now all have gone save an old man with mirrors —

Little oval mirrors like tiny pools.

He shuffles up a darkened street

And the moon burnishes his mirrors till they shine like phosphorus...

The moon like a skull,

Staring out of eyeless sockets at the old men trundling home the pushcarts.