My Virtual Reading Room

The Dance Before The Arch

Windy April night-mist swept the Square ;
Lights among the leafage swayed and flashed;
Piquant bosky odors filled the air,
Piquant as a Maenad's flying hair
Late the dripping dogwood buds had lashed.
Then three fared forth together:
A wise old teacher of men,
A poet who laughed with the weather,
And a silent knight of the pen.
They walked in the rain-witched park
While the hours grew small and dark,
And their talk was light as a feather
That Bacchus blows at a mark.

All around, the city-sounds were whist ;
All about, where branches laughed and leapt,
Glints of eyes looked out into the mist,
Little, golden, dancing, rainbow-kissed :
Little shapes and shadows flashed and crept.
Then the sage: "O wonderful weather!
Strange, eerie!" Then he of the pen:
"The pixies are out all together :
Valpurgis Nacht — Bacchus — Amen !"
He waved his arms and inclined
His face to the night, joy-blind.
Then the poet : "Oh, pluck me a feather
From the stretched gray wing of the wind !"

Over asphalt polished by the rain,
Out of mist-swirls iris-splotched with light,
Loomed a sudden beauty, marble, plain,
Arched and sombre, fronting with disdain
All the springtime turmoil of that night.
Then the sage: "The old Arch, in this weather,
Needs garlands." Then he of the pen :
"The lost Roman thing! All together!
Get branches — we're Romans again!"
So they took each boughs in their hands,
Obeying the ancient commands,
When laurel put forth a green feather
And Proserpine gathered her bands.

They marched in a grave, wild measure,
They waved their boughs ;
They were austere-faced for pleasure
In the Spring's house.
The sharp wind gave them glee,
The wind with a tang of the sea ;
They drank it deep and at leisure
As a nobly offered rouse.
There were faint lights under their feet,
Each light with a halo of pearl ;
There were lights in the night around,
Each blown-mist-tressed like a girl.
Faster their feet beat,
With a quick, glad sound.
"Io, Bacchus! Honey-sweet!"
"Io, Proserpine!
O golden! O divine!
Loosed again from the ground!"

They lifted arms, they danced
With quick breath ;
Below, around, lights glanced
As life from death.
"Io, Proserpine is dead :
But the Spring lives !
Io, Bacchus, — where's he fled?
But the vine thrives !"
"Good hap to Aphrodite
And her doves' red feet:
Redder than new wine
Are the lips of my sweet !"
"Io, Spring!
Young, new!
Fairer for the vast
Passionate old past :
Io, Io, Spring
I sing, I sing!
I am drunk with wine, with wine and the Spring!"

They danced, they swayed,
The air sang
Under their boughs;
They laughed, they played
With the mist that stang
Their mid-carouse.
"Io, Spring's blood's on my face
And in my hair!"
"Io, Spring, magical maid,
For me forswear !"
"The vine buds red,
The willow gold,
The lady birch is white
And slim in the night :
Oh, make my bed
With white and gold and red,
Or ever the year grows old
And cold !
Io, Io!
And the tale of the frost is told !"

All around, the city-sounds were whist.
Over asphalt polished by the rain
Loomed the sombre Arch amid the mist ;
At its feet some boughs the Spring had kissed
Whispered to the driving wind's refrain.
Then three fared forth together:
A wise old teacher of men,
A poet who sang with the weather,
And a silent knight of the pen.
They went arm-linked from the park
That none be lost in the dark ;
And their hearts were light as a feather
That Bacchus blows at a mark.

By Allan Updegraff