Ode: In A Restaurant

        In this dense hall of green and gold,
        Mirrors and lights and steam, there sit
        Two hundred munching men;
        While several score of others flit
        Like scurrying beetles over a fen,
        With plates in fanlike spread; or fold
        Napkins, or jerk the corks from bottles,
        Ministers to greedy throttles.
        Some make noises while they eat,
        Pick their teeth or shuffle their feet,
        Wipe their noses 'neath eyes that range
        Or frown whilst waiting for their change.
        Gobble, gobble, toil and trouble.
        Soul! this life is very strange,
        And circumstances very foul
        Attend the belly's stormy howl.
    How horrible this noise! this air how thick!
    It is disgusting ... I feel sick...
    Loosely I prod the table with a fork,
    My mind gapes, dizzies, ceases to work...

        *    *    *    *    *

        The weak unsatisfied strain
        Of a band in another room;
        Through this dull complex din
        Comes winding thin and sharp!
        The gnat-like mourning of the violin,
        The faint stings of the harp.
        The sounds pierce in and die again,
    Like keen-drawn threads of ink dropped into a glass
    Of water, which curl and relax and soften and pass.
    Briefly the music hovers in unstable poise,
    Then melts away, drowned in the heavy sea of noise.
        And I, I am now emasculate.
        All my forces dissipate;
        Conquered by matter utterly,
        Moving not, willing not, I lie,
        Like a man whom timbers pin
        When the roof of a mine falls in.

        Halt! ... as a cloud condenses
        I press my mind, recover
        Dominion of my senses.
        With newly flowing blood
        I lift, and now float over
        The restaurant's expanses
    Like a draggled sea-gull over dreary flats of mud.
        An effort ... ah ... I urge and push,
        And now with greater strength I flush,
        The hall is full of my pinions' rush;
        No drooping now, the place is mine,
        Beating the walls with shattering wings,
        Over the herd my spirit swings,
        In triumph shouts "Aha, you swine!
        Grovel before your lord divine!
        I, only I, am real here! ..."
        Through the uncertain firmament,
        Still bestial in their dull content.
        The despicable phantoms leer...
        Hogs! even now in my right hand
        I hold at my will the thunderbolts
        Measured not in mortal volts,
        Would crash you to annihilation!
        Lit with a new illumination,
        What need I of ears and eyes
        Of flesh?    Imperious I will rise,
        Dominate you as a god
    Who only does not trouble to wield the rod
        Of death, or kick your weak spheroid
        Like a football through the void!

        *    *    *    *    *

        Ha! was it but a dream?
        And did it merely seem?
        Ha! not yet free of your cage,
        Soul, spite of all your rage?
        Come now, this foe engage!
        With explosion of your might
        Oh heave, oh leap and flash up, soul.
        Like a stabbing scream in the night!
        Hurl aside this useless bowl
        Of a body...
                    But there comes a shock
        A soft, tremendous shock
    Of contact with the body; I lose all power,
    And fall back, back, like a solitary rower
    Whose prow that debonair the waves did ride
    Is suddenly hurled back by an iron tide.
    O sadness, sadness, feel the returning pain
    Of touch with unescapable mortal things again!
        The cloth is linen, the floor is wood,
        My plate holds cheese, my tumbler toddy;
        I cannot get free of the body,
        And no man ever could.

            *    *    *    *    *

        Self! do not lose your hold on life,
        Nor coward seek to shrink the strife
        Of body and spirit; even now
        (Not for the first time), even now
        Clear in your ears has rung the message
        That tense abstraction is the passage
        To nervelessness and living death.
        Never forget while you draw breath
        That all the hammers of will can never
        Your chainèd soul from matter sever;
        And though it be confused and mixed,
        This is the world in which you're fixed.
        Never despise the things that are.
        Set your teeth upon the grit.
        Though your heart like a motor beat,
        Hold fast this earthly star,
        The whole of it, the whole of it.

        Look on this crowd now, calm now, look.
        Remember now that each one drew
        Woman's milk (which you partook)
        And year by year in wonder grew.
        Scorn not them, nor scorn not their feasts
        (Which you partake) nor call them beasts.
        These be children of one Power
        With you, nor higher you nor lower.
        They also hear the harp and fiddle,
        And sometimes quail before the riddle.
        They also have hot blood, quick thought,
        And try to do the things they ought,
        They also have hearts that ache when stung.
        And sigh for days when they were young,
        And curse their wills because they falter,
        And know that they will never alter.
        See these men in a world of men.
        Material bodies?, yes, what then?
        These coarse trunks that here you see
        Judge them not, lest judged you be,
        Bow not to the moment's curse,
        Nor make four walls a universe.
        Think of these bodies here assembled,
        Whence they have come, where they have trembled
        With the strange force that fills us all.
        Men and beasts both great and small.
        Here within this fleeting home
        Two hundred men have this day come;
        Here collected for one day,
        Each shall go his separate way.
        Self, you can imagine nought
        Of all the battles they have fought,
        All the labours they have done,
        All the journeys they have run.
        O, they have come from all the world,
        Borne by invisible currents, swirled
        Like leaves into this vortex here
        Flying, or like the spirits drear
        Windborne and frail, whom Dante saw,
        Who yet obeyed some hidden law.

            *    *    *    *    *

        Is it not miraculous
        That they should here be gathered thus,
        All to be spread before your view,
        Who are strange to them as they to you?
    Soul, how can you sustain without a sob,
    The lightest thought of this titanic throb
        Of earthly life, that swells and breaks
        Into leaping scattering waves of fire,
    Into tameless tempests of effort and storms of desire
        That eternally makes
    The confused glittering armies of humankind,
        To their own heroism blind,
    Swarm over the earth to build, to dig, and to till,
    To mould and compel land and sea to their will...
    Whence we are here eating...
        Standing here as on a high hill,
    Strain, my imagination, strain forth to embrace
    The energies that labour for this place,
    This place, this instant.    Beyond your island's verge,
    Listen, and hear the roaring impulsive surge,
    The clamour of voices, the blasting of powder, the clanging of steel,
    The thunder of hammers, the rattle of oars...
        For this one meal
    Ten thousand Indian hamlets stored their yields,
    Manchurian peasants sweltered in their fields,
    And Greeks drove carts to Patras, and lone men
    Saw burning summer come and go again
    And huddled from the winds of winter on
    The fertile deserts of Saskatchewan.
    To fabricate these things have been marchings and slaughters,
    The sun has toiled and the moon has moved the waters,
    Cities have laboured, and crowded plains, and deep in the earth
    Men have plunged unafraid with ardour to wrench the worth
    Of sweating dim-lit caverns, and paths have been hewn
    Through forests where for uncounted years nor sun nor moon
    Have penetrated, men have driven straight shining rails
    Through the dense bowels of mountains, and climbed their frozen tops, and wrinkled sailors have shouted at shouting gales
    In the huge Pacific, and battled around the Horn
    And gasping, coasted to Rio, and turning towards the morn,
    Fought over the wastes to Spain, and battered and worn,
    Sailed up the Channel, and on into the Nore
    To the city of masts and the smoky familiar shore.

    So, so of every substance you see around
        Might a tale be unwound
    Of perils passed, of adventurous journeys made
    In man's undying and stupendous crusade.
        This flower of man's energies Trade
        Brought hither to hand and lip
        By waggon, train or ship,
        Each atom that we eat....
        Stare at the wine, stare at the meat.
        The mutton which these platters fills
        Grazed upon a thousand hills;
        This bread so square and white and dry
        Once was corn that sang to the sky;
        And all these spruce, obedient wines
        Flowed from the vatted fruit of vines
        That trailed, a bright maternal host,
        The warm Mediterranean coast,
        Or spread their Bacchic mantle on
        That Iberian Helicon
        Where the slopes of Portugal
        Crown the Atlantic's eastern wall.

    O mighty energy, never-failing flame!
    O patient toils and journeys in the name
    Of Trade!    No journey ever was the same
    As another, nor ever came again one task;
    And each man's face is an ever-changing mask.
    From the minutest cell to the lordliest star
    All things are unique, though all of their kindred are.
    And though all things exist for ever, all life is change,
    And the oldest passions come to each heart in a garment strange.
    Though life be as brief as a flower and the body but dust,
    Man walks the earth holding both body and spirit in trust;
    And the various glories of sense are spread for his delight,
    New pageants glow in the sunset, new stars are born in the night,
    And clouds come every day, and never a shape recurs,
    And the grass grows every year, yet never the same blade stirs
    Another spring, and no delving man breaks again the self-same clod
    As he did last year though he stand once more where last year he trod.
    O wonderful procession fore-ordained by God!
    Wonderful in unity, wonderful in diversity.
        Contemplate it, soul, and see
    How the material universe moves and strives with anguish and glee!

        *    *    *    *    *

        I was born for that reason,
        With muscles, heart and eyes,
        To watch each following season,
        To work and to be wise;
        Not body and mind to tether
        To unseen things alone,
        But to traverse together
        The known and the unknown.
        My muscles were not welded
        To waste away in sleep,
        My bones were never builded
        To throw upon a heap.
        "Man worships God in action,"
        Senses and reason call,
        "And thought is putrefaction,
        If thought is all in all!"

    Most of the guests are gone; look over there,
    Against a pillar leans with absent air
    A tall, dark, pallid waiter.    There he stands
    Limply, with vacant eyes and listless hands.
    He dreams of some small Tyrolean town,
    A church, a bridge, a stream that rushes down.
    A frustrate, hankering man, this one short time
    Unconscious he into my gaze did climb;
    He sinks again, again he is but one
    Of many myriads underneath the sun,
    Now faint, now vivid....    How puzzling is it all!
    For now again, in spite of all,
    The lights, the chairs, the diners, and the hall
    Lose their opacity.
                        Fool! exert your will,
    Finish your whisky up, and pay your bill.