The Singing Man A Book of Songs and Shadows

Excerpt

THE SINGING MAN

I

He sang above the vineyards of the world.
  And after him the vines with woven hands
Clambered and clung, and everywhere unfurled
  Triumphing green above the barren lands;
Till high as gardens grow, he climbed, he stood,
  Sun-crowned with life and strength, and singing toil,
And looked upon his work; and it was good:
        The corn, the wine, the oil.

He sang above the noon. The topmost cleft
  That grudged him footing on the mountain scars
He planted and despaired not; till he left
  His vines soft breathing to the host of stars.
He wrought, he tilled; and even as he sang,
  The creatures of his planting laughed to scorn
The ancient threat of deserts where there sprang
        The wine, the oil, the corn!

He sang not for abundance.—Over-lords
  Took of his tilth. Yet was there still to reap,
The portion of his labor; dear rewards
  Of sunlit day, and bread, and human sleep.
He sang for strength; for glory of the light.
  He dreamed above the furrows, 'They are mine!'
When all he wrought stood fair before his sight
        With corn, and oil, and wine.

    Truly, the light is sweet
      Yea, and a pleasant thing
        It is to see the Sun.
    And that a man should eat
        His bread that he hath won;—
    (So is it sung and said),
      That he should take and keep,
        After his laboring,
    The portion of his labor in his bread,
      His bread that he hath won;
      Yea, and in quiet sleep,
        When all is done.

He sang; above the burden and the heat,
  Above all seasons with their fitful grace;
Above the chance and change that led his feet
  To this last ambush of the Market-place.
'Enough for him,' they said—and still they say—
  'A crust, with air to breathe, and sun to shine;
He asks no more!'—Before they took away
        The corn, the oil, the wine.

He sang. No more he sings now, anywhere.
  Light was enough, before he was undone.
They knew it well, who took away the air,
  —Who took away the sun;
Who took, to serve their soul-devouring greed,
  Himself, his breath, his bread—the goad of toil;—
Who have and hold, before the eyes of Need,
        The corn, the wine,—the oil!

      Truly, one thing is sweet
      Of things beneath the Sun;
This, that a man should earn his bread and eat,
  Rejoicing in his work which he hath done.
      What shall be sung or said
        Of desolate deceit.
      When others take his bread;
      His and his children's bread?—
      And the laborer hath none.
This, for his portion now, of all that he hath done.
      He earns; and others eat.
    He starves;—they sit at meat
      Who have taken away the Sun.

II

Seek him now, that singing Man.
Look for him,
Look for him
In the mills,
In the mines;
Where the very daylight pines,—
He, who once did walk the hills...!