Orlie Wilde

A goddess, with a siren's grace, -     A sun-haired girl on a craggy place     Above a bay where fish-boats lay     Drifting about like birds of prey.     Wrought was she of a painter's dream, -     Wise only as are artists wise,     My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem,     With deep sad eyes of oversize,     And face of melancholy guise.     I pressed him that he tell to me     This masterpiece's history.     He turned - REturned - and thus beguiled     Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde: -     "We artists live ideally:     We breed our firmest facts of air;     We make our own reality -     We dream a thing and it is so.     The fairest scenes we ever see     Are mirages of memory;     The sweetest thoughts we ever know     We plagiarize from Long Ago:     And as the girl on canvas there     Is marvelously rare and fair,     'Tis only inasmuch as she     Is dumb and may not speak to me!"     He tapped me with his mahlstick - then     The picture, - and went on again:     "Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child -     I see her yet, as fair and mild     As ever nursling summer day     Dreamed on the bosom of the bay:     For I was twenty then, and went     Alone and long-haired - all content     With promises of sounding name     And fantasies of future fame,     And thoughts that now my mind discards     As editor a fledgling bard's.     "At evening once I chanced to go,     With pencil and portfolio,     Adown the street of silver sand     That winds beneath this craggy land,     To make a sketch of some old scurf     Of driftage, nosing through the surf     A splintered mast, with knarl and strand     Of rigging-rope and tattered threads     Of flag and streamer and of sail     That fluttered idly in the gale     Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds.     The while I wrought, half listlessly,     On my dismantled subject, came     A sea-bird, settling on the same     With plaintive moan, as though that he     Had lost his mate upon the sea;     And - with my melancholy trend -     It brought dim dreams half understood -     It wrought upon my morbid mood, -     I thought of my own voyagings     That had no end - that have no end. -     And, like the sea-bird, I made moan     That I was loveless and alone.     And when at last with weary wings     It went upon its wanderings,     With upturned face I watched its flight     Until this picture met my sight:     A goddess, with a siren's grace, -     A sun-haired girl on a craggy place     Above a bay where fish-boats lay     Drifting about like birds of prey.     "In airy poise she, gazing, stood     A machless form of womanhood,     That brought a thought that if for me     Such eyes had sought across the sea,     I could have swum the widest tide     That ever mariner defied,     And, at the shore, could on have gone     To that high crag she stood upon,     To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet,     Behold thy servant at thy feet.'     And to my soul I said:    'Above,     There stands the idol of thy love!'     "In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state     I gazed - till lo! I was aware     A fisherman had joined her there -     A weary man, with halting gait,     Who toiled beneath a basket's weight:     Her father, as I guessed, for she     Had run to meet him gleefully     And ta'en his burden to herself,     That perched upon her shoulder's shelf     So lightly that she, tripping, neared     A jutting crag and disappeared;     But she left the echo of a song     That thrills me yet, and will as long     As I have being! . . .                 . . . "Evenings came     And went, - but each the same - the same:     She watched above, and even so     I stood there watching from below;     Till, grown so bold at last, I sung, -     (What matter now the theme thereof!) -     It brought an answer from her tongue -     Faint as the murmur of a dove,     Yet all the more the song of love. . . .     "I turned and looked upon the bay,     With palm to forehead - eyes a-blur     In the sea's smile - meant but for her! -     I saw the fish-boats far away     In misty distance, lightly drawn     In chalk-dots on the horizon -     Looked back at her, long, wistfully; -     And, pushing off an empty skiff,     I beckoned her to quit the cliff     And yield me her rare company     Upon a little pleasure-cruise. -     She stood, as loathful to refuse,     To muse for full a moment's time, -     Then answered back in pantomime     'She feared some danger from the sea     Were she discovered thus with me.'     I motioned then to ask her if     I might not join her on the cliff     And back again, with graceful wave     Of lifted arm, she anwer gave     'She feared some danger from the sea.'     "Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I     Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-by'     From pouted mouth with angry hand,     And madly pulled away from land     With lusty stroke, despite that she     Held out her hands entreatingly:     And when far out, with covert eye     I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly     In reckless haste adown the crag,     Her hair a-flutter like a flag     Of gold that danced across the strand     In little mists of silver sand.     All curious I, pausing, tried     To fancy what it all implied, -     When suddenly I found my feet     Were wet; and, underneath the seat     On which I sat, I heard the sound     Of gurgling waters, and I found     The boat aleak alarmingly. . . .     I turned and looked upon the sea,     Whose every wave seemed mocking me;     I saw the fishers' sails once more -     In dimmer distance than before;     I saw the sea-bird wheeling by,     With foolish wish that I could fly:     I thought of firm earth, home and friends -     I thought of everything that tends     To drive a man to frenzy and     To wholly lose his own command;     I thought of all my waywardness -     Thought of a mother's deep distress;     Of youthful follies yet unpurged -     Sins, as the seas, about me surged -     Thought of the printer's ready pen     To-morrow drowning me again; -     A million things without a name -     I thought of everything but - Fame. . . .     "A memory yet is in my mind,     So keenly clear and sharp-defined,     I picture every phase and line     Of life and death, and neither mine, -     While some fair seraph, golden-haired,     Bends over me, - with white arms bared,     That strongly plait themselves about     My drowning weight and lift me out -     With joy too great for words to state     Or tongue to dare articulate!     "And this seraphic ocean-child     And heroine was Orlie Wilde:     And thus it was I came to hear     Her voice's music in my ear -     Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way     That I walk desolate to-day!" . . .     The artist paused and bowed his face     Within his palms a little space,     While reverently on his form     I bent my gaze and marked a storm     That shook his frame as wrathfully     As some typhoon of agony,     And fraught with sobs - the more profound     For that peculiar laughing sound     We hear when strong men weep. . . .    I leant     With warmest sympathy - I bent     To stroke with soothing hand his brow,     He murmuring - "Tis over now! -     And shall I tie the silken thread     Of my frail romance?"    "Yes," I said. -     He faintly smiled; and then, with brow     In kneading palm, as one in dread -     His tasseled cap pushed from his head     " 'Her voice's music,' I repeat,"     He said, - " 'twas sweet - O passing sweet! -     Though she herself, in uttering     Its melody, proved not the thing     Of loveliness my dreams made meet     For me - there, yearning, at her feet -     Prone at her feet - a worshiper, -     For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he,     "Unknown to me; - unknown to me     As mine to her - as mine to her."