Vale America

VALE! AMERICA.

Joaquin Miller

et me rise and go forth. A far, dim spark
Illumes my path. The light of my day
Hath fled, and yet am I far away.
The bright, bent moon has dipp'd her horn
In the darkling sea. High up in the dark
The wrinkled old lion, he looks away
To the east, and impatient as if for morn ....
I have gone the girdle of earth, and say,
What have I gain'd but a temple gray,
Two crow's feet, and a heart forlorn?
A star starts yonder like a soul afraid!
It falls like a thought through the great profound.
Fearfully swift and with never a sound,
It fades into nothing, as all things fade;
Yea, as all things fail. And where is the leaven
In the pride of a name or a proud man's nod?
Oh, tiresome, tiresome stairs to heaven!
Weary, oh, wearisome ways to God!
Twere better to sit with the chin on the palm,
Slow tapping the sand, come storm, come calm.
I have lived from within and not from without;
I have drunk, from a fount, have fed from a hand
That no man knows who lives upon land;
And yet my soul it is crying out.
I care not a pin for the praise of men;
But I hunger for love. I starve, I die,
Each day of my life. Ye pass me by
Each day, and laugh as ye pass; and when
Ye come, I start in my place as ye come,
And lean, and would speak—but my lips are dumb.
Yon sliding stars and the changeful moon....
Let me rest on the plains of Lombardy for aye,
Or sit down by this Adrian Sea and die.
The days that do seem as some afternoon
They all are here. I am strong and true
To myself; can pluck and could plant anew
My heart, and grow tall; could come to be
Another being; lift bolder hand
And conquer. Yet ever will come to me
The thought that Italia is not my land.
Could I but return to my woods once more,
And dwell in their depths as I have dwelt,
Kneel in their mosses as I have knelt,
Sit where the cool white rivers run,
Away from the world and half hid from the sun,
Hear winds in the wood of my storm-torn shore,
To tread where only the red man trod,
To say no word, but listen to God!
Glad to the heart with listening—
It seems to me that I then could sing,
And sing as never sung man before.
But deep-tangled woodland and wild waterfall,
farewell for aye, till the Judgment Day!
1 shall see you no more, land of mine,
half-aware land, like a child at play!
O voiceless and vast as the push'd-back skies!
No more, blue seas in the blest sunshine,
No more, black woods where the white peaks rise,
No more, bleak plains where the high winds fall,
Or the red man keeps or the shrill birds call!
I must find diversion with another kind:
There are roads on the land and roads on the sea;
Take ship and sail, and sail till I find
The love that I sought from eternity;
Run away from oneself, take ship and sail
The middle white seas; see turban'd men,—
Throw thought to the dogs for aye. And when
All seas are travel'd and all scenes fail,
Why, then this doubtful, cursed gift of verse
May save me from death—or something worse.
My hand it is weary, and my harp unstrung;
And where is the good that I pipe or sing,
Fashion new notes, or shape any thing?
The songs of my rivers remain unsung
Henceforward for me....But a man shall arise
From the far, vast valleys of the Occident,
With hand on a harp of gold, and with eyes
That lift with glory and a proud intent;
Yet so gentle indeed, that his sad heart strings
Shall thrill to the heart of your heart as he sings.
Let the wind sing songs in the lake-side reeds,
Lo, I shall be less than the indolent wind!
Why should I sow, when I reap and bind
And gather in nothing but the thistle weeds?
It is best I abide, let what will befall;
To rest if I can, let time roll by:
Let others endeavor to learn, while I,
With naught to conceal, with much to regret,
Shall sit and endeavor, alone, to forget.
Shall I shape pipes from these seaside reeds,
And play for the children, that shout and call?
Lo! men they have mock'd me the whole year through!
I shall sing no more ... I shall find in old creeds,
And in quaint old tongues, a world that is new;
And these, I will gather the sweets of them all.
And the old-time doctrines and the old- time signs,
I will taste of them all, as tasting old wines.
I will find new thought, as a new-found vein
Of rock-lock'd gold in my far, fair West.
I will rest and forget, will entreat to be blest;
Take up new thought and again grow young;
Yea, take a new world as one bom again,
And never hear more mine own mother tongue;
Nor miss it . Why should I? I never once heard,
In my land s language, love's one sweet word.
Did I court fame, or the favor of man?
Make war upon creed, or strike hand with clan?
I sang my songs of the sounding trees,
As careless of name or of fame as the sea;
And these I sang for the love of these,
And the sad sweet solace they brought to me.
I but sang for myself, touch'd here, touch'd there,
As a strong-wing'd bird that flies any where.
....How I do wander! And yet why not?
I once had a song, told a tale in rhyme;
Wrote books, indeed, in my proud young prime;
I aim'd at the heart like a musket ball;
I struck cursed folly like a cannon shot,—
And where is the glory or good of it all?
Yet these did I write for my land, but this
I write for myself,—and it is as it is.
Yea, storms have blown counter and shaken me.
And yet was I fashion'd for strife, and strong
And daring of heart, and born to endure;
My soul sprang upward, my feet felt sure;
My faith was as wide as a wide-bough'd tree.
But there be limits; and a sense of wrong
Forever before you will make you less
A man, than a man at first would guess.
Good men can forgive—and, they say, forget ....
Far less of the angel than Indian was set
In my fierce nature. And I look away
To a land that is dearer than this, and say,
"I shall remember, though you may forget.
Yea, I shall remember for aye and a day
The keen taunts thrown in a boy face, when
He cried unto God for the love of men."
Enough, ay and more than enough, of this!
I know that the sunshine must follow the rain;
And if this be the winter, why spring again
Must come in its season, full blossom'd with bliss.
I will lean to the storm, though the winds blow strong
Yea, the winds they nave blown and have shaken me—
As the winds blow songs through a shattered tree,
They have blown this broken and careless set song.
They have sung this song, be it never bad;
Have blown upon me and play'd upon me,
Have broken the notes,—blown sad, blown glad;
Just as the winds blow fierce and free
A barren, a blighted, and a cursed fig tree.
And if I grow careless and heed no whit
Whether it please or what comes of it,
Why, talk to the winds, then, and not to me.
VENICE, 1874.

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Poetry

VALE! AMERICA.

Joaquin Miller