The Lodger

I cannot quite recall     When first he came,     So reticent and tall,     With his eyes of flame.     The neighbors used to say     (They know so much!)     He looked to them half way     Spanish or Dutch.     Outlandish certainly     He is--and queer!     He has been lodged with me     This thirty year;     All the while (it seems absurd!)     We hardly have     Exchanged a single word.     Mum as the grave!     Minds only his own affairs,     Goes out and in,     And keeps himself upstairs     With his violin.     Mum did I say? And yet     That talking smile     You never can forget,     Is all the while     Full of such sweet reproofs     The darkest day,     Like morning on the roofs     In flush of May.     Like autumn on the hills;     At four o'clock     The sun like a herdsman spills     For drove and flock     Peace with their provender,     And they are fed.     The day without a stir     Lies warm and red.     Ah, sir, the summer land     For me! That is     Like living in God's hand,     Compared to this.     His smile so quiet and deep     Reminds me of it.     I see it in my sleep,     And so I love it.     An anarchist, say some;     But tush, say I,     When a man's heart is plumb,     Can his life be awry?     Better than charity     And bigger too,     That heart. You've seen the sea?     Of course. To you     'T is common enough, no doubt.     But here in town,     With God's world all shut out,     Save the leaden frown     Of the sky, a slant of rain,     And a straggling star,     Such memories remain     The wonders they are.     Once at the Isles of Shoals,     And it was June . . .     Now hear me dote! He strolls     Across my noon,     Like the sun that day, where sleeps     My soul; his gaze     Goes glimmering down my deeps     Of yesterdays,     Searching and searching, till     Its light consumes     The reluctant shapes that fill     Those purple glooms.     Let others applaud, defame,     And the noise die down;     His voice saying your name,     Is enough renown.     Too patient pitiful,     Too fierce at wrong,     To patronize the dull,     Or praise the strong.     And yet he has a soul     Of wrath, though pent     Even when that white ghoul     Comes for his rent.     The landlord? Hush! My God!     I think the walls     Take notes to help him prod     Us up. He galls     My very soul to strife,     With his death's-head face.     He is foul too in his life,     Some hid disgrace,     Some secret thing he does,     I warrant you,     For all his cheek to us     Is shaved so blue.     He takes good care (by the shade     Of seven wives!)     That the undertaker's trade     He lives by thrives.     Nor chick nor child has he.     So servile smug,     With that cringe in his knee,--     God curse his lug!     But him, you should have seen     Him yesterday;     The landlord's smirk turned green     At his smile. The way     He served that bloodless fish,     Were like to freeze him.     But meeting elsewhere, pish!     He never sees him.     Yet such a gentleman,     So sure and slow.     The vilest harridan     Is not too low,     If there is pity's need;     And no man born,     For cruelty or greed     Escapes that scorn.     Most of all things, it seems,     He loves the town.     Watching the bright-faced streams     Go up and down,     I have surprised him often     On Tremont street,     And marked the grave face soften,     The mouth grow sweet,     In a brown study over     The men and women.     An unsuspected rover     That, for our Common.     When the first jonquils come,     And spring is sold     On the street corners, some     Of the pretty gold     Is sure to find its way     Home in his hand.     And many a winter day     At some cab-stand,     He'll watch the cabmen feed     The pigeon flocks,     Or bid some liner speed     From the icy docks.     His rooms? I much regret     You cannot see     His rooms, but they were let     With guarantee     Of his seclusion there--     Except myself.     Each morning, table, chair,     Lamp, hearth, and shelf,     I rearrange, refreshen,     Put all to rights,     Then leave him in possession.     Ah, but the nights,     The nights! Sir, if I dared     But once set eye     To keyhole, nor be scared,     From playing Paul Pry,     I doubt not I should learn     A wondrous thing     Or two; and in return     Go blind till spring.     The light under his door     Is glory enough,     It outshines any star     That I know of.     Wirrah, my lad, my lad,     'T is fearsome strange,     The hints we all have had     Passing the range     Of science, knowledge, law,     Or what you will,     Whose intangible touch of awe     Makes reason nil.     Many a night I start,     Sudden awake,     Feeling my smothered heart     Flutter and quake;     Like an aspen at dead of noon,     When not a breath     Is stirring to trouble the boon     Valley. A wraith     Or a fetch, it must be, shivers     The soul of the tree     Till every leaf of it quivers.     And so with me.     Was it the shuffle of feet     I heard go by,     With muffled drums in the street?     Was it the cry     Of a rider riding the night     Into ashes and dawn,     With news in his nostrils and fright     Where his hoof-beats had gone?     Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee,"     Bid regiments form?     Did a renegade's soul get free     On a wail of the storm?     Did a flock of wild geese honk     As they cleared the hill?     Or only a bittern cronk,     Then all was still?     Was it a night stampede     Of a thousand head?     I know I shook like a reed     There on my bed.     Nameless and void and wild     Was the fear before me,     Ere I bethought me and smiled     As the truth flashed o'er me.     Of course, it was only his hand     Freeing the bass     Of his old Amati, grand     In the silence' face.     Rummaging up and down,     From string to string,     Bidding the discords drown,     The harmonies spring,     Where tides and tide-winds rove     Far out from land,     On the ocean of music a-move     At the will of his hand.     Sobbing and grieving now,     Now glad as a bird,     Thou, thou, thou     Of the joys unheard,     Luminous radiant sea     Of the sounds and time,     Surely, surely by thee     Is eternal prime.     Holy and beautiful deep,     Spread down before     The imperial coming of sleep,     Endure, endure!     And sleep, be thou the ranger     Over it wan.     And dream, be thou no stranger     There with the dawn.     Then wings of the sun, go abroad     As a scarlet desire,     Unwearied, unwaning, unawed,     To quest and aspire,     Till the drench of the dusk you drink     In the poppy-field west;     Then veer and settle and sink     As a gull to her nest.     Wind,     Away, away!     And hurry your phantom kind     Through the gates of day,     Or ever the king's dark cup     With its studs and spars     Be inverted, and earth look up     To the shuddering stars.     Blaring and triumphing now,     Now quailing and lone,     Thou, thou, thou     Of the joys unknown!     Unknown and wild, wild,     Where the merrymen be,     Sink to sleep, soul of a child,     Slumber, thou sea!     All this his fiddle plays,     And many a thing     As strange, when his mood so lays     The bow to the string.     Sleepless! He never sleeps     That I can find.     I marvel how he keeps     A bit of his mind.     There is neither sight nor sound     In the world of sense,     But he has fathomed and found     In the silvery tense     Keen cords on the amber wood.     As he wrings them thence,     Death smiles at his hardihood     For recompense.     Oh fair they are, so fair!     No tongue can tell     How he sets them chiming there     Clear as a bell.     An orchard of birds in June,     The winds that stream,     The cold sea-brooks that croon,     The storms that scream,     The planets that float and swing     Like buoys on the tide,     The north-going legions in spring,     The hills that abide,     The frigate-bird clouds that range,     The vagabond moon--     That wilful lover of change--     And the workaday sun,     Dying summer and fall,     Seasons and men     And herds, he has them all     In his shadowy ken.     He calls and they come, leaving strife,     Leaving discord and death,     Out of oblivion to life,     Though its span be a breath.     There they are, all the beautiful things     I loved and lost sight of     Long since in the far-away springs,     Come back for a night of     New being as good as their old,     Aye, better in fact,     For somehow he gilds their fine gold,--     Gives the one thing they lacked,     The breath, aspiration, desire,     Core, kindle, control,     Memory and rapture and fire,--     The touch of man's soul.     How know the true master? I know     By my joys and my fears,     For my heart crumbles down like the snow     With spring rain into tears.     Now I am a precious one!     With nothing to do     But idle here in the sun     And gossip with you     Of a stranger you have not seen,     As like never will.     I would every soul had a screen,     When the wind sets ill     In the world's bleak house, like this     Strange lodger of mine.     His presence is worse to miss     Than sun's best shine.     I put no thought at all     Upon the end,     If only I may call     Such a man friend.     And a friend he is, heart light     With love for heft,     Proud as silence, whose right     Hand ignores his left.     Yes, odd! he gives his name     As Spiritus.     But that is vague as a flame     In the wind to us.     And then (but not a breath     Of this!) you see,     All his effects, my faith!     Are marked D.V.     His cape-coat has a rip,     But for all that,     (Folk smile, suggest a dip     In the dyer's vat,--     Those purple aldermen     Who roll about     In coaches, drive till ten,     And die of gout),     I think he finely shows     How learning's crumbs     At least can rival those     Of-- 'st, here he comes!