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 chaind 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.