William Marion Reedy

He sits before you silent as Buddha,         And then you say         This man is Rabelais.         And while you wonder what his stock is,         English or Irish, you behold his eyes         As big and brown as those desirable crockies         With which as boys we used to play.         And then you see the spherical light that lies         Just under the iris coloring,         Before which everything,         Becomes as plain as day.         If you have noticed the rolling jowls         And the face that speaks its chief         Delight in beer and roast beef         Before you have seen his eyes, you see         A man of fleshly jollity,         Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls         To make a show of scowls.         And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls         In a humorous way like Fielding or Smollett         That turns in a trice to Robert La Follette         Or retraces to Thales of Crete,         And touches upon Descartes coming back         Through the intellectual Zodiac         That's something of a feat.         And you see that the eyes are really the man,         For the thought of him proliferates         This way over to Hindostan,         And that way descanting on Yeats.         With a word on Plato's symposium,         And a little glimpse of Theocritus,         Or something of Bruno's martyrdom,         Or what St. Thomas Aquinas meant         By a certain line obscure to us.         And then he'll take up Horace's odes         Or the Roman civilization;         Or a few of the Iliad's episodes,         Or the Greek deterioration.         Or skip to a word on the plasmic jelly,         Which Benjamin Moore and others think         Is the origin of life. Then Shelley         Comes in a for a look of understanding.         Or he'll tell you about the orientation         Of the ancient dream of Zion.         Or what's the matter with Bryan.         And while the porter is bringing a drink         Something into his fancy skips         And he talks about the Apocalypse,         Or a painter or writer now unknown         In France or Germany who will soon         Have fame of him through the whole earth blown.         It's not so hard a thing to be wise         In the lore of books.         It's a different thing to be all eyes,         Like a lighthouse which revolves and looks         Over the land and out to sea:         And a lighthouse is what he seems to me!         Sitting like Buddha spiritually cool,         Young as the light of the sun is young,         And taking the even with the odd         As a matter of course, and the path he's trod         As a path that was good enough.         With a sort of transcendental sense         Whose hatred is less than indifference,         And a gift of wisdom in love.         And who can say as he classifies         Men and ages with his eyes         With cool detachment: this is dung,         And that poor fellow is just a fool.         And say what you will death is a rod.         But I see a light that shines and shines         And I rather think it's God.