Cities

Sea Garden (1916)

Can we believe — by an effortcomfort our hearts:it is not waste all this,not placed here in disgust,street after street,each patterned alike,no grace to lightena single house of the hundredcrowded into one garden-space.

Crowded — can we believe,not in utter disgust,in ironical play —but the maker of cities grew faintwith the beauty of templeand space before temple,arch upon perfect arch,of pillars and corridors that led outto strange court-yards and porcheswhere sun-light stampedhyacinth-shadowsblack on the pavement.

That the maker of cities grew faintwith the splendour of palaces,paused while the incense-flowersfrom the incense-treesdropped on the marble-walk,thought anew, fashioned this —street after street alike.

For alas,he had crowded the city so fullthat men could not grasp beauty,beauty was over them,through them, about them,no crevice unpacked with the honey,rare, measureless.

So he built a new city,ah can we believe, not ironicallybut for new splendourconstructed new peopleto lift through slow growthto a beauty unrivalled yet —and created new cells,hideous first, hideous now —spread larve across them,not honey but seething life.

And in these dark cells,packed street after street,souls live, hideous yet —O disfigured, defaced,with no trace of the beautymen once held so light.

Can we think a few old cellswere left — we are left —grains of honey,old dust of stray pollendull on our torn wings,we are left to recall the old streets?

Is our task the less sweetthat the larve still sleep in their cells?Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:You are useless. We live.We await great events.We are spread through this earth.We protect our strong race.You are useless.Your cell takes the placeof our young future strength.

Though they sleep or wake to tormentand wish to displace our old cells —thin rare gold —that their larve grow fat —is our task the less sweet?

Though we wander about,find no honey of flowers in this waste,is our task the less sweet —who recall the old splendour,await the new beauty of cities?

The city is peopledwith spirits, not ghosts, O my love:

Though they crowded betweenand usurped the kiss of my mouththeir breath was your gift,their beauty, your life.

from  Sea Garden (1916)