Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Dance before the Arch

Allan Updegraff

WINDY April night-mist swept the Square;

Lights among the leafage swayed and flashed;

Piquant bosky odors filled the air,

Piquant as a Maenad’s flying hair

Late the dripping dogwood buds had lashed.

Then three fared forth together:

A wise old teacher of men,

A poet who laughed with the weather,

And a silent knight of the pen.

They walked in the rain-witched park

While the hours grew small and dark,

And their talk was light as a feather

That Bacchus blows at a mark.

All around, the city-sounds were whist;

All about, where branches laughed and leapt,

Glints of eyes looked out into the mist,

Little, golden, dancing, rainbow-kissed:

Little shapes and shadows flashed and crept.

Then the sage: “O wonderful weather!

Strange, eerie!” Then he of the pen:

“The pixies are out all together:

Valpurgis Nacht—Bacchus—Amen!”

He waved his arms and inclined

His face to the night, joy-blind.

Then the poet: “Oh, pluck me a feather

From the stretched gray wing of the wind!”

Over asphalt polished by the rain,

Out of mist-swirls iris-splotched with light,

Loomed a sudden beauty, marble, plain,

Arched and sombre, fronting with disdain

All the springtime turmoil of that night.

Then the sage: “The old Arch, in this weather,

Needs garlands.” Then he of the pen:

“The lost Roman thing! All together!

Get branches—we’re Romans again!”

So they took each boughs in their hands,

Obeying the ancient commands,

When laurel put forth a green feather

And Proserpine gathered her bands.

They marched in a grave, wild measure,

They waved their boughs;

They were austere-faced for pleasure

In the Spring’s house.

The sharp wind gave them glee,

The wind with a tang of the sea;

They drank it deep and at leisure

As a nobly offered rouse.

There were faint lights under their feet,

Each light with a halo of pearl;

There were lights in the night around,

Each blown-mist-tressed like a girl.

Faster their feet beat,

With a quick, glad sound.

“Io, Bacchus! Honey-sweet!”

“Io, Proserpine!

O golden! O divine!

Loosed again from the ground!”

They lifted arms, they danced

With quick breath;

Below, around, lights glanced

As life from death.

“Io, Proserpine is dead:

But the Spring lives!

Io, Bacchus,—where’s he fled?

But the vine thrives!”

“Good hap to Aphrodite

And her doves’ red feet:

Redder than new wine

Are the lips of my sweet!”

“Io, Spring!

Young, new!

Fairer for the vast

Passionate old past:

Io, Io, Spring

I sing, I sing!

I am drunk with wine, with wine and the Spring!”

They danced, they swayed,

The air sang

Under their boughs;

They laughed, they played

With the mist that stang

Their mid-carouse.

“Io, Spring’s blood’s on my face

And in my hair!”

“Io, Spring, magical maid,

For me forswear!”

“The vine buds red,

The willow gold,

The lady birch is white

And slim in the night:

Oh, make my bed

With white and gold and red,

Or ever the year grows old

And cold!

Io, Io!

And the tale of the frost is told!”

All around, the city-sounds were whist.

Over asphalt polished by the rain

Loomed the sombre Arch amid the mist;

At its feet some boughs the Spring had kissed

Whispered to the driving wind’s refrain.

Then three fared forth together:

A wise old teacher of men,

A poet who sang with the weather,

And a silent knight of the pen.

They went arm-linked from the park

That none be lost in the dark;

And their hearts were light as a feather

That Bacchus blows at a mark.