The Pot of Earth/The Sowing of the Dead Corn
THE
POT OF EARTH
'For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter?'
'I have, my lord.'
'Let her not walk i' the sun—'
PART ONE
The Sowing of the Dead Corn
Silently on the sliding Nile
The rudderless, the unoared barge
Diminishing and for a while
Followed, a fleck upon the large
Silver, then faint, then vanished, passed
Adonis who had lately died
Down a slow water with the last
Withdrawing of a fallen tide.
That year they went to the shore early—
They went in March and at the full moon
The tide came over the dunes, the tide came
To the wall of the garden. She remembered standing,
A little girl in the cleft of the white oak tree,—
The waves came in a slow curve, crumpling
Lengthwise, kindling against the mole and smouldering
Foot by foot across the beach until
The whole arc guttered and burned out. Her father
Rested his spade against the tree. He said,
The spring comes with the tide, the flood water.
Are you waiting for spring? Are you watching for the spring?
He threw the dead stalks of the last year’s corn
Over the wall into the sea. He said,
Look, we will sow the spring now. She could feel
Water along dry leaves and the stems fill.
Hurry, she said. Oh, hurry. She was afraid.
The surf was so slow, it dragged, it came stumbling
Slower and slower. She tried to breathe as slowly
As the waves broke. She kept calling. Hurry! Hurry!
Her breath came so much faster than the sea—
And walking home from school, that Syrian woman,
That—"Mrs. what did they call her"—the Syrian
Up at the corner, she gave her a blood-root flower
With white petals and the scarlet ooze
Where the stem was broken. She said, In my country
The feet of spring are stained with the red blood,
The women go into the hills with flowers
Dark like blood, they have a song of one
Dead and the spring blossoming from his blood—
And he comes again, they say, when the spring comes.
She gave the flower with soft fingers. She said,
That is an old story,—it might not be true.
But who knows where the roots drink: they go deep.
The stem lay limp and heavy in her hand
And cold, and the leaves felt lifeless. And that night
She put it by her bed. She could not sleep,
Feeling the dead thing by her bed, feeling
The slow fingers feeling, feeling the earth
Divided by the fingers of the grass,
Of trees, of flowers, by the pressing fingers
Of grass pierced, feeling the earth pierced
And the limp stalk flowering—she could not sleep—
One night it rained with a south wind and a warm
Smell of thawed earth and rotting straw and ditches
Sodden with snow and running full. She lay
Alone in the dark and after a long time
She fell asleep and the rain dripped in the gutter,
Dripped, dropped, and the wind washed over the roof
And winter melted and she felt the flow
Of the wind like a smooth river, and she saw
The moon wavering over her through the water—
And after the rain the brook in the north ravine
Ran blood-red—after the rain they found
Purple hepaticas and violets.
Have you seen
Anemones growing wild in the wet ground?
She took her shoes off and the stream ran red
With a slow swirling and a swollen sound
Clouding the cold sea water. She wished she were dead
With dark flowers and her naked feet
Stained crimson—
Tell me, are the waters fed
In the hillside?
She heard the drip, the beat
Of seas gathering underground. She heard
The moon moving under Perkins Street—
Why do you circle here, O lost sea bird!
Under the root of the pine-tree, under the stone
She heard the red surf breaking.
This occurred
When she was thirteen years—
When the withered cone
Fell from the pine-tree in the ancient spring
The river turned to blood—and they had gone
Mourning the dead god—She heard them sing
Wandering on the mountain.
Oh, she felt
Ill. It was horrible. She thought of him
Dead, and the weeping.
In March the snows melt
Dribbling between the shrivelled roots till they brim
The soaked soil, till the moon comes, until
The moon compels them; and the surf at the sea’s rim
Breaks scarlet and beneath the pine roots spill
Rivers of blood. There was blood upon her things
That night. And she had violets enough to fill
The yellow bowl with the pattern of pigeon wings—
I am afraid of the moon. I am afraid of the moon still.
They played at weddings, she and her little sister.
She had a mother doll made of a pine cone
With pebble eyes and they found a husk of corn
In the leaves over the rose roots. They were married
At four in the garden and when the tide turned
The bridegroom was dead and she made a boat of shingles
With a black sail and set him on the sea
Mourning.
She watched him till the sky was grey
And the sea grey under it. Her eyes blurred.
She seemed to be looking backward thousands of years
Across grey water. She stared out across
Centuries of grey sea light and the black sail
Went on and on. She said, We have known this thing
A long time—there is a thing we know—
The light grew fainter, fainter. The ship fell,
Vanished—
She went up through the dark garden.
She put her hand into the earth.
Do you think the dead will come from the sea ever?
Do the dead come out of the sea? Do the dead rise
From the sea, from the salt pools, from the stale water?
I have heard the summer drip into the sea.
I have heard rain-rotted summer in the sluices
Foaming. I have seen the yellow spill
Of last year’s summer—
The sound of the sea breaking beyond the wall
Was surd, flat, stopped as the voice of a deaf woman.
Dead leaves tiptoed in the path.
The trees listened—
And she saw the blind moon climb through the colorless air,
Through the willow branches. She could feel the moon
Lifting the numb water, and the sea fill.
She thought, The spring will come now overflowing
The clean earth. And what will the pine cone do,
The skulls and kernels that the winter gathered—
What will they do—
We are having a late spring, we are having
The snow in April, the grass heaving
Under the wet snow, the grass
Burdened and nothing blossoms, grows
In the fields nothing and the garden fallow,
And now the wild birds follow
The wild birds and the thrush is tame.
Well, there is time still, there is time.
To-morrow there will be to-morrow
And summer swelling through the marrow
Of the cold trees.
Wait! Let us wait!
Let us wait until to-morrow. The wet
Snow wrinkles, it will rot,
It will moulder at the root
Of the oak-tree. Wait!
Oh, wait, I will gather
Grains of wheat and corn together,
Ears of corn and dry barley.
But wait, but only wait. I am barely
Seventeen: must I make haste?
To-morrow there will be a host
Of crocuses and small hairy
Snow-drops. And why, then, must I hurry?
There are things I have to do
More than just to live and die,
More than just to die of living.
I have seen the moonlight leaving
Twig by twig the elms and wondered
Where I go, where I have wandered.
I have watched myself alone
Coming homeward in the lane
When I seemed to see a meaning
In my going or remaining
Not the meaning of the grass.
Not the dreaming mortal grace
Of the green leaves on the year—
And why, then, should I hear
A sound as of the sowers going down
Through blossoming young hedges in the dawn—
Winter is not done.
There were buds on the chestnut-trees, soft, swollen,
Sticky with thick gum, that seemed to press,
To thrust from the cold branches, to start under
The impulse of intolerable loins—
The faint sweet smell of the trees sickened her.
She walked at the sea’s edge on the blank sand.
Certainly the salt stone that the sea divulges
At the first quarter does not fructify
In pod or tuber nor will the fruiterer cull
Delicate plums from its no-branches—Oh,
Listen to me for the word of the matter is in me—
And if it heats in the sun it heats to itself
Alone and to none that come after it and the rain
Impregnates it not to the slightest—Oh, listen,
You who lie on your backs in the sun, you roots,
You roses among others who take the rain
Into you, vegetables, listen—the salt stone
That the sea divulges does not fructify.
It sits by itself. It is sufficient. But you—
Who was your great-grandfather or your mother’s mother?
One of those mild evenings when you think
Spring is to-morrow and you can smell the earth
Smouldering under wet leaves and there’s still
A little light left over the pine-tree top
And you stand listening—
So she closed the gate
And walked up Gloucester Street and coming home
It was pitch dark at the railroad station they
Jostled against her O excuse me excuse me
And somebody said laughing she couldn’t hear
Her throat pounded something she ran ran—
What do you want? What do you want me to do?
What can I do? Can I put roots into the earth?
Can leaves grow out of me? Can I bear leaves
Like the thorn, the lilac—
Why did you not come?
Why did you let me go then if you knew?
They seemed to be waiting,
The willow-trees by the wall,
Fidgeting with the sea wind in their branches,
Unquiet in the warm air.
She stood between them. She said,
You who have set your candles toward the sea
Two nights already and no sound
Only the water,
Tell me, do the dead come out of the sea?
Does the spring come from the sea?
Does the dead god
Come again from the water?
The willow-trees stirred in the wind,
Stilled,
Stirred in the wind—
She said, It may be that he has come,
It may be he has come and gone and I not knowing—
Easter Sunday they went to Hooker’s Grove,
Seven of them in one automobile
Laughing and singing.
Sea water flows
Over the meadows at the full moon,
The sea runs in the ditches, the salt stone
Drowns in the sea.
And some one said, Look! Look!
The flowers, the red flowers. And her hand felt
The blood-root stem—and on the Baalbec road
Young men with garlands of anemones
And naked girls in girdles of wild rose
Splashed the thick dust from their thudding feet
And the sunlight jingled into grains of gold
And away off, away off, far away
The singing on the mountain—
Shall we go
Up through the Gorge or round by Ryan’s place?
I’ll show you where the wild boar killed a man
Good Friday night, and where he died, they say,
There are flowers all red.
Who is this that comes
Crowned with red flowers from the sea? Who comes
Into the hills with flowers?
On the hill pastures
She heard a girl calling her lost cows.
Her voice hung like a mist over the grass,
Over the apple-trees.
She bit her mouth
To keep from crying.
On the third day
The cone of the pine is broken, the eared corn
Broken into the earth, the seed scattered.
The bridegroom comes again at the third day.
The sowers have come into the fields sowing.
Well, at the Grove there was a regular crowd
And a band at the Casino, so they ate
Up in the woods where you could hear the music
And the dogs barking, and after lunch she lay
Out in the open meadow. She could feel
The sun through her dress—
Don’t you want to dance?
They’re all dancing—that wonderful tune—
Are you listening? Aren’t you listening? The band
Start—stuttered and
Oh, won’t you?
No—
Just a little while. Just a little bit—
No! Oh, No! Oh, No!
Far, far away
The singing on the mountain. She could hear
The voices singing, she could hear them come
With songs, with the red flowers. They have found him,
They have brought him from the hills—
Why, it was wonderful! Why, all at once there were leaves,
Leaves at the end of a dry stick, small, alive
Leaves out of wood. It was wonderful,
You can’t imagine. They came by the wood path
And the earth loosened, the earth relaxed, there were flowers
Out of the earth! Think of it! And oak-trees
Oozing new green at the tips of them and flowers
Squeezed out of clay, soft flowers, limp
Stalks flowering. Well, it was like a dream,
It happened so quickly, all of a sudden it happened—