MYSELF and I went wandering to-day.
We walked the long white webbèd roads away,
Saw much green marsh-land, much blue splendid sea.
The wind was happy with Myself and me.
Now we had read a book whose burden blew
With a brave honest air of being true.
It said, ‘Express Thyself, Thyself alway.
True to Thyself, thou canst not go astray.
Ask of the inner Voice, the inner Light,
And heaven-clear shall be thine outer sight.
Obey, — and thou shalt always seek and find
God in the clay, the Spirit on the wind.’
So said I, ‘ To Myself I will be true.
Speak on, Myself, what I to-day shall do.’
Myself, thereat rejoicing, crowed aloud.
We were elate as angels on a cloud!
The day was ours. Myself with merry mien
Said, ‘Thou shalt wear thy gown of shoal-sea green:
Thy curious gown, and plaited in thy hair
Grasses and glistering sea-weeds dank and rare.
To-day thou shalt a mermaid-creature be,
And skip along the surges of the sea.’
Then must I labor with Myself. ‘Indeed
I love the green gown and the wreathèd weed.
But every one would turn and stare at me
As I ran down the marshes to the sea!
And if beside the surf alone I go
What strange bad folk may meet me there? Dost know?
Oh, dear Myself, such joys we cannot take,
Or every tongue will wag and head will shake!’
Myself, demurring, yet did give consent.
Discreetly garbed, on sober roads we went.
The wind came up from out the gleaming west,
And shook the poplar trees, and downward pressed
The bright gray-headed grasses, and the bay
Bristled its blue hair like a hound. Straightway
Myself, long throbbing in my throat, cried out,
‘Run with the wind! Oh race with him and shout!
Sing to the sun! be merry as the grass!
Now all the gladness of the earth doth pass.
Thou wouldst not be my wild green mermaid-thing,
But oh, I prithee, laugh, and run, and sing!’
Then must I labor with Myself. ‘ But lo,
Along the road much people pass us. No. —
If I should sing and run, to-morrow we
In durance with the Crazy Folk might be.
Wouldst thou, strait-jacketed, be fain to sing?
Oh, dear Myself, ask not so mad a thing!’
Upon a porch with scarlet vines o’errun
A darling baby tottered to the sun.
With little cooing cries he greeted us.
‘See!’ said Myself, ‘he is more glorious
Than all the sun. Go up and kiss him, thou.
He is more sweet than bloom on any bough.’
Then must I labor with Myself. ‘But stay!
His mother by the lattice hid away
Doth watch him. She will hate me if I dare
To touch him. Look, already doth she stare
Because we loiter by the little wall.
Myself, that was the maddest thing of all.’
Myself made outcry. ‘Shame! Thou hast not done
Of all the things I bid a single one.
If to Thyself thou art not ever true,
How shall the eyes of God come piercing through
This maskèd world?’
I had no answer pat.
Myself had caught me, I admitted that: —
And to atone, I swore by wind and sky,
To do Myself’s next bidding, should I die!
Myself triumphant, I not too content,
Down divers white and sunny ways we went.
All suddenly across the curving road
A youth as tall as plumy Hector strode;
As tall, as brave in fashion. Faith, he seemed
A hero-shape some epic minstrel dreamed!
With proud high step and level sea-blue eyes,
He looked a god on gallant enterprise.
Up leapt Myself. ‘Oh, make him turn thy way!
Stumble, or swoon! oh, somehow make him stay!
Thy blood and his are kin, thy heart doth beat;
Surely, ah surely, he would find thee sweet.
Let him not pass, he is so brave to see!’ —
He passed. I know not if he glanced at me.
Then must I truly labor with Myself.
I said, ‘O vain, preposterous! Thou elf,
Thou wicked witch, thou monstrous mischief, thou
Consummate little mock at conscience, how
Dost thou expect obedience to such
Unseemly promptings? I have borne too much.
Out on thee (yet I love thee)! Now be still.
God help me if I work thy naughty will.’
At eve Myself and I came home. That book
Down from its high and portly place we took,
And read, ‘Express Thyself, Thyself alway.
True to Thyself thou canst not go astray.’
— I looked Myself between the dancing eyes:
They dazzled me, they were so wild and wise.
‘Myself,’ I said, ‘art thou a naughtier one
Than any other self beneath the sun? Or why, why, why, — could I not once obey
Thine innocent glad bidding, all this day?’
Myself’s bright eyes were clouded o’er with tears,
Myself’s gay voice was dim as dust of years.
‘Ah,’ said Myself, ‘the book is true. And I
Am very naughty sometimes. See, I cry
Repentance. Yet so mad I needs must be
Or else the world would choke and smother me.
The world must choke me. No more like a faun
The Spirit, running free, takes dusk and dawn
With earth-simplicity. Thou canst not do
These sudden happy things I call thee to. —
And yet, young Puritan, be kind to me!
I am more precious than thy treasury
Of maxims. Yes, deny me often. Go
The sober road. Yet always deep below
Thy silent days, remember I am here
Defiant, singing, shadowed not by fear
Of Change or Death. Remember me, although
I am so wild, and wanton with thee so. —
For I, though all the world throw stones at me,
Am Light, am Voice, am God’s own spark in thee!’
— We laid the great book back upon its shelf.
Between two tears I smiled in at Myself.