of you.
Into the land of my fathers, from Huron to Keokuk, beauty
shall come — out of the black ground, out of the deep
black ground.
Squaw man, red man, old and decrepit, into the mighty
wheels of the engine I hurl these songs.
Twenty weeks I lay on the bleak hillside, waiting for you.
When you came and spoke how I trembled. Down the
lane, through the woods to the meadows you ran. Then
I knew.
Broad long fields. Wheat that stands up.
Cedric, the son of Irwin and Emma, stand up. Give your
life, give your soul to America now. Cedric, be strong.
SONG OF THE BREAK OF DAY
I AM TIRED and very old — just the muscles of my arms still alive.
Cunning little muscles, betraying, not caring how very old
and tired I am.
Did you think, O my beloved, I was young? Did my
laughing face and laughing eyes tell you lies?
In Chicago many faces, drifting, perplexing, confusing, destroying, betraying, confounding.
Now stop — little love warm and still — try to think.
Nod your head. Sway! Wait! Try to believe.
Stronger, deeper, stronger — good arms, sweep them forth —
over the land — wide — wide — over the land — break —
break — come to life.
Ninety, a thousand, a million, a nation. Corn in long fields
and slender young wheat. See my young strength how
it grows. I am casting you forth.
Buried away in the mines in the hills — strong arm, long
arm. Gripping the gold and the ashes of ages. Did you
think I was old and too tired to find love?
Love,
I awake.
SONG OF THE BEGINNING OF COURAGE
I am come with infinite slowness into my kingship. At
night I lay down by the window. The little flat bands
that bind my body were tense. I am the first to come
into the new kingship.
By the long aisles of the com you must go, little brothers,
narrow and long the way. The com in its struggle whispers and sways. Courage — always new courage.
In — deeper in — far from the stars — let the wide soft corn
leaves whisper to you.
Crush and trample, brother, brother — crush and trample
‘til you die.
Do not hold thy hand from strangling — crush and trample
‘til you die.
Back of the corn — back of the com — bold and free my
kingdoms lie.
Ninety men upon the bridges ninety swift hawks in the
sky.
I am come to the face of the gods through the cornfields.
Back to the womb of my mother I go.
Ache — ache — ache and behold me. Lay thy hot hands on
my thigh.
Crush and trample, brother, brother — crush and trample
‘til you die.
Do not hold thy hand from strangling — crush and trample
‘til you die.
REVOLT
Bring hither the beams of the corncribs, my children. The
dung heaps are burned. Strong hands have gripped the
rope whereby the horses were tied. The fish nets of the
Northwest and the sheep gates of Michigan are opened
to me.
I have put my neck and my hands to the work, O my children. How black your eyes have become. They gleam
in the darkness. The souls of Ulysses and of Abraham
have been opened to me. By the coal heaps near the
factory door my men are assembled.
Tipping the water-gates of the rivers the night riders assemble. In the cities the grey little foxes lie low. By the
howling of dogs in the silence the decay of men is proclaimed.
Long nights we were weeping the prelude, my brothers.
The madness and washing of hands has been done. The
sweetness of apples — the fatness of cornfields — the whoring of men for strange gods is begun.
A LULLABY
I AM BECOME one with you. I am old. I am tired.
Watch my hands how they slip. One by one the fingers
let go.
Into my house comes my enemy bold. His beard sweeps
the floor. He is old. He is hatred and lust.
Soft creeps the night in the passages old — creeping along —
creeping along. Soft creeps the wind in the old standing
corn.
Into my body my enemy comes. Watch my fingers let go —
slow: — oh, so slow.
SONG OF THEODORE
O my beloved — men and women — I come into your presence.
It is night and I am alone and I come to you. I open the
window of my room so that you may come in. I am a
lover and I would touch you with the fingers of my hands.
In my eyes a fire burns. The strength of my imaginings
is beyond words to record. I see the loveliness in you that is hidden away. I take something from you. See, I embrace you. I take you in my arms and I run away.
I am alone in my room at night and in me is the spirit of
the old priests. What cunning fingers I have. They
make intricate designs on the white paper. See, the designs are words and sentences. I am not a priest but a
lover, a new kind of lover, one who is of the flesh and
not of the flesh. My cunning fingers are of the flesh.
They are like me and I would make love always, to all
people — men and women — here — in Chicago — in America
— everywhere — always — forever — while my life lasts.
I am afraid. Do you not understand, O my beloved, that
I am afraid? In me is the old inheritance. The fires
that burn have not burned me. I have not suffered
enough.
Now, my beloved, I am not pure and I dare not come to
you. I run away and hide. I am a priest and my head
is not shaven. I sit in my room and my doors are bolted.
I tremble and am afraid.
It is then that you come to me, O my beloved. Men and
women you crowd in upon me. Through the walls and
the bolted doors you come crowding, hurrying. I was
afraid and trembled, but I have become unafraid.
I cannot tell how many things there are that I understand.
I understand all, everything. The words of the men and
women who have come in to me are without meaning, but
the air of my room has brought health to me.
I was determined to withdraw from the world, to be a priest
with a shaven head. In fancy I saw myself go into the
forest, into the dense silence. For days I lay like a stone
in the midst of the silence.
My body was bathed in a cold stream. Again and again
my body was bathed. The cold water ran over my body
and chilled the warm blood that runs beneath the surface
of the skin.
The inside of my body was made clean. My body was fed
on the white meat of nuts that fell from the trees. I
crunched the nuts with my white teeth. How powerful
my body had become.
In the rain in the streets of my city I stood. My clothes
were foul. In the woven cloth that covered my body the
dust of my city had lodged. The dust of my civilization
was in my soul. I was a murderer — a weeping prostitute
standing by a wall. I was a strong man with strong
arms. In a jail they had lodged me. I was one condemned to be hanged
. There was filth on my shoes —
my shoes were filthy.
It was night and I had come into my room. I was cold and
my body trembled. I was afraid. The pencil was
gripped in my cunning fingers. Words came. Over the
paper my pencil ran — making the words — saying the
words.
There is a song in the pencil that is held in my cunning
fingers. Out — out — out — dear words. The words have
saved me. There is rhythm in the pencil. It sings and
swings. It sings a great song. It is singing the song of
my life. It is bringing life in to me, into my close place.
Out — out — out — out of the room I go. I am become pure.
To the homes of the people I go. Here in these words
I am become a man. The passions and lusts of men have
taken hold of me.
I have gone into the woman’s chamber, into the secret places
of all women and all men I have gone. I have made love
to them. Before me in the chamber lies the naked body
of a woman. She is strong and young.
Do you not see, O my beloved, that I am become strong
to caress the woman! I caress all men and all women.
I make myself naked. I am unafraid. I am a pure
thing. I bind and heal. By the running of the pencil
over the white paper I have made myself pure. I have
made myself whole. I am unafraid. The song of the
pencil has done it.
What cunning fingers I have. They make intricate designs
on the white paper. My cunning fingers are of the flesh.
They are like me and I would make love always — to all
people — men and women — here — in Chicago — in America
— everywhere — always — forever-while my life lasts.
MANHATTAN
From the place of the cornfields I went into the new places.
I went into the city. How men laughed and put their
hands into mine.
To a high place overlooking the city I climbed. Men came
running to me. On the stairways there was the endless
threshing of numberless feet. The faces of women appeared. The soft lips of women were on my hands and
my sinewy arms. Understanding came in to me.
I am of the West, the long West of the sunsets. I am of the
deep fields where the corn grows. The sweat of apples
is in me. I am the beginning of things and the end of
things.
To me there came men whose hands were withered. My
soldiers were small and their eyes were sunken. In them
was the pain that sobs, the great pain that sobs. The
sobbing of pain was like the threshing of feet on the
stairways that went up from the city.
In the morning I arose from my bed and was healed. To
the cornfields I went laughing and singing. The men
who are old have entered into me. As I stood on the
high place above the city they kissed me. The caress of
those who are weary has come into the cornfields.
SPRING SONG
In the forest, amid old trees and wet dead leaves, a shrine.
Men on the wet leaves kneeling.
The spirit of God in the air above a shrine.
Now, America, you press your lips to mine,
Feel on your lips the throbbing of my blood.
Christ, come to life and life calling,
Sweet and strong.
Spring. God in the air above old fields.
Farmers marking fields for the planting of the com.
Fields marked for corn to stand in long straight aisles.
In the spring I press your body down on wet cold newplowed ground.
Men, give your souls to me.
I would have my sacred way with you.
In the forest, amid old trees and wet dead leaves, a shrine.
Men rising from the kneeling place to sing.
Everywhere in the fields now the orderly planting of com.
INDUSTRIALISM
In the long house of hate,
In the long hours,
In the never-ending day;
Over the fields — her black hair flying —
My mistress
Terrible
Gigantic
Gaunt and drear.
I’ve got to die — you’ve got to die.
We do not fancy your thin hands,
That reach and reach into the vase
Where old things rust.
Death to you —
Now.
Thin dream of beauty,
You be gone.
Our fathers in the village streets
Had flowing beards and they believed.
I saw them run into the night —
Crushed.
Old knowledge and all old beliefs
By your hand killed —
My mistress
Grim.
Awake and shake thy dusty locks.
Come, drive the soldiers to their toil.
A million men my mistress needs,
To kiss
And kill
For her desire,
To-night —
Arise.
Out of the vase the long thin hand,
To grip the sword that men forget
My mistress waits beside the mill
To kiss the sword
Of Christ —
Or you,
Who dare
For her.
SALVO
Thin rift in time,
A wedge of time, forever driven deep ‘twixt days and nights,
A moment only — all winds suspended and all day-dreams
stopped,
The clock upon the wall a dreary lie,
Then death to that and me.
By a chair a woman and a pair of eyes — eyes luminous and
sure.
No word spoken.
Love leaping, whispering, clamoring, crying,
Love making time halt and creating me.
Now my old city sees me pick my burden up.
All sweet dreams fade.
Words, musical and dear, will ne’er be spoken now.
I follow plows that mark my furrows through the world.
Now you watch me, brothers,
Men and boys and new-made wives.
Hear with glowing wonder the story of my ways.
The burden from my back I pass to you.
I go my way, unburdened and alone.
Out of the West and East men came to look at me.
Eyes gleamed in darkness and the world was pure.
Grown old by wondrous looks and dreaming out of time
I pass and do not come to life again.
THE PLANTING
‘Tis then I am the tiny thing,
A little bug, a figure wondrous small, a sower on prairies
limitless.
Into her arms I creep and wait and dream that I may serve,
And do the work of gods in that vast place.
Awake — asleep — remade to serve,
I stretch my arms and lie — intense — expectant— ‘til her
moment comes.
Then seeds leap forth.
The mighty hills rise up and gods and tiny things like me
proclaim their joy.
Man in the making — seeds in the ground,
O’er all my western country now a wind.
Rich, milky smell of cornfields, dancing nymphs,
And tiny men that turn away to dream.
SONG OF THE MIDDLE WORLD
I want falling light and an evening sky,
I want to sing my songs low crooning to the moon.
I want men silent and the creeping grace of old gods in their
hearts.
I want night, soft darkness and damp smells
When my songs sing.
From the Allegheny Mountains where the mine fires flare,
To the low hills of Nebraska where my farmers dwell,
Let my songs sweep forth.
Let gods listen and let men stand up.
Let my songs sing.
Great cradle-land of giants where my cornfields lie,
Let me cradle my men,
Let me cradle my men.
Let the factories close and the voices die.
Let me sing now.
I have been to the Dakotas when the fields were plowed.
I have stood by the Ohio when the dawn broke forth.
Promise of com,
Promise of com,
Long aisles running into the dawn and beyond
To the throne of gods.
I want falling light and an evening sky,
I want to sing my songs low crooning to the moon.
I want to bring gods home to sweating men in corn-rows and
in shops
When my songs sing.
THE STRANGER
Her eyes are like the seeds of melons. Her breasts are thin
and she walks awkwardly. I am in love with her.
With her I have adventured into a new love. In all the
world there is no such love as I have for her.
I took hold of her shoulder and walked beside her. We
went out of the city into the fields. By the still road we
went and it was night. We were long alone together.
The bones of her shoulder are thin. The sharp bone of her
shoulder has left a mark on my hand.
I am come up into the wind like a ship. Her thin hand is
laid hold of me. My land where the corn nods has
become my land.
I am come up into the wind like a ship and the thin hand
of woman is laid hold of me.
SONG OF THE LOVE OF WOMEN
Have you nothing to offer but bread and your bodies — Women, my women?
Long nights I have lain by you, sleepless and thinking —
Sisters, my sisters.
In the doorway of the warehouse a tiny twisted body.
Hark, the night is long. Let us talk. One! Two! Three
Complete Works of Sherwood Anderson Page 318