Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. A VOICE OVER THE EARTH, by EDWARD CARPENTER Poet's Biography First Line: The sound of a voice floating round the earth Last Line: "wench: she cries, ""how good, how good it is, o come again!" Subject(s): Civilization; Farm Life; Fields; Peasantry; Agriculture; Farmers; Pastures; Meadows; Leas | ||||||||
THE sound of a voice floating round the Earth, saying: Lo! I float over the world and over all cities and landswherever men and women are at home I am at home. I The snowy peaks, in ranges, that guard the cradles of the human racerising over their rocky cliffs, out of their valleys full of treesthe wind fluctuating the forests, the clouds swift-flying over the topmost jags; The great plains, and lower lands, dotted with farms and villages and cities, for scores, hundreds, thousands, of miles; The winding rivers and the islands, and the broad seas; All these I see, and those that inhabit them, Over the world I float, I range all human experience. II The broad Italian landscape spreads below methe lands of the upper Po and Bormida, I see the wave-like congregated hills terraced with vines to their very tops, the pink or yellow painted home steads dotted here and there, the arched stone barns, and villages clustered on the hill tops with belfries high against the sky. The old woman, my mother, with walnut brown skin haunts the lonely farmhouse all day while the others are in the field; She wanders from chamber to chamber, hardly knowing what she is doing. Her memory carries her back to the far pastshe lives not in the present. Sometimes into the great attic overhead she climbs, with its huge roof-beams and brick floor, and spreads the grapes to dry or leisurely picks them over. The haymakers work barefoot in the clover patch, turning the clover and loading the low-wheeled waggon in the fragrant transparent evening; The peasant plows with his one-stilted plow, or creaks along the road with his cart and yoke of cream-colored oxen; The girls and women with red or yellow kerchiefs stand among the branches of the mulberry trees by the roadside, picking leaves for the silkworms; The country folk congregate on the steps of the village church, looking out over the hillsthe women passing in by ones and twos; The men play mora over their wine in the little hostelry; the boys play at ball down the narrow by-streets, using the roofs and buttresses to baffle their opponents' strokes; The old play of daily life goes onthe centuries-long play; The ruins of the Roman aqueduct still cross the bed of the river, the ruins of Roman words and customs still lie embedded in the life of to-day; The old blood still runs in the veins, the water runs in the rivers, the crops grow in the fieldsthe light of youth, of love, of old age, of death, shines in the eyes. From the accident of here and now, From this hill whence for a moment I overlook the fair garden of human life, from this few feet of human flesh which I inhabit, From these fierce desires which hem me in, these defects, these limitations, these mortal sufferings, This little creature-dom, this brief emprisonment of life, I descend, I pass, I flow down, [O words so vain to tellO strange incredible transformation!] I pass, I flow down, into the freedom of all times, into the latitude of all places. I work on the hills once more with the slave and the freedman among the vines, I mix the mortar for them that build the aqueduct; The lover and his girl lean against my breast in the moonlight long ages back as now; The face of the mother understands my face a thousand and ten thousand years ago, as it does to-day; I am the cream-colored ox with mild eyes, and I am the driver who curses and goads it; I am the lover and the lovedI have lost and foun my identity. III The Piedmontese peasant takes me again into his little cottage of sun-dried bricks among the vineyards, and gives me a glass of cool wine in the shade; I see again the scantily furnished interior, the floor of native rock, the rickety ladder which serves for staircase to the chamber above, the table and chairs and one or two cooking utensils; And the great frame of sticks and canes, big as a four-poster bedstead, where he breeds his thousands of silkworms. But here too, alas! there is grief; for the poor son, so passionately loved of his mother, is wasting away apparently in a decline; All day with shawl thrown over him he squats in the sun by the door, or walks feebly to and fro, unable to help his father in the fieldat night he lies awake and hears the wearisome rustle of the silkworms eating their food; The mother prays the good God, but knows not whether anything comes of itthe little figure of Mary in the niche of the wall looks just the same though hearts are breaking. IV Ah! fragrance of human love exhaled! Great clouds from frail and perishable forms escaping silently, Into the night, into the vast aerial night of Time! The little flash of youth, the reaching of hands to hands, of hearts to hearts, of lips to lips, The closing in of the outer shell, the chrysalis-death, and the terrible struggles for liberation; The larvae crawling the earth for a timeon hill-sides and in valleys, in huts and palaceschained to their little plots of earth, their few frail feet of flesh; The great thunderclouds passing over from snowy range to range, touching the little creatures with their shadows; The great sun out of the unfathomable touching them too with his fingerbreeding slowly but surely within them the life which must destroy their mortality. V Onwards, onwards, I float. The smoke and glare, the confused roar and tumult of a manufacturing town spread all around; sounds of voices ascend past me into the silent supernal blue. In the tobacco factory amid rows of girls, with my little bit of mirror or comb concealed in a nook of my benchI sitor photograph placed where I can see it as I work; Or in the printing office of the daily paperprinting reports of law-courts and cricket-matchesI scramble with five or six others to the boxes for a fat take. The long trial is over, and I am the prisoner on whom sentence has been pronounced. The judge in scarlet and ermine, preceded by liveried heralds blowing trumpets, strides down the corridors and through the crowd thronging the steps of the Town Hall, into his blue and silver paneled coach; Hustled and thumped and buffeted by the police, I am fetched from the dock by underground passages to the prison van, and bumped through the streets to the gaolthere to await my execution. Pale and desperate in the cutlery buffing shop boys and girls bend over their wheels; In squalor and monotony the winter daylight through dirty windows dawns and dies away again upon them; In squalor and monotony the light of youth and of hope dawns and dies away again from their eyes; The master looks round with his hands in his pockets, well satisfied; The cheap goods ready to fall to pieces as soon as used are duly packed and despatched to African and Pacific Island traders. Civilisation plays its part in the history of each nation and each individual, Unerringly the time of its unfoldment to each arrives, and again the time of its dismissal and departure. Brawny figures move to and fro in the iron works, half-seen through clouds of flying steam or against the glare of furnaces; The flame of the Bessemer cupola roars, with showers of sparks, and rattling of cranes, and shouts of men; The foreman stands calmly aside, spectroscope in hand, or gives a signal with uplifted arm; I see the reversing of the cupola, and the outpour of molten steel, lilac with yellowing vapor around it; The rose-colored shafts of sunlight through the high roof, the terraces and platforms, the glints and halos amid the vapor; The balcony where the men stand with their hydraulic handles controlling the huge lifts and cranes beneath them; The groups steadying with iron poles and hooks the great lifted ingots of steel, or regulating the outflow of liquid stuff into the moulds; The man in a corner washing his shoulders and head in a bucket of water; The steam-hammers, the blocks of yellow-hot iron shimmering in the heated air; The steel-melter's men around the crucibles with their tongstheir feet and legs swathed in rags to keep off the heat, their sweat-handkerchiefs held between their teeth; The daring, recklessness even at times, the delight in the power and endurancethe drink, gross talk, rough jokesthrowing the great pressures upon the novices or shamming to pick quarrels with them; The planing and cutting of armor-plates, the huge resistless steam-driven machinery, the gouges and drills, The shaping of the plates (each one numbered) to the lines of the ships they are intended forthe careful drawing and planning, and following out of the plans; The transporting of them to the sea-coast, the riveting of them each in its place; And the floating away of these thousands of tons over the ocean and round the bend of the world. And he at the forge streaming with sweat, the striker, with bared breast, turning out claw-hammer heads by the score, Keeps dreaming and dreaming all day between the strokes, of love which is to come and change our earth into heaven; But his brother who works with him laughs at his dreamsand the spring comes in the woods to all alike: The gnarled oak breaks into pale yellow buds against the blue, the mouse stirs under the dry grass, and the corn-crake runs with head erect among the young green blades of corn. VI Each morning anew the mist rests on the hills; the sun rises on fresh clouds to be dispersed; It splinters its shafts against the great rock face, and brings out in bold relief the figure of the quarryman in his loose blue-checked shirt; Where on a projecting angle he stands, with mighty hammer-stroke driving the brods and wedges; Now he splits off a great mass and displaces it with the crowbar, While overhead among the tree-roots, in a sunny niche of the barings, A sparrow chirps cheerfully to him. Meanwhile the scythe-smith goes to see what he can do for his brother in prison; He takes the train and finds out the public-house to which the turnkey goes, and gives him half-a-sovereign to get his brother something to eat. The turnkey is a mild old man and would not willingly harm anybody; He says nothing to the prisoner, but when he leaves his cell each day he quietly drops a good-sized tommy behind him. And this is the Hogarthian interior of the Lincolnshire dancing chamber: the gas, the smoke, the fiddle-scrape, the slopped drink; The great projecting bay-window with seats in it, the twilight fading on the groups in the market-place without; The Dutch-looking ramshackle rooms lighting into one anotherfarmers' men and girls tumbling and sitting on each other's knees; Fat women gyrating together; the young man pressing his comrade to him in the dance; The middle-aged farmer slipping off into a barn at the back with a great wench: she cries, "How good, how good it is, O come again!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNTING PHEASANTS IN A CORNFIELD by ROBERT BLY THREE KINDS OF PLEASURES by ROBERT BLY QUESTION IN A FIELD by LOUISE BOGAN THE LAST MOWING by ROBERT FROST FIELD AND FOREST by RANDALL JARRELL AN EXPLANATION by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON IN FIELDS OF SUMMER by GALWAY KINNELL AS A MOULD FOR SOME FAIR FORM by EDWARD CARPENTER |
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