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GIFT OF

HOWARD ERIC

CLASS OF 1901

THE POT OF EARTH

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THE

POT OF EARTH

BY

ARCHIBALD MacLEISH

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Author of “ TAe Happy Marriage”

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BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ®bt IMbenffbe JSresa Cambribat 1925

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These [the gardens of Adonis] were baskets or pots filled with earth in which wheat, barley, lettuces, fennel, and various kinds of flowers were sown and tended for eight days, chiefly or exclusively by women. Fostered by the sun’s heat, the plants shot up rapidly, but having no root they withered as rapidly away, and at the end of eight days were carried out with the images of the dead Adonis and flung with them into the sea or into springs.

Sir James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough

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CONTENTS

PART I

The Sowing of the Dead Corn 1

PART II

The Shallow Grass 24

PART III

The Carrion Spring

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THE

POT OF EARTH

‘ For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing carrion, — Have you a daughter? ’

‘ 1 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.

1

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

2

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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

3

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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.

4

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

5

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

6

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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

7

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 —

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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

9

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?

10

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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 over¬ flowing

11

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The clean earth. And what will the pine cone do.

The skulls and kernels that the winter gath¬ ered —

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.

12

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.

13

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,

14

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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,

15

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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 16

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,

17

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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 —

18

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 —

19

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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

20

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 — 21

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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

22

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 —

PART TWO

THE SHALLOW GRASS

The plow of tamarisk wood which is shared with black copper

And drawn by a yoke of oxen all black Drags in the earth.

The earth is made ready with copper,

The earth is prepared for the seed by the feet of oxen

That are shod with brass.

They said. Good Luck ! Good Luck ! What a handsome couple!

Isn’t she lovely though! He can’t keep his hands

Away from her. Ripe as a peach she is. Good Luck!

Good-bye, Good-bye —

24

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They took the down express, The five-five. She had the seat by the window —

He can’t keep —

She sat there looking out And the fields were brown and raw from the spring plowing,

The fields were naked, they were stretched out bare.

Rigid, with long welts, with open wounds. Stripped —

In the flat sunlight she could see The fields heave against the furrows, lift, Twist to get free —

— his hands —

Why, what’s the matter? We’re almost there now, only half an hour. And we’ll have our supper in our rooms. I’ve taken

25

The best room, what they call the bridal chamber —

What they call — what do they call it? —

And I dressed up

All in these new things not a red ribbon You ever had on before and mind you keep The shoes you were married in and all to go Into a closed room with a bed in it,

To lie in a shut chamber

Something

What they call — the chalked letters

does he say

That

I wonder

or what —

She held his hand Against her breast under the flowers. She felt

26

The warmth of it like the warmth of the sun driving

Downward into her heart.

And all those fields

Ready, the earth stretched out upon those fields

Ready, and now the sowers —

What is this thing we know that they have not told us?

What is this in us that has come to bed

In a closed room?

I tell you the generations Of man are a ripple of thin fire burning Over a meadow, breeding out of itself Itself, a momentary incandescence Lasting a long time, and we that blaze Now, we are not the fire, for it leaves us.

27

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I tell you we are the shape of a word in the air Uttered from silence behind us into silence Far, far beyond, and now between two strokes Of the word’s passing have become the word — That jars on through the night;

and the stirred air

Deadens,

is still —

They lived that summer in a furnished flat On the south side of Congress Street and no Sun, but you could look into the branches Of all those chestnut-trees, and then they had A window-box, but the geraniums Died leaving a little earth and the wind Or somehow one June morning there was grass Sprouting —

28

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How does your garden grow, your garden In the shallow dish, in the dark, how does it grow?

To-morrow we bear the milk corn to the river. To-morrow we go to the spring with the pale stalks :

Has your garden ripened?

She used to water them Morning and evening and the blades grew Yellow a sort of whitey yellowy all Fluffy

hairs from a dead skull

they say

The skulls of dead girls —

Won’t it let you die Even, burgeoning from your bones, your dead Bones, from your body, not even die, not just Be dead, be quiet?

What is this thing that sprouts 29

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From the womb, from the living flesh, from the live body?

What does it want? WTiy won’t it let you alone

Not even dead?

Why, look, you are a handful Of fat mould breeding corruption, a pinch Of earth for seed fall —

How does your garden grow?

Hot nights the whole room reeked with the fetid smell

Of chestnut flowers, the live smell, the fertile Odor of blossoms. She half drowsed. She dreamed

Of long hair fragrant with almonds growing Out of her dead skull, she dreamed of one Buried, and out of her womb the corn grow¬ ing.

30

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Construe the soundless, slow Explosion of a summer cloud, decipher The sayings’ of the wind beneath the pantry door.

Say when the moon will come, when the rain will follow.

Unless the rain comes soon the colored petals Sheathing the secret stigma of the rose Will fall, will wither, and the swollen womb Close, harden, upon a brittle stalk Seal up its summer, and the hollyhock.

The broom, the furze, the poppy will be¬ come,

Their petals fallen, all their petals fallen, Pease-cods — seedboxes — haws —

It should have rained when the moon Spilled out the old moon’s shadow.

31

Seven days I have been waiting for the rain now,

The sound of water.

Seven days I have been walking up and down in the house.

There was nothing to do, there was nothing to do but wait,

But wait, but walk and walk

And at night hear

The patter of dry leaves on the window and wake.

And waking, think, The rain! Yes — and hear

The patter of dry leaves.

There was nothing to do, there was nothing to do but wait.

But wait, but wait, but wait, and the wind whispering

Something I couldn’t understand beneath the door,

32

Something that I wouldn’t understand.

And the grass stems

Stiffening to bear the headed grain,

The rose.

The hawthorn Covering with bony fingers Their swollen wombs,

The summer shrivelling to husks, to shells. Pease-cods, seedboxes,

The summer sucking through a withered straw Enough stale water for a few beans,

For a handful of swelling peas in a sealed bladder,

For the living something in a closed womb.

Upon the sand

This brine, these bubbles —

The wave of summer is drowned in the salt land.

33

And I, the climbing tip Of that old ivy, time.

To waver swaying over a blind wall With all

To-day to dream in,

and, behind.

The never-resting root Through my live body drives The living shoot,

The climbing ivy-tip of time.

I am a room at the end of a long journey The windows of which open upon the night Or perhaps Nothing —

I am a room at a passage end where lies Huddled in darkness one that door by door

34

Has come time’s length through his old windy house For this —

For what, then?

Neither.

I am a woman in a waterproof Walking beside the river in an autumn rain. Above the trolley bridge the market gardens Are charnel fields where the unburied corn Rots and the rattling pumpkin vines lift brittle fingers

Warning — of what? — and livid, broken skulls

Of cabbages gape putrid in a pond —

My face under the cold rain is cold As winter leaves that cover up the year.

35

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I feel the wind as the numb earth feels it. I feel the heavy seed in the warm dark And the spring ripening —

And what is this to be a woman? Why,

To be a woman, a sown field.

Let us

Attribute a significance perhaps

Not ours to what we are compelled to be

By being it:

as privately forestall The seed’s necessity by welcoming The necessary seed;

likewise prevent

Death with the apothegm that all men die. Yes.

And then wake alone at night and lie here 36

Stripped of my memories, without the chairs And walls and doors and windows that have been

My recognition of myself, my soul’s Condition, the whole habit of my mind.

Yes, wake, and of the close, unusual dark Demand an answer, crying, What am I?

Ah, What! A naked body born to bear Nakedness suffering. A sealed mystery With hands to feed it, with unable legs,

With shamed eyes meaning — what? What do they mean

The red haws out there underneath the snow, What do they signify?

Glory of women to grow big and die Fruitfully, glory of women to be broken. Pierced by the green sprout, severed, tossed aside

37

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Fruitfully —

Yes, all right, Yes, Yes, But what about me —

I am —

What am I —

What do you think

What do you take me for!

Snow, the snow —

When shall I be delivered? When will my time come?

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PART THREE

THE CARRION SPRING

The flowers of the sea are brief. Lost flowers of the sea.

Salt petal, bitter leaf.

The fruitless tree —

The flowers of the sea are blown Dead, they blossom in death: The sea furrows are sown With a cold breath.

I heard in my heart all night The sea crying. Come home.

Come home. I thought of the white Cold flowers of foam.

39

In March, when the snow melted, he was born. She lay quiet in the bed. She lay still, Dying.

Under the iron rumble Of the streets she heard the rolling Boulders that the flood tides tumble Climbing sea by sea the shoaling Ledges, — she could hear the tolling Sea.

She lay alone there.

In the morning

They came and went about her,

Moving through the room. She asked them Whispering. They told her.

He is here. She said, Who is it.

Who is it that is born, that is here?

She said, Do you not know him?

Have you seen the green blades gathered?

40

Have you seen the shallow grain?

Do you know, — do you not know him? Laugh, she said, I am delivered,

I am free, I am no longer Burdened. I have borne the summer Dead, the corn dead, the living Dead. I am delivered.

He has left me now. I lie here Empty, gleaned, a reaped meadow. Fearing the rain no more, not fearing Spring nor the flood tides overflowing Earth with their generative waters — - Let me sleep, let me be quiet.

I can see the dark sail going On and on, the river flowing Red with the melting of the snow:

What is this thing we know? —

Under the iron street the crying

41

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Voices of the sea. Come home,

Come to your house. Come home.

She heard

A slow crying in the sea, Come home.

Come to your house —

Go secretly and put me in the ground —

Go before the moon uncovers.

Go where now no night wind hovers,

Say no word above me, make no sound.

Heap only on my buried bones Cold sand and naked stones And come away and leave unmarked the mound.

Let not those silent hunters hear you pass: Let not the trees know, nor the thirsty grass. Nor secret rain

42

To breed from me some living thing again, But only earth —

For fear my body should be drowned In her deep silences and never found.

The slow spring blossomed again, a cold Bubbling of the corrupted pool, a frothy Thickening, a ferment of soft green Bubbling —

Who knows how deep the roots drink? They drink deep.

And you, what do you hope? What do you believe, walking Alone in an old garden, staring down Beneath the shallow surface of the grass,

The floating green? What do you say you are?

43

And what was she that you remember, staring Down through the pale grass, what was she?

And what is this that grows in an old garden?

Listen, I will interpret to you. Look, now,

I will discover you a thing hidden,

A secret thing. Come, I will conduct you By seven doors into a closed tomb.

I will show you the mystery of mysteries.

I will show you the body of the dead god bringing forth

The corn. I will show you the reaped ear Sprouting.

Are you contented? Are you answered? Come.

I will show you chestnut branches budding

44

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Beyond a dusty pane and a little grass Green in a window-box and silence stirred, Settling and stirred and settling in an empty

room —

PHILLIPS ACADEMY

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