A music-stand of crimson¹ lacquer, long since brought
In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly² wrought
With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold,
The slender shaft³ all twined about and thickly scrolled
With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling,
Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling
Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams;
Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams
Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen,
Long streaks⁴ of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean.
Four desks, adjustable⁵, to suit the heights of players
Sitting to viols or standing⁶ up to sing, four layers
Of music to serve every instrument, are there,
And on the apex⁷ a large flat-topped golden pear.
It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights,
When the sun flares⁸ the old barn-chamber with its flights
And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards,
Legless and mouldy, and hops⁹, glint to glint, on hoards
Of scythes¹⁰, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools
Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools.
With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust
Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust
Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range,
The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change;
To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws;
To dart¹¹ a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws;
To puff¹² out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade
Back to a still, faint outline obliterate¹³ in shade.
Creeping up the ladder into the loft¹⁴, the Boy
Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy.
He sees the dusty sun-mote slit¹⁵ by streaks of red,
He sees it split and stream, and all about his head
Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking¹⁷, flicking,
Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking
The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom.
The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room.
The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door
And the sun widens out all along the floor,
Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward¹⁸ light,
So not one blurred¹⁹ outline can tease the mind to fright.
"O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless
ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him
for ever.
O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him,
and Magnify Him
for ever.
O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise
Him, and Magnify Him
for ever.
O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord;
Praise Him,
and Magnify Him for ever."
The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded
fair,
Will heap it with the Works of the Lord.  In the morning
air,
Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled,
Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World
Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise.
The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze
An altar meet and worthy²⁰, but each table and chair
Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair
To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs,
The tables are uneven²¹, and every highboy lacks
A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised²² and worn,
And even a wide sofa has its cane²³ seat torn.
Only in the gloom far in the corner there
The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare,
Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread,
The sound of old quartets, a tenuous²⁴, faint thread,
Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme²⁵ --
Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme!
A candle on the bookcase feels a draught²⁶ and wavers,
Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers.
A bed-post, grown colossal²⁷, jigs²⁸ about the ceiling,
And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing
Eagles, and rabbits, and weird²⁹ faces pulled awry,
And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly³⁰.
Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun
Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one
Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones,
And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock³¹ cones,
An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly³² blown,
The rattle³³ of a rattlesnake, and three large brown
Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled
With a green luna moth³⁴, a snake-skin freshly scaled,
Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell,
A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell
The stand will hold no more.  The Boy with humming head
Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed.
The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind
Blows gustily³⁵ and clear, and slaps against the blind.
He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy
It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free
For adoration³⁶ only, for worship.  Dedicate,
His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate.
The hours strike below from the clock on the stair.
The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer.
Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him
Whose splendour must be veiled by starry³⁷ cherubim,
Whose Feet shimmer³⁸ like crystal in the streets of Heaven.
Like an open rose the sun will stand up even,
Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement³⁹ glows
Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows
From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite
The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light.
Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim,
`Viols d'amore' and `hautbois' accorded to a hymn⁴⁰.
The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings
Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings⁴¹.
He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes
Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise.
The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the
wall
When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness⁴², started his ritual.
He washed, all shivering and pointed⁴³ like a flame.
He threw the shutters⁴⁴ open, and in the window-frame
The morning glimmered⁴⁵ like a tarnished⁴⁶ Venice glass.
He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass
Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate
Worthy to hold them burning.  Alas⁴⁷!  He had
been late
In thinking of this need, and now he could not find
Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind.
The house was not astir, and he dared not go down
Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown
And slam before the draught he made as he went out.
The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about.
A flash of almost crimson from the gilded⁴⁸ pear
Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there.
The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared,
Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared.
He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid
Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed
To light with ease, then stood a little to one side,
Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly⁴⁹ tried
To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays
Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze.
Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation⁵⁰ flame,
Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came.
The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced,
Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced,
A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense⁵¹ pile
Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile
Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up,
A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup.
"O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord;
Praise Him, and Magnify Him
for ever.
O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him,
and Magnify Him
for ever.
O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him,
and Magnify Him
for ever.
O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise
Him, and Magnify Him
for ever."
A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled,
seeming
A chalice⁵² foamed⁵³ with sunrise.  The Boy woke from his
dreaming.
A spike¹⁶ of flame had caught the card of butterflies,
The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries
Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue
Of gleaming, brutal⁵⁴ fire.  The Boy instantly swung
His pitcher⁵⁵ off the wash-stand and turned it upside down.
The flames drooped⁵⁶ back and sizzled, and all his senses grown
Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed
And flung it over all, and then with aching head
He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains
Of his holy offering.  The lacquer stand had stains
Ugly and charred⁵⁷ all over, and where the golden pear
Had been, a deep, black hole gaped⁵⁸ miserably⁵⁹.  His dear
Treasures were puffs⁶⁰ of ashes; only the stones were there,
Winking in the brightness.

The clock upon the stair
Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate.
The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late.

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