Part XIV

And then, as if in lawful wedlock, lived
The two. No priest had blessed their plighted love,
They made no vows of fealty and faith,
They did not utter speech, deep in their hearts
These words of promise "unto death'' remained
Untainted, as they should fore'er remain,
Pure as the stars, whose brightness human breath
Can never reach. The days passed blissfully,
The months... the world without knew naught,
of them,
They seemed to know naught of their world around.
The youth's spirit howe'er became aroused
And said to him with voice of stern reproach.
"Awake, arise! Thou wert not born to live
A selfish life, for others thou wert made,
Up! Up! Young man! and do your work in life."
In language more severe then spoke to him
A voice, the voice of daily need and want:
"Up! go to work, or soon in direst need
And hungry will you be, now two of you,
And soon to come a third one must be fed."
He went to work. He wrote; with heart and soul
He penned the dictates of his brilliant mind.
Then to an editor he took his work.
The editor read through the manuscript.
And said to him: You are a great man, Sir,
You are a genius, but still a fool.
You're truly great, your work's indeed sublime,
The like of which Rousseau did never write,
You are, though, still a fool if you could think
That you this manuscript would see in print.
Have you ne'er heard of what the Censor is?
If not, I'll tell you, list, the censor is
The devil's own threshing machine, the sheaves
Of human brain are threshed by it. The grain —
I mean the truth — is seperated and
The chaff and straw are given back to print,
And this is all the public is allowed
To digest. Ah! Sir, if you doubt my word,
Just let us try. Yes, I am willing, Sir,
To bolt one leaden ball for each grain
Left in your sheaf when he is through with it.
If you the product of your brain would save
From this threshing machine, produce no grain,
Produce but weed, however mean and vile
Which poisons people's minds. What do you care?

For stuff of that kind you are even paid."

Stunned and bewildered he went slowly home,
Felt as if he against a wall had knocked
His head. Sat down to write, fully resolved
To write in other vein, subdued and smooth
And soft so that the censor, when his hands
Pass o'er his work, should feel its velvet touch.
When he had done his work, he found the same
More free, outspoken, bolder than the first.
Against his judgment and convictious strong,
And ten and hundred times he tried to write,
But all in vain, he tore up what he wrote.
He found he could not force himself to write
Against his judgement and convictious strong,
That if he wrote what might go through the press
It would be thrash, while what he felt to be
Work of real worth, the censor would reject.
"'Tis awful!" he exclaimed, ''are there no means
To make myself then heard! This fire within
My soul, winch would have set the world ablaze,
I must quench and subdue within my breast,
That it devour my own .heart. — I must live!
Shall I my sacred principles deny,
And let the rascals who deceive the world,
Hire my pen? No! By the Eternal! No!
Death from starvation On a dung-hill I
Prefer, and I much rather end my life
As I began the same. I'll steal, I'll beg,
Do menial work ere I -should write one line
That does not spring and rise from my soul's

source,

Ere I a false seal put upon one thought —
However insignificant, of mine.
Good-bye ye thoughts, ye walled in prisoners,
Let my brain the prison and the coffin be
For my ideas.... No! They cannot die;
The day will be because the day must be
When they come forth, their prison-door shall ope,
And make their tour around the wide-wide world
And carry light and warmth everywhere
As do the rays of the bright summer sun."

The youth allowed his thoughts and his ideas
To rest. To gain the needful daily bread
He copied others' thoughts. What weary work!
More bitter far than chopping logs of wood.
At early morning he began his work,
Worked late into the eve, and many times
He burned the midnight oil, and frequently
His lamp went out before he went to bed.
And yet, in spite of all this earnest work
His table often missed its meagre weight
Of daily food; upon his window pane
The winter often planted icy flowers
And froze the tear within the woman's eye
Naught cooled howe'er the ardour of her love.

Years came, years passed, his family had grown.
Now they were three and then the fourth' one came,
And quadrupled was then the misery.
Within that narrow garret-room, their home,
The walls of which inflowing rain had streaked,
And mildew had put on its ornaments;
Where now. upon the bed, three of them sleep,
The mother and the children, while nearby,
Upon a heap of straw the man found rest.
The rising sun's first rays fall on his brow,
Encircling his head, as if Almighty God
Had pressed upon that brow a loving kiss.