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PARTISAN REVIEW
THE STRANGER'S TALE
Two ages pursue each other under the -sun.
Either outlasts memory; no chronicle
Tells of their alternation. Yet old songs
Sing of the wondrous difference when gods
Gather again; when men, lone in the wind,
Are suddenly revisited, and guardians
Temper all effort, sowing the earth with ease.
Then apples are eternal; beasts are friends,
And drink from the same never icy waters.
Then do no hearts dispute; each eye is ample,
Owning as much of azure as it sees,
As
much of soil, of thicket. Where grapes hang
And melons lie, where generous birds give music,
There every foot both wanders and keeps home.
In the gold age gods are as close together
As
the ripe plums that cluster; are as close
To movers in the meadow as moths come,
Kissing the daisy white. But they are huge,
These fathers, and keep faith with their soft children,
Those souls with no tomorrow, those unmeaning
Foster folk that play at being men.
Or so men say when deity, departed,
Leaves them to dig and harrow; brings the frost;
And huddles certain of them in wild cities,
Woeful yet necessary, where high laws
Build peace instead of music. For the tune
That sang itself is lost, and torturers
Wring harmony from rock, from gravel's word.
This _is the time of man, the _terrible,
The artful time, the beautiful with risk.
And none then will exchange it, though pure songs
Sing of the wondrous difference. No man then
Would save himself more easily. The time
