But in any case, Dear Ponto, if you were an infidel “You might say “What’s harmonics? they’re a joke.” “And who’s Spinoza, Newton, they are myths.” “And mathematics, music, can you eat them,” “For what you cannot eat has no existence.” Deny them as you will these spheres of thought Lie as the steps of mountains over you. They wait for you to gain them, you can find them By rising to them, then how real they are! As real as scampering when I take a walk. But are they all? How do I know what spheres Of life lie all around me and above me, Just waiting not for me, but till I climb And rest awhile and take their meaning in. How do I know what hand plays a Victrola With records greater than Beethoven’s song, Which make me howl as piteously as you? But here again our minds meet on a level: I know no more than you do why I howl; Nor what it is that makes me howl, nor why, Though not content with meat, I want to know, And keep as all my own this higher music. THE GOSPEL OF MARK How long have you been waiting? Not so long? I’m glad of that. You found the place at once. Well, there’s the Campus Martius, when you’re there You see above this Collis Hortulorum, A good place for two men like us to meet: Here’s where luxurious souls have their abodes. That’s Sallust’s garden there. They do not care So much about us as some others do. There is a tolerance comes from being rich, An urbane soul is fashioned by a villa. Our faith is not to these a wicked thing, A deadly superstition as some deem it. But Mark, my son, there’s Rome below you there-- What temples, arches, under the full moon! Here let us sit beside this chestnut tree, And while the soft wind blows out of the sea Let’s finish up our talks. You must know all Wherewith to write the story ere I die Beneath the wrath of Nero. See that light, Faint like a little candle--I passed there. That’s one of our poor men, they make us lamps Wherewith to light the streets and Nero’s gardens. We shall be lamps they’ll wish to snuff in time. We met to-night at one Silvanus’ house. And I was telling them about the night When in Gethsemane you followed Him, Having a cloth around your naked body. And how you laid hold on him, left the cloth And fled. But when you write this you can say “A certain young man,” leaving out your name, You may not wish to have it known ’twas you Who ran away, as I would like to hide How I fell into sleep and failed to watch, And afterwards declared I knew Him not: But as for me omit no thing. The world Will gain for seeing me rise out of weakness To strength, and out of fear to boldness. Time Has wrought his wonders in me, I am rock, Let hell beat on me, I shall stand from now!