The Great Valley

Name: The Great Valley
Author: Masters, Edgar Lee

Masters, Edgar Lee

American poetry

And he went his way
    To sell his great invention.
    And I in the village glory
    Of clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitive
    And proud, a little learned, so zealous
    For the weal of the world
    Came to your chateau palace near the Drive,
    To you my friend, my queenly cousin,
    For a little visit before I entered
    Upon the city’s life.
    You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes,
    And put me at ease with your lovely smile.
    And there was about you the calm of desert air in Nevada
    That made me forget myself.
    Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words,
    And to mould me with delicate hands,
    As one might smooth a rumpled collar,
    Or fasten a loosened scarf,
    Or lift to place a strand of hair
    Of one beloved who thrills to the touch.
    Even with closed eyes you saw everything
    Of harmony, or form, or hue.
    There were silver strings in your little ears
    Which caught the tone pictures of sounds,
    And the intonations and sonorities of voices;
    Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words.
    And there as you saw and heard me,
    (I knew it at once,)
    You took me for your piece of bronze in the rough
    To be made under your hands
    Your triumph, your work, your creation
    In the world where you ruled as queen.
    You would see me as finished art
    Move before admiring eyes
    Where music is and richness,
    And where poverty and struggle
    And sacrifice and failure are forgotten.

    That was the cousin you meant me to be.
    And in a few nights
    There was an evening dress and fine linen
    And an opera hat and cloak
    Laid out for me in my snow white room,
    And a valet came to help me.
    For we were to see Carmen together--
    You and I in a box.
    You the queen,
    And I a genius from the country
    Of whom the word had gone the rounds:
    A translator of Homer,
    And a dreamer of revolutions,
    Her cousin, you know!

    I was pale from fear and pride
    As I entered the box with you.
    I felt I was wronging my dreams
    And apostatizing all I had dreamed
    To be in this box with you.
    And a sullen hatred of everything:
    The mass of color, the faint perfumes,
    The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breasts
    Of the queens in the boxes angered me.
    And everyone was smiling, and everyone was leveling
    Opera glasses, sometimes at me,
    A translator of Homer
    And a dreamer of socialism.
    And there like a fool I sat and thought
    Of the cold without and the beggar man
    Who stood at your carriage as we alighted.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The Great ValleyMasters, Edgar Lee

General

The Great Valley

Masters, Edgar Lee

American poetry

And he went his way
    To sell his great invention.
    And I in the village glory
    Of clothes ill-fitting, timid, sensitive
    And proud, a little learned, so zealous
    For the weal of the world
    Came to your chateau palace near the Drive,
    To you my friend, my queenly cousin,
    For a little visit before I entered
    Upon the city’s life.
    You looked me over with calm Egyptian eyes,
    And put me at ease with your lovely smile.
    And there was about you the calm of desert air in Nevada
    That made me forget myself.
    Yet you began to guide me with subtlest words,
    And to mould me with delicate hands,
    As one might smooth a rumpled collar,
    Or fasten a loosened scarf,
    Or lift to place a strand of hair
    Of one beloved who thrills to the touch.
    Even with closed eyes you saw everything
    Of harmony, or form, or hue.
    There were silver strings in your little ears
    Which caught the tone pictures of sounds,
    And the intonations and sonorities of voices;
    Which trembled to the barbarities of unmelodic words.
    And there as you saw and heard me,
    (I knew it at once,)
    You took me for your piece of bronze in the rough
    To be made under your hands
    Your triumph, your work, your creation
    In the world where you ruled as queen.
    You would see me as finished art
    Move before admiring eyes
    Where music is and richness,
    And where poverty and struggle
    And sacrifice and failure are forgotten.

    That was the cousin you meant me to be.
    And in a few nights
    There was an evening dress and fine linen
    And an opera hat and cloak
    Laid out for me in my snow white room,
    And a valet came to help me.
    For we were to see Carmen together--
    You and I in a box.
    You the queen,
    And I a genius from the country
    Of whom the word had gone the rounds:
    A translator of Homer,
    And a dreamer of revolutions,
    Her cousin, you know!

    I was pale from fear and pride
    As I entered the box with you.
    I felt I was wronging my dreams
    And apostatizing all I had dreamed
    To be in this box with you.
    And a sullen hatred of everything:
    The mass of color, the faint perfumes,
    The lights, the jewels, the dazzling breasts
    Of the queens in the boxes angered me.
    And everyone was smiling, and everyone was leveling
    Opera glasses, sometimes at me,
    A translator of Homer
    And a dreamer of socialism.
    And there like a fool I sat and thought
    Of the cold without and the beggar man
    Who stood at your carriage as we alighted.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Great Valley

The Great Valley

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