Ambrose Bierce

Shapes of Clay


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Strange fellowship!—the city of the dead;

       And much I wondered what its humble folk,

       To see how bravely they were housed, had said.

       Noting how firm their habitations stood,

       Broad-based and free of perishable wood—

       How deep in granite and how high in brass

       The names were wrought of eminent and good,

       I said: "When gold or power is their aim,

       The smile of beauty or the wage of shame,

       Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare

       When they would conquer an abiding fame."

       From the red East the sun—a solemn rite—

       Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height

       Above the dead; and then with all his strength

       Struck the great city all aroar with light!

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      I know not if it was a dream. I came

       Unto a land where something seemed the same

       That I had known as 't were but yesterday,

       But what it was I could not rightly name.

       It was a strange and melancholy land.

       Silent and desolate. On either hand

       Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead,

       And dead above it seemed the hills to stand,

       Grayed all with age, those lonely hills—ah me,

       How worn and weary they appeared to be!

       Between their feet long dusty fissures clove

       The plain in aimless windings to the sea.

       One hill there was which, parted from the rest,

       Stood where the eastern water curved a-west.

       Silent and passionless it stood. I thought

       I saw a scar upon its giant breast.

       The sun with sullen and portentous gleam

       Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme;

       Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars

       Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam.

       It was a dismal and a dreadful sight,

       That desert in its cold, uncanny light;

       No soul but I alone to mark the fear

       And imminence of everlasting night!

       All presages and prophecies of doom

       Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom,

       And in the midst of that accursèd scene

       A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb.

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      Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep

       (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!)

       Sealed upon my senses with so deep

       A stupefaction that men thought me dead.

       The centuries stole by with noiseless tread,

       Like spectres in the twilight of my dream;

       I saw mankind in dim procession sweep

       Through life, oblivion at each extreme.

       Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing,

       Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing.

       The generations came with dance and song,

       And each observed me curiously there.

       Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng

       Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer."

       Some said I was a saint, and some a bear—

       These all were women. So the young and gay,

       Visibly wrinkling as they fared along,

       Doddered at last on failing limbs away;

       Though some, their footing in my beard entangled,

       Fell into its abysses and were strangled.

       At last a generation came that walked

       More slowly forward to the common tomb,

       Then altogether stopped. The women talked

       Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom

       Looked darkly on them with a look of doom;

       And one cried out: "We are immortal now—

       How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked,

       Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow,

       And all men cried: "Decapitate the women,

       Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!"

       So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped

       From its fair shoulders, and but men alone

       Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped,

       Enough of room remained in every zone,

       And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne.

       Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks

       Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped)

       'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe.

       Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking,

       And crumbled all to powder in the waking.

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      What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame

       Or canting Pharisee no more defame?

       Will Treachery caress my hand no more,

       Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?—

       Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed,

       Not close the loaded palm to make a fist?

       Will Envy henceforth not retaliate

       For virtues it were vain to emulate?

       Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout,

       Not understanding what 'tis all about,

       Yet feeling in its light so mean and small

       That all his little soul is turned to gall?

       What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed?

       Greed from exaction magically charmed?

       Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets,

       Like horses fugitive in crowded streets?

       The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell,

       Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well?

       The Critic righteously to justice haled,

       His own ear to the post securely nailed—

       What most he