"The moon's a holy owl-queen:She keeps them in a jarUnder her arm till evening,Then sallies forth to war.She pours the owls upon us:They hoot with horrid noiseAnd eat the naughty mousie-girlsAnd wicked mousie-boys.So climb the moon-vine every nightAnd to the owl-queen pray:Leave good green cheese by moonlit treesFor her to take away.And never squeak, my children,Nor gnaw the smoke-house door.The owl-queen then will then love usAnd send her birds no more."
"The moon's a holy owl-queen:She keeps them in a jarUnder her arm till evening,Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us:They hoot with horrid noiseAnd eat the naughty mousie-girlsAnd wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moon-vine every nightAnd to the owl-queen pray:Leave good green cheese by moonlit treesFor her to take away.
And never squeak, my children,Nor gnaw the smoke-house door.The owl-queen then will then love usAnd send her birds no more."
At the end I asked for my room and retired. I slept maybe an hour. I was awakened by those tireless little rascals racing along the dark hall and saying in horrible solemn tones, pretending to scare one another:
"The moon's a holy owl-queen:She keeps them in a jarUnder her arm till night,Then 'allies out to war!She sicks the owls upon us,They 'OOT with 'orrid noiseAnd eat ... the naughty boys,And themoon's a holy owl-queen!She keeps them in a JAR!"
"The moon's a holy owl-queen:She keeps them in a jarUnder her arm till night,Then 'allies out to war!She sicks the owls upon us,They 'OOT with 'orrid noiseAnd eat ... the naughty boys,And themoon's a holy owl-queen!She keeps them in a JAR!"
And so it went on, over and over.
Thereupon I made a mighty and a rash resolve. I renewed that same resolve in the morning when I woke. I said within myself "I shall write one hundred Poems on the Moon!"
Of course I did not keep my resolve to write one hundred pieces about the moon. But here are a few of those I did write immediately after:
THE FLUTE OF THE LONELY[To the tune of Gaily the Troubadour.]
Faintly the ne'er-do-wellBreathed through his flute:All the tired neighbor-folk,Hearing, were mute.In their neat doorways sat,Labors all done,Helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought,Evening begun.None of them there beguiledWork-thoughts away,Like to this reckless, wildLoafer by day.(Weeds in his flowers upgrown!Fences awry!Rubbish and bottles heaped!Yard like a sty!)There in his lonely door,Leering and lean,Staggering, liquor-stained,Outlawed, obscene——Played he his moonlight thought,Mastered his flute.All the tired neighbor-folk,Hearing, were mute.None but he, in that block,Knew such a tune.All loved the strain, and allLooked at the moon!
Faintly the ne'er-do-wellBreathed through his flute:All the tired neighbor-folk,Hearing, were mute.In their neat doorways sat,Labors all done,Helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought,Evening begun.
None of them there beguiledWork-thoughts away,Like to this reckless, wildLoafer by day.(Weeds in his flowers upgrown!Fences awry!Rubbish and bottles heaped!Yard like a sty!)
There in his lonely door,Leering and lean,Staggering, liquor-stained,Outlawed, obscene——Played he his moonlight thought,Mastered his flute.All the tired neighbor-folk,Hearing, were mute.None but he, in that block,Knew such a tune.All loved the strain, and allLooked at the moon!
THE SHIELD OF FAITH
The full moon is the Shield of Faith,And when it hangs on highAnother shield seems on my armThe hard world to defy.Yea, when the moon has knighted me,Then every poisoned dartOf daytime memory turns awayFrom my dream-armored heart.The full moon is the Shield of Faith:As long as it shall rise,I know that Mystery comes again,That Wonder never dies.I know that Shadow has its place,That Noon is not our goal,That Heaven has non-official hoursTo soothe and mend the soul;That witchcraft can be angel-craftAnd wizard deeds sublime;That utmost darkness bears a flower,Though long the budding-time.
The full moon is the Shield of Faith,And when it hangs on highAnother shield seems on my armThe hard world to defy.
Yea, when the moon has knighted me,Then every poisoned dartOf daytime memory turns awayFrom my dream-armored heart.
The full moon is the Shield of Faith:As long as it shall rise,I know that Mystery comes again,That Wonder never dies.
I know that Shadow has its place,That Noon is not our goal,That Heaven has non-official hoursTo soothe and mend the soul;
That witchcraft can be angel-craftAnd wizard deeds sublime;That utmost darkness bears a flower,Though long the budding-time.
THE ROSE OF MIDNIGHT[What the Gardener's Daughter Said]
The moon is now an opening flower,The sky a cliff of blue.The moon is now a silver rose;Her pollen is the dew.Her pollen is the mist that swingsAcross her face of dreams:Her pollen is the faint cold lightThat through the garden streams.All earth is but a passion-flowerWith blood upon his crown.And what shall fill his failing veinsAnd lift his head, bowed down?This cup of peace, this silver roseBending with fairy breathShall lift that passion-flower, the earth,A million times from Death!
The moon is now an opening flower,The sky a cliff of blue.The moon is now a silver rose;Her pollen is the dew.
Her pollen is the mist that swingsAcross her face of dreams:Her pollen is the faint cold lightThat through the garden streams.
All earth is but a passion-flowerWith blood upon his crown.And what shall fill his failing veinsAnd lift his head, bowed down?
This cup of peace, this silver roseBending with fairy breathShall lift that passion-flower, the earth,A million times from Death!
THE PATH IN THE SKY
I sailed a little shallopUpon a pretty seaIn blue and hazy mountains,Scarce mountains unto me;Their summits lost in wonder,They wrapped the lake around,And when my shallop landedI trod on a vague ground,And climbed and climbed toward heaven,Though scarce before my feetI found one step unveiled thereThe blue-haze vast, complete,Until I came to ZionThe gravel paths of God:My endless trail pierced the thick veilTo flaming flowers and sod.I rested, looked behind meAnd saw where I had been.My little lake. It was the moon.Sky-mountains closed it in.
I sailed a little shallopUpon a pretty seaIn blue and hazy mountains,Scarce mountains unto me;Their summits lost in wonder,They wrapped the lake around,And when my shallop landedI trod on a vague ground,
And climbed and climbed toward heaven,Though scarce before my feetI found one step unveiled thereThe blue-haze vast, complete,Until I came to ZionThe gravel paths of God:My endless trail pierced the thick veilTo flaming flowers and sod.I rested, looked behind meAnd saw where I had been.My little lake. It was the moon.Sky-mountains closed it in.
PROCLAMATIONS
Immediately upon my return from my journey the following Proclamations were printed in Farm and Fireside, through the great kindness of the editors, as another phase of the same crusade.
A PROCLAMATION OF BALM IN GILEADGo to the fields, O city laborers, till your wounds are healed. Forget the street-cars, the skyscrapers, the slums, the Marseillaise song.We proclaim to the broken-hearted, still able to labor, the glories of the ploughed land. The harvests are wonderful. And there is a spiritual harvest appearing. A great agricultural flowering of art and song is destined soon to appear. Where corn and wheat are growing, men are singing the psalms of David, not the Marseillaise.You to whom the universe has become a blast-furnace, a coke-oven, a cinder-strewn freight-yard, to whom the history of all ages is a tragedy with the climax now, to whom our democracy and our flag are but playthings of the hypocrite,—turn to the soil, turn to the earth, your mother, and she will comfort you. Rest, be it ever so little, from your black broodings. Think with the farmer once more, as your fathers did. Revere with the farmer our centuries-old civilization, however little it meets the city's trouble. Revere the rural customs that have their roots in the immemorial benefits of nature.With the farmer look again upon the Constitution as something brought by Providence, prepared for by the ages. Go to church, the cross-roads church, and say the Lord's Prayer again. Help them with their temperance crusade. It is a deeper matter than you think. Listen to the laughter of the farmer's children. Know that not all the earth is a-weeping. Know that so long as there is black soil deep on the prairie, so long as grass will grow on it, we have a vast green haven.The roots of some of our trees are still in the earth. Our mountains need not to be moved from their places. Wherever there is tillable land, there is a budding and blooming of old-fashioned Americanism, which the farmer is making splendid for us against the better day.There is perpetual balm in Gilead, and many city workmen shall turn to it and be healed. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!PROCLAMATIONOf the New Time for Farmers and the New New EnglandLet it be proclaimed and shouted over all the ploughlands of the United States that the same ripening that brought our first culture in New England one hundred years ago is taking place in America to-day. Every State is to have its Emerson, its Whittier, its Longfellow, its Hawthorne and the rest.Our Puritan farmer fathers in our worthiest handful of States waited long for their first group of burnished, burning lamps. From the landing of the Pilgrims in 1620 to the delivery of Emerson's address on the American Scholar was a weary period of gestation well rewarded.Therefore, let us be thankful that we have come so soon to the edge of this occasion, that the western farms, though scarcely settled,have the Chautauqua, which is New England's old rural lecture course; the temperance crusade, which is New England's abolitionism come again; the magazine militant, which is the old Atlantic Monthly combined with the Free-Soil Newspaper under a new dress; and educational reform, which is the Yankee school-house made glorious.All these, and more, electrify the farm-lands. Things are in that ferment where many-sided Life and Thought are born.Because our West and South are richer and broader and deeper than New England, so much more worth while will our work be. We will come nearer to repeating the spirit of the best splendors of the old Italian villages than to multiplying the prunes and prisms of Boston.The mystery-seeking, beauty-serving followers of Poe in their very revolt from democracy will serve it well. The Pan-worshipping disciples of Whitman will in the end be, perhaps, more useful brothers of theWhite Christ than all our coming saints. And men will not be infatuated by the written and spoken word only, as in New England. Every art shall have the finest devotion.Already in this more tropical California, this airier Colorado, this black-soiled Illinois, in Georgia, with her fire-hearted tradition of chivalry and her new and most romantic prosperity, men have learned to pray to the God of the blossoming world, men have learned to pray to the God of Beauty. They meditate upon His ways. They have begun to sing.As of old, their thoughts and songs begin with the land, and go directly back to the land. Their tap-roots are deep as those of the alfalfa. A new New England is coming, a New England of ninety million souls! An artistic Renaissance is coming. An America is coming such as was long ago prophesied in Emerson's address on theAmerican Scholar. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!PROCLAMATIONOf the New Village, and the New Country Community, as Distinct from the VillageThis is a year of bumper crops, of harvesting festivals. Through the mists of the happy waning year, a new village rises, and the new country community, in visions revealed to the rejoicing heart of faith.And yet it needs no vision to see them. Walking across this land I have found them, little ganglions of life, promise of thousands more. The next generation will be that of the eminent village. The son of the farmer will be no longer dazzled and destroyed by the fires of the metropolis. He will travel, but only for what he can bring back. Just as his father sends half-wayacross the continent for good corn, or melon-seed, so he will make his village famous by transplanting and growing this idea or that. He will make it known for its pottery or its processions, its philosophy or its peacocks, its music or its swans, its golden roofs or its great union cathedral of all faiths. There are a thousand miscellaneous achievements within the scope of the great-hearted village. Our agricultural land to-day holds the ploughboys who will bring these benefits. I have talked to these boys. I know them. I have seen their gleaming eyes.And the lonely country neighborhood, as distinct from the village, shall make itself famous. There are river valleys that will be known all over the land for their tall men and their milk-white maidens, as now for their well-bred horses. There are mountain lands that shall cultivate the tree of knowledge, as well as the apple-tree. There are sandy tracts that shall constantly ripen red and golden citrus fruit, but as well, philosopherscomforting as the moon, and strength-giving as the sun.These communities shall have their proud circles. They shall have families joined hand in hand, to the end that new blood and new thoughts be constantly brought in, and no good force or leaven be lost. The country community shall awaken illustrious. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!PROCLAMATIONWelcoming the Talented Children of the SoilBecause of their closeness to the earth, the men on the farms increase in stature and strength.And for this very reason a certain proportion of their children are being born with a finer strength. They are being born with all this power concentrated in their nerves.They have the magnificent thoughts that might stir the stars in their courses, were they given voice.Yea, in almost every ranch-house is born one flower-like girl or boy, a stranger among the brothers and sisters. Welcome, and a thousand welcomes, to these fairy changelings! They will make our land lovely. Let all of us who love God give our hearts to these His servants. They are born with eyes that weep themselves blind, unless there is beauty to look upon. They are endowed with souls that are self-devouring, unless they be permitted to make rare music; with a desire for truth that will make them mad as the old prophets, unless they be permitted to preach and pray and praise God in their own fashion, each establishing his own dream visibly in the world.The land is being jewelled with talented children, from Maine to California: souls dewy as the grass, eyes wondering and passionate, lips that tremble. Though they beborn in hovels, they have slender hands, seemingly lost amid the heavy hands. They have hands that give way too soon amid the bitter days of labor, but are everlastingly patient with the violin, or chisel, or brush, or pen.All these children as a sacred charge are appearing, coming down upon the earth like manna. Yet many will be neglected as the too-abundant mulberry, that is left upon the trees. Many will perish like the wild strawberries of Kansas, cut down by the roadside with the weeds. Many will be looked upon like an over-abundant crop of apples, too cheap to be hauled to market, often used as food for the beasts. There will be a great slaughter of the innocents, more bloody than that of Herod of old. But there will be a desperate hardy remnant, adepts in all the conquering necromancy of agricultural Song and democratic Craftsmanship. They will bring us our new time in its completeness.This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!PROCLAMATIONOf the Coming of Religion, Equality and BeautyIn our new day, so soon upon us, for the first time in the history of Democracy, art and the church shall be hand in hand and equally at our service. Neither craftsmanship nor prayer shall be purely aristocratic any more, nor at war with each other, nor at war with the State. The priest, the statesman and the singer shall discern one another's work more perfectly and give thanks to God.Even now our best churches are blossoming in beauty. Our best political life, whatever the howlers may say, is tending toward equality, beauty and holiness.Political speech will cease to turn only upon the price of grain, but begin consideringthe price of cross-roads fountains and people's palaces. Our religious life will no longer trouble itself with the squabbles of orthodoxy. It will give us the outdoor choral procession, the ceremony of dedicating the wheat-field or the new-built private house to God. That politician who would benefit the people will not consider all the world wrapped up in the defence or destruction of a tariff schedule. He will serve the public as did Pericles, with the world's greatest dramas. He will rebuild the local Acropolis. He will make his particular Athens rule by wisdom and philosophy, not trade alone. Our crowds shall be audiences, not hurrying mobs; dancers, not brawlers; observers, not restless curiosity-seekers. Our mobs shall becomes assemblies and our assemblies religious; devout in a subtle sense, equal in privilege and courtesy, delicate of spirit, a perfectly rounded democracy.All this shall come through the services of three kinds of men in wise coöperation: thepriests, the statesmen and the artists. Our priests shall be religious men like St. Francis, or John Wesley, or General Booth, or Cardinal Newman. They shall be many types, but supreme of their type.Our statesmen shall find their exemplars and their inspiration in Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln, as all good Americans devoutly desire.But even these cannot ripen the land without the work of men as versatile as William Morris or Leonardo. Our artists shall fuse the work of these other workers, and give expression to the whole cry and the whole weeping and rejoicing of the land. We shall have Shelleys with a heart for religion, Ruskins with a comprehension of equality.Religion,equalityandbeauty! By these America shall come into a glory that shall justify the yearning of the sages for her perfection, and the prophecies of the poets, when she was born in the throes of Valley Forge.This, by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
A PROCLAMATION OF BALM IN GILEAD
Go to the fields, O city laborers, till your wounds are healed. Forget the street-cars, the skyscrapers, the slums, the Marseillaise song.
We proclaim to the broken-hearted, still able to labor, the glories of the ploughed land. The harvests are wonderful. And there is a spiritual harvest appearing. A great agricultural flowering of art and song is destined soon to appear. Where corn and wheat are growing, men are singing the psalms of David, not the Marseillaise.
You to whom the universe has become a blast-furnace, a coke-oven, a cinder-strewn freight-yard, to whom the history of all ages is a tragedy with the climax now, to whom our democracy and our flag are but playthings of the hypocrite,—turn to the soil, turn to the earth, your mother, and she will comfort you. Rest, be it ever so little, from your black broodings. Think with the farmer once more, as your fathers did. Revere with the farmer our centuries-old civilization, however little it meets the city's trouble. Revere the rural customs that have their roots in the immemorial benefits of nature.
With the farmer look again upon the Constitution as something brought by Providence, prepared for by the ages. Go to church, the cross-roads church, and say the Lord's Prayer again. Help them with their temperance crusade. It is a deeper matter than you think. Listen to the laughter of the farmer's children. Know that not all the earth is a-weeping. Know that so long as there is black soil deep on the prairie, so long as grass will grow on it, we have a vast green haven.
The roots of some of our trees are still in the earth. Our mountains need not to be moved from their places. Wherever there is tillable land, there is a budding and blooming of old-fashioned Americanism, which the farmer is making splendid for us against the better day.
There is perpetual balm in Gilead, and many city workmen shall turn to it and be healed. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
PROCLAMATION
Of the New Time for Farmers and the New New England
Let it be proclaimed and shouted over all the ploughlands of the United States that the same ripening that brought our first culture in New England one hundred years ago is taking place in America to-day. Every State is to have its Emerson, its Whittier, its Longfellow, its Hawthorne and the rest.
Our Puritan farmer fathers in our worthiest handful of States waited long for their first group of burnished, burning lamps. From the landing of the Pilgrims in 1620 to the delivery of Emerson's address on the American Scholar was a weary period of gestation well rewarded.
Therefore, let us be thankful that we have come so soon to the edge of this occasion, that the western farms, though scarcely settled,have the Chautauqua, which is New England's old rural lecture course; the temperance crusade, which is New England's abolitionism come again; the magazine militant, which is the old Atlantic Monthly combined with the Free-Soil Newspaper under a new dress; and educational reform, which is the Yankee school-house made glorious.
All these, and more, electrify the farm-lands. Things are in that ferment where many-sided Life and Thought are born.
Because our West and South are richer and broader and deeper than New England, so much more worth while will our work be. We will come nearer to repeating the spirit of the best splendors of the old Italian villages than to multiplying the prunes and prisms of Boston.
The mystery-seeking, beauty-serving followers of Poe in their very revolt from democracy will serve it well. The Pan-worshipping disciples of Whitman will in the end be, perhaps, more useful brothers of theWhite Christ than all our coming saints. And men will not be infatuated by the written and spoken word only, as in New England. Every art shall have the finest devotion.
Already in this more tropical California, this airier Colorado, this black-soiled Illinois, in Georgia, with her fire-hearted tradition of chivalry and her new and most romantic prosperity, men have learned to pray to the God of the blossoming world, men have learned to pray to the God of Beauty. They meditate upon His ways. They have begun to sing.
As of old, their thoughts and songs begin with the land, and go directly back to the land. Their tap-roots are deep as those of the alfalfa. A new New England is coming, a New England of ninety million souls! An artistic Renaissance is coming. An America is coming such as was long ago prophesied in Emerson's address on theAmerican Scholar. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
PROCLAMATION
Of the New Village, and the New Country Community, as Distinct from the Village
This is a year of bumper crops, of harvesting festivals. Through the mists of the happy waning year, a new village rises, and the new country community, in visions revealed to the rejoicing heart of faith.
And yet it needs no vision to see them. Walking across this land I have found them, little ganglions of life, promise of thousands more. The next generation will be that of the eminent village. The son of the farmer will be no longer dazzled and destroyed by the fires of the metropolis. He will travel, but only for what he can bring back. Just as his father sends half-wayacross the continent for good corn, or melon-seed, so he will make his village famous by transplanting and growing this idea or that. He will make it known for its pottery or its processions, its philosophy or its peacocks, its music or its swans, its golden roofs or its great union cathedral of all faiths. There are a thousand miscellaneous achievements within the scope of the great-hearted village. Our agricultural land to-day holds the ploughboys who will bring these benefits. I have talked to these boys. I know them. I have seen their gleaming eyes.
And the lonely country neighborhood, as distinct from the village, shall make itself famous. There are river valleys that will be known all over the land for their tall men and their milk-white maidens, as now for their well-bred horses. There are mountain lands that shall cultivate the tree of knowledge, as well as the apple-tree. There are sandy tracts that shall constantly ripen red and golden citrus fruit, but as well, philosopherscomforting as the moon, and strength-giving as the sun.
These communities shall have their proud circles. They shall have families joined hand in hand, to the end that new blood and new thoughts be constantly brought in, and no good force or leaven be lost. The country community shall awaken illustrious. This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
PROCLAMATION
Welcoming the Talented Children of the Soil
Because of their closeness to the earth, the men on the farms increase in stature and strength.
And for this very reason a certain proportion of their children are being born with a finer strength. They are being born with all this power concentrated in their nerves.They have the magnificent thoughts that might stir the stars in their courses, were they given voice.
Yea, in almost every ranch-house is born one flower-like girl or boy, a stranger among the brothers and sisters. Welcome, and a thousand welcomes, to these fairy changelings! They will make our land lovely. Let all of us who love God give our hearts to these His servants. They are born with eyes that weep themselves blind, unless there is beauty to look upon. They are endowed with souls that are self-devouring, unless they be permitted to make rare music; with a desire for truth that will make them mad as the old prophets, unless they be permitted to preach and pray and praise God in their own fashion, each establishing his own dream visibly in the world.
The land is being jewelled with talented children, from Maine to California: souls dewy as the grass, eyes wondering and passionate, lips that tremble. Though they beborn in hovels, they have slender hands, seemingly lost amid the heavy hands. They have hands that give way too soon amid the bitter days of labor, but are everlastingly patient with the violin, or chisel, or brush, or pen.
All these children as a sacred charge are appearing, coming down upon the earth like manna. Yet many will be neglected as the too-abundant mulberry, that is left upon the trees. Many will perish like the wild strawberries of Kansas, cut down by the roadside with the weeds. Many will be looked upon like an over-abundant crop of apples, too cheap to be hauled to market, often used as food for the beasts. There will be a great slaughter of the innocents, more bloody than that of Herod of old. But there will be a desperate hardy remnant, adepts in all the conquering necromancy of agricultural Song and democratic Craftsmanship. They will bring us our new time in its completeness.
This by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
PROCLAMATION
Of the Coming of Religion, Equality and Beauty
In our new day, so soon upon us, for the first time in the history of Democracy, art and the church shall be hand in hand and equally at our service. Neither craftsmanship nor prayer shall be purely aristocratic any more, nor at war with each other, nor at war with the State. The priest, the statesman and the singer shall discern one another's work more perfectly and give thanks to God.
Even now our best churches are blossoming in beauty. Our best political life, whatever the howlers may say, is tending toward equality, beauty and holiness.
Political speech will cease to turn only upon the price of grain, but begin consideringthe price of cross-roads fountains and people's palaces. Our religious life will no longer trouble itself with the squabbles of orthodoxy. It will give us the outdoor choral procession, the ceremony of dedicating the wheat-field or the new-built private house to God. That politician who would benefit the people will not consider all the world wrapped up in the defence or destruction of a tariff schedule. He will serve the public as did Pericles, with the world's greatest dramas. He will rebuild the local Acropolis. He will make his particular Athens rule by wisdom and philosophy, not trade alone. Our crowds shall be audiences, not hurrying mobs; dancers, not brawlers; observers, not restless curiosity-seekers. Our mobs shall becomes assemblies and our assemblies religious; devout in a subtle sense, equal in privilege and courtesy, delicate of spirit, a perfectly rounded democracy.
All this shall come through the services of three kinds of men in wise coöperation: thepriests, the statesmen and the artists. Our priests shall be religious men like St. Francis, or John Wesley, or General Booth, or Cardinal Newman. They shall be many types, but supreme of their type.
Our statesmen shall find their exemplars and their inspiration in Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln, as all good Americans devoutly desire.
But even these cannot ripen the land without the work of men as versatile as William Morris or Leonardo. Our artists shall fuse the work of these other workers, and give expression to the whole cry and the whole weeping and rejoicing of the land. We shall have Shelleys with a heart for religion, Ruskins with a comprehension of equality.
Religion,equalityandbeauty! By these America shall come into a glory that shall justify the yearning of the sages for her perfection, and the prophecies of the poets, when she was born in the throes of Valley Forge.
This, by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!
EPILOGUE
[Written to all young lovers about to set up homes of their own—but especially to those of some far-distant day, and those of my home-village]
Lovers, O lovers, listen to my call.Give me kind thoughts. I woo you on my knees.Lovers, pale lovers, when the wheat grows tall,When willow trees are Eden's incense trees:—I would be welcome as the rose in flowerOr busy bird in your most secret fane.I would be read in your transcendent hourWhen book and rhyme seem for the most part vain.I would be read, the while you kiss and pray.I would be read, ere the betrothal ringCircles the slender finger and you sayWords out of Heaven, while your pulses sing.O lovers, be my partisans and buildEach home with a great fire-place as is meet.When there you stand, with royal wonder filled,In bridal peace, and comradeship complete,While each dear heart beats like a fairy drum—Then burn a new-ripe wheat-sheaf in my name.Out of the fire my spirit-bread shall comeAnd my soul's gospel swirl from that red flame.
Lovers, O lovers, listen to my call.Give me kind thoughts. I woo you on my knees.Lovers, pale lovers, when the wheat grows tall,When willow trees are Eden's incense trees:—
I would be welcome as the rose in flowerOr busy bird in your most secret fane.I would be read in your transcendent hourWhen book and rhyme seem for the most part vain.
I would be read, the while you kiss and pray.I would be read, ere the betrothal ringCircles the slender finger and you sayWords out of Heaven, while your pulses sing.
O lovers, be my partisans and buildEach home with a great fire-place as is meet.When there you stand, with royal wonder filled,In bridal peace, and comradeship complete,
While each dear heart beats like a fairy drum—Then burn a new-ripe wheat-sheaf in my name.Out of the fire my spirit-bread shall comeAnd my soul's gospel swirl from that red flame.
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious typographical errors were repaired.Hyphenation variants were changed to most frequently used. Where equal, variants were retained.
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious typographical errors were repaired.
Hyphenation variants were changed to most frequently used. Where equal, variants were retained.