O STILLER than the fields that lieBeneath the morning heaven,And sweeter than day’s gardens areThe purple fields of even!
The vapor rises, silver-eyed,Leaving the dew-wet clover,With groping, mist-white hands outspreadTo greet the sky, her lover.
Ripples the brook, a thread of soundClose-woven through the quiet,Blending the jarring tones that dayWould stir to noisy riot.
And all the glory seems so nearA common man may win it—When every earth-bound lakelet holdsA million stars within it.
A common man, who in the dayLifts not his eyes above him,Roaming the fields of even throughMay find a God to love him!
I LOVE my love for she is like a garden in the dawn,Pale, yet pink-flushed, with softly waking eyes,And primrose hair that brightens to gold skies,And petalled lips for dew to linger on.
I love my love for she is like the mirror of the moon,(A sweet, small moon but newly come to birth)So full of heaven is she, so close to earth,So versed in holy spell and magic rune.
I love my love. O words that be too feeble and too few!I love my love!—as April on the hillBrings back earth’s morning with each daffodil,So she within my heart makes all things new.
SPRING awoke to-day!Somewhere—far away—Spring awoke to-dayFrom the depth of dream.
Through the air bestirredPulse of winging bird,Through the air bestirredLaugh of hidden stream.
On the world’s cold lipsFell warm finger-tips;On the world’s cold lipsWoke the glow and gleam!
Spring awoke to-day!Somewhere—far away—Spring awoke to-dayFrom the depth of dream!
SOMEWHERE there’s a willow buddingIn a hollow by the river,Where the autumn leaves lie sodden,Turning all the pool to brown;There’s a thrush who’s building early,With his feathers all a-shiver,And the maple sap is rising—But I’m glad that I’m in town.
Somewhere out there in the countryThere’s a brook that’s overflowing,And a quaker pussy-willowSews grey velvet on her gown;Rushes whisper to each otherThat marsh marigolds are showing,And those saucy crocus fellows—But I’m glad that I’m in town.
Long ago, when we were younger,How those little things enthralled us;King-birds nesting in the hedges,Baby field-mice soft as down,Muskrats in the sun-warmed shallows—Strange how all these voices called us!—Hark, was that a robin singing?When’s the next train out of town?
A SINGLE branch of flaming red,A branch of tawny yellowAnd every branch in gorgeousnessA rival of its fellow;Some russet brown and faded greenWith golden shadows in betweenAnd mist-hid sun to mellow.
An instinct as of music near—A breath the wind is bringing,Broken and sweet, as from a hostOf swift and solemn winging—A mystery born of light and soundWrapping our trancéd progress round—A sighing and a singing!
Thus in a certain lovely pompWe leave the Summer lying—These are her funeral banners, thisThe pageantry of dying!The music that we almost hearIs wafted from her passing bier—The singing and the sighing!
DO you hear the bell? ’Tis a silver chimeBut it ringeth not in the bourne of time.
With the wind it swells, with the wind ’twill sink,Dying at last by the sea’s dim brink.
By mortal hands the bell was hungBy mortal hands ’tis never swung.
When the moon’s at full and the long tide creepsIt rings o’er the town that the deep sea keeps—
The town of Ys, that, unafraid,Cursed God’s good bells for the noise they made,
Cursed them well and pulled them downFrom every belfry in the town!
For that sin of pride and that pride of sin,Deathly and soft, a Doom stole in.
It sucked through the stone, it stole through the street,It rose in the hall, silent and fleet;
Soundless it swept through the market-placeFolding the town in a chill embrace;
No ruth it knew, it heard no call,Sinner and saint it gathered them all,
Gathered them all, while over themThe bells they had cursed tolled requiem.
Do you hear the bell? When the full moon ridesIt rings o’er the town that the deep sea hides!
YEARS are the seedlings which we careless sowIn Time’s bare garden. Dead they seem to be—Dead years! We sigh and cover them with mould,But though the vagrant wind blow hot, blow cold,No hint of life beneath the dust we see;Then comes the magic hour when we are old,And lo! they stir and blossom wondrously.
Strange spectral blooms in spectral plots aglow!Here a great rose and here a ragged tare;And here pale, scentless blossoms without name,Robbed to enrich this poppy formed of flame;Here springs some hearts’ease, scattered unaware;Here, hawthorn-bloom to show the way Love came;Here, asphodel, to image Love’s despair!
When I am old and master of the spellTo raise these garden ghosts of memory,My feet will turn aside from common ways,Where common flowers mark the common days,To one green plot; and there I know will beFairest of all (O perfect beyond praise!)The year you gave, beloved, your rosemary.
HOW shall I know? Shall I hear Love passIn the wind that sighs through the poplar tree?Shall I follow his passing over the grassBy the prisoned scents which his footsteps free?
Shall I wake one day to a sky all blueAnd meet with Spring in a crowded street?Shall I open a door and, looking through,Find, on a sudden, the world more sweet?
How shall I know?—last night I layCounting the hours’ dreary sumWith naught in my heart save a wild dismayAnd a fear that whispered, “Love is come!”
LAST night I dreamedNo dream of joy or sorrow,Yet, when I woke, I wept,Knowing the brightness of some far to-morrowHad darkened while I slept!
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see—Are angel hands more tender than a mother’s hands may be?And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
The wise King said, “He cannot come but I will go to him!”O David! did you seek with words to make the grave less grim?And did you think to cheat, with words, the jealous seraphim?
So! he will learn of heaven—he, who scarcely knew the earth.All fullness waits the baby eyes that never looked on dearth—The mystery of death usurps the mystery of birth!
What light has earth to give me for the light that heaven beguiled?What is the calm of heaven to him who has not known the wild?—O, we are both bereft, bereft—the mother and the child!
I BUILT myself a pleasant house.Content was I to dwell in it—Its door was fast against the windWith all the gusty swell of it.
It had two windows, high and clear,With trees and skies to shine through them,They were acquainted with the moon,And every star was mine through them.
Its walls were silent walls; its hearthHeld little fires to gladden me—And though the nights might weep outsideNo sob crept through to sadden me.
Then came your hand upon the latch(Although I had not sent for you)And all Outside came blowing inThe way I had not meant it to!
Upon the hearth my tended flameLeapt to a blaze and died in it.The night sought out a hidden placeI had forgot and sighed in it.
My window that had known the starsSeemed suddenly not high at all.The trees drew back; the friendly birdsSwept dumbly by, too shy to call.
Said you: “It is a pleasant house,But surely somewhat small for two!”—And at your word my walls fell down,Leaving no house at all, just you.
THE ladye’s bower faced the sea,Its casements framed a sea-born day.She saw the fishers sail away,And, far and high,The gulls sweep byWithin the hollow of the sky!
She saw the laggard twilight comeAnd, chased by rippling wakes of foam,She saw the fisher fleet come home—Brown sails a-sheenAgainst the greenWith shadows creeping in between!
She saw, when it was evening, allDay’s banners stream in crimson routTill night’s soft finger blurred them out,And, high and far,A perfect starShone where the keys of heaven are!
“O far and constant star,” she said,“O passing sail, O passing bird,O passing day—bring you no wordOf winds that steerHis ship a-near?Where sails my love that sails not here?
“The days in splendid pageant pass,In lovely peace the nights go by,And day and night are sweet; but I—I cannot sayLo, the bright day!Can it be dawn and love away?”
OUT upon the bleak hillside, the bleak hillside, he lay—Her lips were red, and red the stream that slipped his life away.Ah, crimson, crimson were her lips, but his were turning gray.
The troubled sky seemed bending low, bending low to hideThe foam-white face so wild upturned from off the bleak hillside—White as the beaten foam her face, and she was wond’rous eyed.
The soft, south-wind came creeping up, creeping stealthilyTo breathe upon his clay-cold face—but all too cold was he,Too cold for you to warm, south-wind, since cold at heart was she!
Sweet morning peeped above the hill, above the hill to findThe shattered, useless, godlike thing the night had left behind—Wept the sweet morn her crystal tears that love should prove unkind!
HOW hushed they were in Heaven that night,How lightly all the angels went,How dumb the singing spheres beneathTheir many-candled tent!
How silent all the drifting throngOf earth-freed spirits, strangely tornBy dim and half-remembered painAnd joy but newly born!
The Glory in the Highest flamedWith awful, unremembered ray—But quiet as the falling dewWas He who went away.
So swift He went, His passing leftA low, bright door in Heaven ajar—With God it was a covenant,To man it seemed a star.
I WHISPERED to the bobolink:“Sweet singer of the field,Teach me a song to reach a heartIn maiden armor steeled.”
“If there be such a song,” sang he,“No bird can tell its mystery.”
I bent above the sweetest rose,A deeper sweet to stir—“O Rose,” I begged, “what charm will wakeThe deep, sweet heart of her?”
“Alas, poor lover,” sighed the rose,“The charm you seek no flower knows.”
I wandered by the midnight lakeWhere heaven lay confessed“Tell me,” I cried, “what draws the starsTo lie upon your breast?”
The silence woke to soft reply“When Heaven stoops—demand not why!”
“Alas, sweet maid, love’s potent charmI cannot beg or buy,I cannot wrest it from the windOr steal it from the sky—”
Breathless, I caught her whisper low,“I love you—why, I do not know!”
SLANTING rain and a sky of gray,Drifting mist and a wind astray,The leaden end of a leaden dayAnd you—away!
Light in the west! The sky’s pale domeGemmed with a star; a scented gloamOf bursting buds and rain-wet loamAnd you—at home!
LAST night he lay within my arm,So small, so warm—a mysteryTo which God only held the key—But mine to keep from fear and harm!
Ah! He was all my own, last night,With soft, persuasive, baby eyes,So wondering and yet so wise,And hands that held my finger tight.
Why was it that he could not stay—Too rare a gift? Yet who could holdA treasure with securer holdThan I, to whom love taught the way?
As with a flood of golden lightThe first sun tipped earth’s golden rimSo all my world grew bright with himAnd with his going fell the night—
O God, is there an angel armMore strong, more tender than the rest?Lay Thou my baby on his breastTo keep him safe from fear and harm!
WIND of the North, O far, wild windBorn of a far, lone sea—When suns are soft and breezes kindWhy are you kin to me?
Uncounted years above the sea,Rock-fortressed from its rage,The fishermen, your fathers, keptA barren heritage—Grim as the sea they forced to payThe sea-toll of their wage.
And lo! The fate which made you hersAnd gave you of her bestAnd set you in a sunny place,Down-sloping to the West,Forgot to change your fisher’s heartSerf to the sea’s unrest!
Wind of the North! O bitter wind,I hear the wild seas fret—In the dim spaces of the mindThey claim me vassal yet!
THE wind blows salt from off the seaAnd sweet from where the land lies green;I travel down the great highwayThat runs so straight and white between—I watch the sea-wind strain the sheet,The land-wind toss the yellow wheat!
Song is my mistress, fickle she,Yet dear beyond all dearth of speech;Child of the winds of land and seaShe charms me with the charm of each—Full soft and sweet she sings and thenShe sings wild songs for sailor-men!
No staff I carry in my hand,No pack I carry on my back,No foot of earth I call my own,For castle or for cot I lack—I travel fast, I travel slow,And where my mistress bids I go!
My gems, the pearl upon the leafAt mystic hour of the morn;My gold, the gold that rims the seaA moment ere the day is born;And on my breezy couch o’ nightsThe stars shine down—my taper lights!
Happy am I that sing of love,Yet from the thrall of love am free;Happy am I that sing of painAnd quick forget what pain may be!I sing of death—and lo! To meLife is supremest ecstacy!
I HAVE strayed from silent places,Where the days are dreaming always;And fair summer lies a-dying,Roses withered on her breast.I have stolen all her beauty,All her softness, all her sweetness;In her robe of folden sunshineI am drest.
I will breathe a mist about meLest you see my face too clearly,Lest you follow me too boldlyI will silence every song.Through the haze and through the silenceYou will know that I am passing;When you break the spell that holds you,I am gone!
IF we could salvage BabylonFrom times’s grim heap of dust and bones;If we could charm cool waters backTo sing against her thirsty stones;If, on a day,We two should strayDown some long, Babylonian way—Perhaps the strangest sight of allWould be the street boys playing ball.
If through Pompeii’s agelong nightA yellow sun again might shine,And little, sea-born breezes liftThe hair of lovers sipping wine,If, in some fair,Dim temple there,We watched Pompeii come to prayer—Not the strange altar would surpriseBut strangeness of familiar eyes!
Ay, should our magic straightly wakeAtlantis from her sea-rocked sleepAnd we on some ProcessionalLook down where dancing maidens leap,If one flushed maidBeside us stayedTo tie more firm her loosened braid—Would not the shaking wonder beTo find her just like you and me?
A BIRD, a wild-flower and a tree—I care for them, not they for me.
I see all heaven in a pool—But the frog there takes me for a fool.
To this dead thrush a tear I gave—All Spring shall sing above my grave,
And naught I spend my heart uponKnow lack or loss that I am gone—
A bird, a wild-flower and a tree,I cherish them; they suffer me!
THERE is no one to do it for me,But I know what I shall doWhen the last dawn breaks o’er meAnd the last night is through.
I shall set in pleasant orderThe little books I knew,With flowers on the window ledgeIn a shallow bowl of blue.
I’ll leave the out door swinging,(As it might swing for you)And on the clean swept door-sillWild roses I shall strew—
So when pale Death comes trailingHer branch of sodden rueShe’ll gather up my gay contentAnd know contentment too!
CUPID does not care for sighsDoes not care for lover’s weeping!Fair One, dry your pretty eyes,Cupid does not care for sighs,Laugh with him if you are wise,Steel the heart he has in keeping;Cupid does not care for sighsDoes not care for lover’s weeping!
SHE flitted by me on the stair—A moment since I knew not of her.A look, a smile—she passed! but whereShe flitted by me on the stairJoy cradled exquisite despair;For who am I that I should love her?She flitted by me on the stair—A moment since I knew not of her!
I’VE heard the pipes of PanSomewhere, just beyond,—Over the edge of dawn, I think,Where the clouds hang soft on the world’s dim brink,Where the red suns rise and the blue stars sink,I heard the pipes of Pan!
Hush! what you heard was the wind,The feet of the wind through the leaves,Or the sigh of the waking night as it stirred.Or a bird’s note afar,Or the deep breath of June,Or the fall of a star,Or the shimmering skirts of the sea-slipping tideIn the wake of the wandering moon!
Nay! ’twas the pipes of Pan!Somewhere—just beyond—My soul awoke with a rapturous sigh(Would I wake my soul for a night bird’s cry?)I heard the winds of the worlds sweep byTo follow the pipes of Pan!
Stay! ’twas a voice that you heard,A voice that you love, in the wood,The vibrating note of a half spoken word—For the great Pan is slain,Of his pipings we know not one magical strain,They have fled down the years of a world that was youngOh, ages and ages ago!
Nay, ’twas the pipes of Pan!Somewhere—just beyond—Far as a star, yet piercing sweet,A passionate, poignant, rhythmic beat—Till my mad blood raced with my racing feetTo follow the piper—Pan!
THE highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all,And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call;Only the call of the long, white road to the far horizon’s wall.
The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night in June,And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon;Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon!
The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze, fierce and bold,And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told;Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old.
The lone trail and the known trail, the trail you must take on trust,And never a trail without a grave where a wanderer’s bones are thrust—Never a look or a turning back till the dust shall claim the dust!
WHEN life wakened in the SpringAll the world was gold and green!Sunlight lay on everything,Sailing cloud and soaring wing,Emerald banks where snow had been,Drifts of daffodils between.
When Life’s pulse beat strong and highShone the world in gold and blue!Canopied with turquoise skySummer passed superbly by,Bluest midnight cupped the dewGolden morn might sparkle through!
Now that life would rest againSoft she lies in gold and brown,Brown the fields and gold the grain,Brown the little pools of rain,Gold the leaves that falter downTo brown pavements in the town.
MY soul has left its tent of clayAnd seeks from star to star,’Mid flaming worlds that are to be,And fruitful worlds that are,The Voice which spake and said “Live on!”(When Death said, “You may die”)And sent my spirit wanderingThe stairway of the sky.
Still must I seek what on the earthI sought as fruitlessly—The world I knew, the heaven I scornedLost in infinity:Alone, and on the ageless breathOf cosmic whirlwinds spun,I hurtle through the outer darkToward some fantastic sun!—
O God! how happy is the leaf,A sweet and soulless thing,Dying to live but in the greenOf yet another Spring—These heights, these depths, these flaming worlds,This stairway of the skyI’d give, had no Voice said “Live on!”When Death said, “You may die.”
THE breeze blows out from the land and it seeks the sea,O and O! that my sail were set and away—Fast and free on its wings would my sailing beTo the west: to the Tir Nan Og, where the blesséd stay!
The darkness stirs, it awakes, it outspreads its arms,O and O! and the birds in their nests are still,The red-browed hill bleats low with the lamb’s alarms,And a sound of singing comes from the slipping rill.
My soul is awake alone, all alone in the earth,O and O! and around is the lonely night.As with the sun, would my soul go forth to its birth—O’er the darkling sea, to the west—to the light, to the light!
Do they say, “Be content with the land of the Innis Fail,O and O! there is friendship here, there is song.”But they smile to your face, when you turn they stammer and railAnd the song of the singer has tears and is over long!
A call comes out of the west and it calls a name,O and O! it is soft, it is far, it is low—Sweet, so sweet that it touches my soul with a flameThat burns the heart from my breast with the wish to go!
(Translated from the Celtic.)
’TWAS a little man in green,And he sat upon a stone;And he sat there all alone,Whispering.
“One and two,” so whispered he.(’Twas an ancient man and hoar)“One and two,” and then no more—Never, “Three”.
Hawthorn trees were quick with May—“Sir,” said I, “Good-day to you”!But he counted. “One and two”In strange way.
Fool I was—oh, fool was I(Who should know the ways of them!)That I touched his cloak’s green hem,Passing by.
I was fey with spring and mirth—Speaking him without a thought—Now is joy a thing forgotOn the earth.
Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through,Wife and child doom-stricken lay,Cold as winter, white as spray—“One and two!”
Now I seek eternallyThat grim Counter of the fen,Praying he may count again—Counting, “Three”.
* In the bad chance of a meeting with the “Little People” the mortal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass by quickly with averted eye.—Old tale.
I FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen—The eyes she lifts to mine,That laugh and laugh and never tellThe half that they divine!
She draws me to her lonely cotAyont the Tulloch Hill;And, laughing, draws me to her doorAnd, laughing, holds me still.
I bless myself and bless myself,But in the holy sign,There seems to be no heart of love,To still the pain in mine.
The morning, bright above the moor,Is bright no more for me—A weary bit of burning painIs where my heart should be!
For since the wild, sweet laugh of herHas drawn me to her snare,The only sunlight in the worldIs shining from her hair.
Yet well I know, ah, well I knowWhy ’tis so sweet and wild—She slept beneath a faery thorn,She is a faery child!
And so I leave my mother lone,No meal to fill the pot,And follow, follow wild Eileen.If so I will or not.
I fear to meet her in the glen,Or seek her by the shore;I fear to lift her cabin’s latch,But—should she come no more!—
O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen,My heart is wracked with fearLest you should meet your faery kin,And, laughing, leave me here!
THE Banshee cries on the rising wind“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”The dead to free and the quick to bind—(Close fast the shutter and draw the blind!)“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
Why are you paler my dearest dear?“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”’Tis but the wind in the elm tree near—(Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!)“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
See, how the crackling fire up-springs,“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”Up and up on its flame-red wings;Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings!“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
Core of my heart! How cold your lips!“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”White as the spray the wild wind whips,Still as your icy finger tips!“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
On the rising wind the Banshee cries—“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”I kiss your hair. I kiss your eyes—The kettle is dumb; the red flame dies!“Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!”
HER hair was gold and warm it layUpon the pallor of her brow;Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray—And in their depths he drowned his vow.
She wandered where the sands were wet,Weaving the sea-weed for a crown,And there at eve a monk she met—A holy monk in cowl and gown.
She held him with her witch’s stare(A sweet, child-look—it witched him well!)Upon his lip she froze the prayer,And in his ear she breathed a spell.
He babbled ever of her nameAnd of her brow that gleamed like dawn,And of her lips—a lovely shameNo holy man should think upon.
They hunted her along the sea,“Witch, Witch!” they cried and hissed their hate—Her hair unbound fell to her kneeAnd made a glory where she sate.
Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed,She gazed upon their bell and book;The zealous priests were fain to hideLest they be holden by her look.
Most innocent she seemed to be(“The Devil’s sly!” the fathers say)Her eyes were dreaming eyes that seeThings strange and fair and far away.
They stood her in the judgment hall.“Confess,” they cried, “the blasting spellThat holds yon crazéd monk in thrall?”“Good sirs,” she said, “he loved me well.”
They haled her to a witch’s doom,They matched her shining hair with flame—But ever through the cloister’s gloomThe mad monk babbles of her name!
And, when the red sun droppeth downAnd wet sand gleameth ghostily,Men see her weave a sea-weed crownBetween the twilight and the sea.
SHE was my love and the pulse of my heart;Lovely she was as the flowers that startStraight to the sun from the earth’s tender breast,Sweet as the wind blowing out of the west—Elana, Elana, my strong one, my white one,Soft be the wind blowing over your rest!
She crept to my sideIn the cold mist of morning.“O wirra” she cried,“’Tis farewell now, mavourneen!When the crescent moon hungLike a scythe in the sky,I heard in the silenceThe Little Folks cry.
“’Twas like a low sighing,A sobbing, a singing;It came from the west,Where the low moon was swinging:‘Elana, Elana’Was all of their crying.Mavrone! I must go—To refuse them, I dare not.Alone I must go;They have called and they care not—Naught do they care that they call me apartFrom the warmth and the light and the love of your heart.Hark! How their singingComes winging, comes winging,Through your close arms, beloved,Straight to my heart!”
White grew her face as the thorn’s tender bloom,White as the mist from the valley of doom!Swift was her going—her head on my breastDrooped like a flower that winter has pressed—Elana, Elana! My strong one, my white one!Empty the arms that your beauty had blessed.
MY father lived his three-score years; my son lived twenty-two;One looked long back on work well done, and one had all to do—Yet which the better served his world, I know not, nor do you!
Life taught my father all her lore till he grew wise and gray,She did but whisper to my son before she turned away—Yet which her deepest secret held only they two might say.
Peace brought my father restful days, with love and fame for wage;War gave my son an unmarked grave and an unwritten page—Who shall declare which gift conveyed the greater heritage?
SPRING came in with a red-wing’s featherAnd yellow clumps of the wild marshmallow—O happy bird, can you tell me whetherIn distant France they have April weather?And little pools that are sunny and shallow?
My soul is awake and my pulse is racing—My heart is aware that the birds are mating—Oh, my heart’s like a cloud that the wind is chasingO’er the earth’s green blur with its silver tracingTo that sad France where there’s someone waiting!
O Spring! begone with your too-sweet cloverAnd all your bees with honey to carry—Come again when the war is over,Come, dear Spring, when you bring my lover!Yet come no more, should he tarry . . . tarry!
OH, to be in Canada now that Spring is merry,Happy apple blossoms gay against the smiling green;Here the lilac’s purple plume and here the pink of cherry,Hillsides just a drift of bloom with clover in between!
Oh, to be in Canada! there’s a road that ramblesThrough a leafing maple-wood and up a windy hill,Velvet pussy-willows press soft hands amid the bramblesFringing round a sky-filled pool where cattle drink their fill.
Oh, to be in Canada! there’s a farmhouse hiddenWhere the hollow meets the hill and Spring’s first footsteps show—Not a drop of honey there to any bee forbidden,Not a cherry on a tree but all the robins know!
Oh, to be in Canada, now that Spring is callingSweet, so sweet it breaks the heart to let its sweetness through,Oh, to breast the windy hill while yet the dew is falling—Waking all the meadow-larks to carol in the blue!
Smile upon us, Canada! None shall fail who love youWhile they hold a memory of your fields where flowers are—High the task to keep unstained the skies that bend above you,Proud the life that shields you from the flaming wind of war!
THEY sat before a dugoutIn the unfamiliar quiet of silenced guns.And one said:“Now that it’s overWhat about a bit of truth?Let us say why we came to fight—No frills—You first, old Fire-eater!”—
One with a whimsical face spoke freely;“I?—I sought some stir,Some urge in living,Some sense in dying.I sought a mountain topWith a view!”
“And the answer?”
“I have seen others findWhat I sought.”
. . . . . . .
“I don’t know that it’s anyone’s businessWhy I came,”(Another spoke as if unwillingly),“A girl laughed, I think—Funny?—Yes, funny as hell!”—
. . . . . . .
His neighbor said,“I was a business man,No sentiment,Nothing of that kind,—But the band playedAnd, suddenly, I sawMy country,A woman, with hands outstretched,Her back to the wall—”
“U—um,” they nodded,“She’s got a pull,That old lady.”
. . . . . . .
“As for me,” the speaker was abrupt,“I was afraid!I saw pictures,I heard things—I couldn’t sleepFor the Beast that was abroad—Fear!That’s what brought me!”
. . . . . . .
They sat silent for a momentIn the sun.Then an older man said briefly,“We were all afraid . . . . .. . . But what of hate?Did no one come because of hate?”. . . . . .
“Yes—I”—They looked at this manCuriously,But he added nothing,And no one questioned.
. . . . . . .
A fresh-faced boy spoke modestly;“Our family are all Army people—So, of course—And it’s all over now.We got through.But it was a near thing—What?”
TO-DAY is a roomWith windows upon one sideAnd upon the otherA door—Through the windows we may lookBut cannot pass;Through the door we must passBut cannot look,And there are no windowsUpon that side.
A YEAR is a thiefWho comes in the guise of a friendSaying, “Let us travel together,We have much to give each other.See, I hold back nothing—For what is givingBetween friends?”
Yet when the year departsHe takes his gifts with him—“Oh, Robber!” we cry,Aghast and weeping,“Nay,” he replies, “I did but lend.Still, for your weeping, I will leave you something.
It is not the real thingBut you may keep it always.”
I SEE a spiritYoung and eager,Beautiful, too, I think,(Although I cannot see it clearly)It is, by right of its own being,One with all lovely, youthful things;And they, its age-old kindred,Welcome itSaying, “Come, you too are one of us!”
. . . . . . .
This spirit is my own happy ghost—But I, myself,—alas!
THERE was a man, once, and a womanWhose love was so entireThat an angel, watching them,Said wistfully, “Would I were no angelBut a mortal,Loving so, and so beloved!”. . . . Yet, when these two mated,A muddied drop, from some forgotten vial of ancestry,Brought them a child whose mind was dark;Who lived—and never called them by their names . . .. . . . They tended herFor twenty years.Only when she diedDid they weep, whispering,“Why?”The years could find no answer,Though they went questioningUntil the end.
. . . . . . .
Still wonderingThey wandered out into the other country . . . .It was lonely there,Being parted from familiar things,And there was no one to answer questions,But, suddenly,(As a wind blows or a swallow flies against the sun)Came a young girl—eager!She ran to them,Calling dear names,(Names that would open heaven)“Who are you?” they entreated, trembling . . . .But they knew!—Had they not dreamed her soFor twenty years?
THE knowledge of loveIs like sudden sun upon a river—The slipping waterIs instantly opaque and glorious.No longer can we look into itCounting the pebbles,Watching the ribboned water-reeds,Or searching idlyFor that something which we lost(A ring with gems)It is all glamour, now!We turn away, shading our eyes.
I THOUGHT of friendshipAs a golden ring,Round as the worldYet fitted to my finger;I thought of friendshipAs a path in springWhere there are flowersAnd the footsteps linger;I thought of friendshipAs a globe of light,Yellow before the doorway of my life,A flame diffusedYet potent against night;I thought—but thought itself in ruin liesSince, yesterday, you passed with lowered eyes!
THEY thought that he would come backQuieter,Less boyish,But still a hero with tales to tell.So, when there were no tales,Only blank silences—When he lay for hoursStaring through leafing branchesAnd forgot themUtterly—They tried to arouse him, saying:“The war is over.”But when he turned on themHis shadowed eyesThey stammered—Knowing that they lied!
(For the unknown soldier buried in Westminster Abbey.)
YOU who died fightingFor me and my little children;You who are a millionYet are but one,I lay upon your graveA rose and a tear—The tear is the world’s sorrow,The rose is your joy.
SHE did not go, as others do,With backward look and beckoning;With no farewell for anythingShe passed the open doorway through.
The little things she left behindLie where they fell from hands content—Fame a forgotten incidentAnd life a season out of mind.
The spring will find her footstep gone,But spring is kind to vanished things,Camas and buttercups she bringsWith green that tears have brightened on.
And we, who walked with her last yearWhile April in the lilacs stirred,Will turn with sudden look or word—Forgetting that she is not here.