- Sonnet IX -
Well, seeing I have no hope, then let us part;Having long taught my flesh to master fear,I should have learned by now to rule my heart,Although, Heaven knows, 'tis not so easy near.Oh, you were made to make men miserableAnd torture those who would have joy in you,But I, who could have loved you, dear, so well,Take pride in being a good loser too;And it has not been wholly unsuccess,For I have rescued from forgetfulnessSome moments of this precious time that flies,Adding to my past wealth of memoryThe pretty way you once looked up at me,Your low, sweet voice, your smile, and your dear eyes.
- Sonnet X -
I have sought Happiness, but it has beenA lovely rainbow, baffling all pursuit,And tasted Pleasure, but it was a fruitMore fair of outward hue than sweet within.Renouncing both, a flake in the fermentOf battling hosts that conquer or recoil,There only, chastened by fatigue and toil,I knew what came the nearest to content.For there at least my troubled flesh was freeFrom the gadfly Desire that plagued it so;Discord and Strife were what I used to know,Heartaches, deception, murderous jealousy;By War transported far from all of these,Amid the clash of arms I was at peace.
- Sonnet XI -
On Returning to the Front after Leave
Apart sweet women (for whom Heaven be blessed),Comrades, you cannot think how thin and blueLook the leftovers of mankind that rest,Now that the cream has been skimmed off in you.War has its horrors, but has this of good —That its sure processes sort out and bindBrave hearts in one intrepid brotherhoodAnd leave the shams and imbeciles behind.Now turn we joyful to the great attacks,Not only that we face in a fair fieldOur valiant foe and all his deadly tools,But also that we turn disdainful backsOn that poor world we scorn yet die to shield —That world of cowards, hypocrites, and fools.
- Sonnet XII -
Clouds rosy-tinted in the setting sun,Depths of the azure eastern sky between,Plains where the poplar-bordered highways run,Patched with a hundred tints of brown and green, —Beauty of Earth, when in thy harmoniesThe cannon's note has ceased to be a part,I shall return once more and bring to theseThe worship of an undivided heart.Of those sweet potentialities that waitFor my heart's deep desire to fecundateI shall resume the search, if Fortune grants;And the great cities of the world shall yetBe golden frames for me in which to setNew masterpieces of more rare romance.
Bellinglise
Deep in the sloping forest that surroundsThe head of a green valley that I know,Spread the fair gardens and ancestral groundsOf Bellinglise, the beautiful chateau.Through shady groves and fields of unmown grass,It was my joy to come at dusk and see,Filling a little pond's untroubled glass,Its antique towers and mouldering masonry.Oh, should I fall to-morrow, lay me here,That o'er my tomb, with each reviving year,Wood-flowers may blossom and the wood-doves croon;And lovers by that unrecorded place,Passing, may pause, and cling a little space,Close-bosomed, at the rising of the moon.
Here, where in happier times the huntsman's hornEchoing from far made sweet midsummer eves,Now serried cannon thunder night and morn,Tearing with iron the greenwood's tender leaves.Yet has sweet Spring no particle withdrawnOf her old bounty; still the song-birds hail,Even through our fusillade, delightful Dawn;Even in our wire bloom lilies of the vale.You who love flowers, take these; their fragile bellsHave trembled with the shock of volleyed shells,And in black nights when stealthy foes advanceThey have been lit by the pale rockets' glowThat o'er scarred fields and ancient towns laid lowTrace in white fire the brave frontiers of France.
__ May 22, 1916.
Liebestod
I who, conceived beneath another star,Had been a prince and played with life, insteadHave been its slave, an outcast exiled farFrom the fair things my faith has merited.My ways have been the ways that wanderers treadAnd those that make romance of poverty —Soldier, I shared the soldier's board and bed,And Joy has been a thing more oft to meWhispered by summer wind and summer seaThan known incarnate in the hours it liesAll warm against our hearts and laughs into our eyes.
I know not if in risking my best daysI shall leave utterly behind me hereThis dream that lightened me through lonesome waysAnd that no disappointment made less dear;Sometimes I think that, where the hilltops rearTheir white entrenchments back of tangled wire,Behind the mist Death only can make clear,There, like Brunhilde ringed with flaming fire,Lies what shall ease my heart's immense desire:There, where beyond the horror and the painOnly the brave shall pass, only the strong attain.
Truth or delusion, be it as it may,Yet think it true, dear friends, for, thinking so,That thought shall nerve our sinews on the dayWhen to the last assault our bugles blow:Reckless of pain and peril we shall go,Heads high and hearts aflame and bayonets bare,And we shall brave eternity as thoughEyes looked on us in which we would seem fair —One waited in whose presence we would wear,Even as a lover who would be well-seen,Our manhood faultless and our honor clean.
Resurgam
Exiled afar from youth and happy love,If Death should ravish my fond spirit henceI have no doubt but, like a homing dove,It would return to its dear residence,And through a thousand stars find out the roadBack into earthly flesh that was its loved abode.
A Message to America
You have the grit and the guts, I know;You are ready to answer blow for blowYou are virile, combative, stubborn, hard,But your honor ends with your own back-yard;Each man intent on his private goal,You have no feeling for the whole;What singly none would tolerateYou let unpunished hit the state,Unmindful that each man must shareThe stain he lets his country wear,And (what no traveller ignores)That her good name is often yours.
You are proud in the pride that feels its might;From your imaginary heightMen of another race or hueAre men of a lesser breed to you:The neighbor at your southern gateYou treat with the scorn that has bred his hate.To lend a spice to your disrespectYou call him the "greaser". But reflect!The greaser has spat on you more than once;He has handed you multiple affronts;He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed;He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled;He has jeering used for his bootblack's ragThe stars and stripes of the gringo's flag;And you, in the depths of your easy-chair —What did you do, what did you care?Did you find the season too cold and dampTo change the counter for the camp?Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico?I can't imagine, but this I know —You are impassioned vastly moreBy the news of the daily baseball scoreThan to hear that a dozen countrymenHave perished somewhere in Darien,That greasers have taken their innocent livesAnd robbed their holdings and raped their wives.
Not by rough tongues and ready fistsCan you hope to jilt in the modern lists.The armies of a littler folkShall pass you under the victor's yoke,Sobeit a nation that trains her sonsTo ride their horses and point their guns —Sobeit a people that comprehendsThe limit where private pleasure endsAnd where their public dues begin,A people made strong by disciplineWho are willing to give—what you've no mind to —And understand—what you are blind to —The things that the individualMust sacrifice for the good of all.
You have a leader who knows—the manMost fit to be called American,A prophet that once in generationsIs given to point to erring nationsBrighter ideals toward which to pressAnd lead them out of the wilderness.Will you turn your back on him once again?Will you give the tiller once more to menWho have made your country the laughing-stockFor the older peoples to scorn and mock,Who would make you servile, despised, and weak,A country that turns the other cheek,Who care not how bravely your flag may float,Who answer an insult with a note,Whose way is the easy way in all,And, seeing that polished arms appalTheir marrow of milk-fed pacifist,Would tell you menace does not exist?Are these, in the world's great parliament,The men you would choose to representYour honor, your manhood, and your pride,And the virtues your fathers dignified?Oh, bury them deeper than the seaIn universal obloquy;Forget the ground where they lie, or writeFor epitaph: "Too proud to fight."
I have been too long from my country's shoresTo reckon what state of mind is yours,But as for myself I know right wellI would go through fire and shot and shellAnd face new perils and make my bedIn new privations, if ROOSEVELT led;But I have given my heart and handTo serve, in serving another land,Ideals kept bright that with you are dim;Here men can thrill to their country's hymn,For the passion that wells in the MarseillaiseIs the same that fires the French these days,And, when the flag that they love goes by,With swelling bosom and moistened eyeThey can look, for they know that it floats there stillBy the might of their hands and the strength of their will,And through perils countless and trials unknownIts honor each man has made his own.They wanted the war no more than you,But they saw how the certain menace grew,And they gave two years of their youth or threeThe more to insure their libertyWhen the wrath of rifles and pennoned spearsShould roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers.They wanted the war no more than you,But when the dreadful summons blewAnd the time to settle the quarrel cameThey sprang to their guns, each man was game;And mark if they fight not to the lastFor their hearths, their altars, and their past:Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dryFor love of the country that WILL not die.
O friends, in your fortunate present ease(Yet faced by the self-same facts as these),If you would see how a race can soarThat has no love, but no fear, of war,How each can turn from his private roleThat all may act as a perfect whole,How men can live up to the place they claimAnd a nation, jealous of its good name,Be true to its proud inheritance,Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE!
Introduction and Conclusion of a Long Poem
I have gone sometimes by the gates of DeathAnd stood beside the cavern through whose doorsEnter the voyagers into the unseen.From that dread threshold only, gazing back,Have eyes in swift illumination seenLife utterly revealed, and guessed thereinWhat things were vital and what things were vain.Know then, like a vast ocean from my feetSpreading away into the morning sky,I saw unrolled my vanished days, and, lo,Oblivion like a morning mist obscuredToils, trials, ambitions, agitations, ease,And like green isles, sun-kissed, with sweet perfumeLoading the airs blown back from that dim gulf,Gleamed only through the all-involving hazeThe hours when we have loved and been beloved.
Therefore, sweet friends, as often as by LoveYou rise absorbed into the harmonyOf planets singing round magnetic suns,Let not propriety nor prejudiceNor the precepts of jealous age denyWhat Sense so incontestably affirms;Cling to the blessed moment and drink deepOf the sweet cup it tends, as there aloneWere that which makes life worth the pain to live.What is so fair as lovers in their joyThat dies in sleep, their sleep that wakes in joy?Caressing arms are their light pillows. TheyThat like lost stars have wandered hithertoLonesome and lightless through the universe,Now glow transfired at Nature's flaming core;They are the centre; constellated heavenIs the embroidered panoply spread roundTheir bridal, and the music of the spheresRocks them in hushed epithalamium.
. . . . .
I know that there are those whose idle tonguesBlaspheme the beauty of the world that wasSo wondrous and so worshipful to me.I call them those that, in the palace whereDown perfumed halls the Sleeping Beauty lay,Wandered without the secret or the key.I know that there are those, of gentler heart,Broken by grief or by deception bowed,Who in some realm beyond the grave conceiveThe bliss they found not here; but, as for me,In the soft fibres of the tender fleshI saw potentialities of JoyTen thousand lifetimes could not use. Dear Earth,In this dark month when deep as morning dewOn thy maternal breast shall fall the bloodOf those that were thy loveliest and thy best,If it be fate that mine shall mix with theirs,Hear this my natural prayer, for, purifiedBy that Lethean agony and cladIn more resplendent powers, I ask nought elseThan reincarnate to retrace my path,Be born again of woman, walk once moreThrough Childhood's fragrant, flowery wonderlandAnd, entered in the golden realm of Youth,Fare still a pilgrim toward the copious joysI savored here yet scarce began to sip;Yea, with the comrades that I loved so wellResume the banquet we had scarce begunWhen in the street we heard the clarion-callAnd each man sprang to arms—ay, even myselfWho loved sweet Youth too truly not to shareIts pain no less than its delight. If prayersAre to be prayed, lo, here is mine! Be thisMy resurrection, this my recompense!
Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France
(To have been read before the statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916.)
Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,Commemorative of our soldier dead,When—with sweet flowers of our New England MayHiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray —Their graves in every town are garlanded,That pious tribute should be given tooTo our intrepid fewObscurely fallen here beyond the seas.Those to preserve their country's greatness died;But by the death of theseSomething that we can look upon with prideHas been achieved, nor wholly unrepliedCan sneerers triumph in the charge they makeThat from a war where Freedom was at stakeAmerica withheld and, daunted, stood aside.
Be they remembered here with each reviving spring,Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crestOf Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,Parted impetuous to their first assault;But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike tooTo that high mission, and 'tis meet to strewWith twigs of lilac and spring's earliest roseThe cenotaph of thoseWho in the cause that history most endearsFell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.
Yet sought they neither recompense nor praise,Nor to be mentioned in another breathThan their blue coated comrades whose great daysIt was their pride to share—ay, share even to the death!Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,Gave them that grand occasion to excel,That chance to live the life most free from stainAnd that rare privilege of dying well.
O friends! I know not since that war beganFrom which no people nobly stands aloofIf in all moments we have given proofOf virtues that were thought American.I know not if in all things done and saidAll has been well and good,Or if each one of us can hold his headAs proudly as he should,Or, from the pattern of those mighty deadWhose shades our country venerates to-day,If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.But you to whom our land's good name is dear,If there be any hereWho wonder if her manhood be decreased,Relaxed its sinews and its blood less redThan that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,And cry: "Now heaven be praisedThat in that hour that most imperilled her,Menaced her liberty who foremost raisedEurope's bright flag of freedom, some there wereWho, not unmindful of the antique debt,Came back the generous path of Lafayette;And when of a most formidable foeShe checked each onset, arduous to stem —Foiled and frustrated them —On those red fields where blow with furious blowWas countered, whether the gigantic frayRolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,Accents of ours were in the fierce melee;And on those furthest rims of hallowed groundWhere the forlorn, the gallant charge expires,When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,And on the tangled wiresThe last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: —Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."
There, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,They lie—our comrades—lie among their peers,Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,Grim clusters under thorny trellises,Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewnEven as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;And earth in her divine indifferenceRolls on, and many paltry things and meanPrate to be heard and caper to be seen.But they are silent, calm; their eloquenceIs that incomparable attitude;No human presences their witness are,But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,And showers and night winds and the northern star.Nay, even our salutations seem profane,Opposed to their Elysian quietude;Our salutations calling from afar,From our ignobler planeAnd undistinction of our lesser parts:Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.Double your glory is who perished thus,For you have died for France and vindicated us.
[End of original text.]
Appendix: ASCII to Greek Character Map
A,a alphaB,b betaG,g gammaD,d deltaE,e epsilonZ,z zetaH,h etaQ,q thetaI,i iotaK,k kappaL,l lambdaM,m mi/muN,n ni/nuJ,j ksi/xiO,o omikron/omicronP,p piR,r rhoS,s,c sigmaT,t tauU,u ypsilon/upsilonF,f phiX,x chi/khiY,y psiW,w omega
The ASCII character | (pipe) precedes the following symbols: ''/\^ to mark accents in Greek. These in turn Precede the vowel they refer to.
Appendix: Corrections made to original text.
The following corrections have been made:
In "The Deserted Garden", 'Down beechen allies' has been corrected to read 'Down beechen alleys', as the former is more than doubtful.
One occurrence each of "bazar" and "twelve-month" have been corrected to read "bazaar" and "twelvemonth", to be consistent both with other mentions in the text, and with the most common usage.