WINGED VICTORY

Ahaz, there in the seat of judgment, hear,If you have wit to understand my plea.Swine-devils are too much for swine, that's clear,Poor man possessed of such is partly free,Is neither drowned, destroyed at once, his chainsMay pluck while running, howling through the mireAnd take a little gladness for his pains,Some fury for unsatisfied desire.But hogs go mad at once. All this I knew,—But then this lunatic had rights. You grantSwine-devils had him in their clutch and drewHis baffled spirit. How significant,As they were legion and so named, the pointIs, life bewildered, torn in greed and wrath.Desire puts a spirit out of joint.Swine-devils are for swine, who have no path.But man with many lusts, what is his way,Save in confusion, through accustomed rooms?He prays for night to come, and for the dayAmid the miry places and the tombs.But hogs run to the sea. And there's an end.Would I might cast the swinish demons outFrom man forever. Yet the word attend.The lesson of the thing what soul can doubt?What is the loss of hogs, if man be saved?What loss of lands and houses, man being free?Clothed in his reason sits the man who raved,Clean and at peace, your honor. Come and see.Your honor shakes a frowning head. Not loth,Speaking more plainly, deeper truth to draw;Do your judicial duty, yet I clotheFree souls with courage to transgress the lawBy casting demons out from self, or thoseLike this poor lunatic whom your synagoguesWould leave to battle singly with his woes—What is a man's soul to a drove of hogs?Which being lost, men play the hypocriteAnd make the owner chief in the affair.You banish me for witchcraft. I submit.Work of this kind awaits me everywhere.And into swine where better they belong,Casting the swinish devils out of menThe devils have their place at last, and thenThe man is healed who had them—where's the wrongSave to the owner? Well, your synagoguesMake the split hoof and chewing of the cudThe test of lawful flesh. Not so are hogs.This rule has been the statute from the flood.Ahaz, your judgment has a fatal flaw.Is it not so with judges first and last—You break the law to specialize the law?—This is the devil that from you I cast.

Ahaz, there in the seat of judgment, hear,If you have wit to understand my plea.Swine-devils are too much for swine, that's clear,Poor man possessed of such is partly free,

Ahaz, there in the seat of judgment, hear,

If you have wit to understand my plea.

Swine-devils are too much for swine, that's clear,

Poor man possessed of such is partly free,

Is neither drowned, destroyed at once, his chainsMay pluck while running, howling through the mireAnd take a little gladness for his pains,Some fury for unsatisfied desire.

Is neither drowned, destroyed at once, his chains

May pluck while running, howling through the mire

And take a little gladness for his pains,

Some fury for unsatisfied desire.

But hogs go mad at once. All this I knew,—But then this lunatic had rights. You grantSwine-devils had him in their clutch and drewHis baffled spirit. How significant,

But hogs go mad at once. All this I knew,—

But then this lunatic had rights. You grant

Swine-devils had him in their clutch and drew

His baffled spirit. How significant,

As they were legion and so named, the pointIs, life bewildered, torn in greed and wrath.Desire puts a spirit out of joint.Swine-devils are for swine, who have no path.

As they were legion and so named, the point

Is, life bewildered, torn in greed and wrath.

Desire puts a spirit out of joint.

Swine-devils are for swine, who have no path.

But man with many lusts, what is his way,Save in confusion, through accustomed rooms?He prays for night to come, and for the dayAmid the miry places and the tombs.

But man with many lusts, what is his way,

Save in confusion, through accustomed rooms?

He prays for night to come, and for the day

Amid the miry places and the tombs.

But hogs run to the sea. And there's an end.Would I might cast the swinish demons outFrom man forever. Yet the word attend.The lesson of the thing what soul can doubt?

But hogs run to the sea. And there's an end.

Would I might cast the swinish demons out

From man forever. Yet the word attend.

The lesson of the thing what soul can doubt?

What is the loss of hogs, if man be saved?What loss of lands and houses, man being free?Clothed in his reason sits the man who raved,Clean and at peace, your honor. Come and see.

What is the loss of hogs, if man be saved?

What loss of lands and houses, man being free?

Clothed in his reason sits the man who raved,

Clean and at peace, your honor. Come and see.

Your honor shakes a frowning head. Not loth,Speaking more plainly, deeper truth to draw;Do your judicial duty, yet I clotheFree souls with courage to transgress the law

Your honor shakes a frowning head. Not loth,

Speaking more plainly, deeper truth to draw;

Do your judicial duty, yet I clothe

Free souls with courage to transgress the law

By casting demons out from self, or thoseLike this poor lunatic whom your synagoguesWould leave to battle singly with his woes—What is a man's soul to a drove of hogs?

By casting demons out from self, or those

Like this poor lunatic whom your synagogues

Would leave to battle singly with his woes—

What is a man's soul to a drove of hogs?

Which being lost, men play the hypocriteAnd make the owner chief in the affair.You banish me for witchcraft. I submit.Work of this kind awaits me everywhere.

Which being lost, men play the hypocrite

And make the owner chief in the affair.

You banish me for witchcraft. I submit.

Work of this kind awaits me everywhere.

And into swine where better they belong,Casting the swinish devils out of menThe devils have their place at last, and thenThe man is healed who had them—where's the wrong

And into swine where better they belong,

Casting the swinish devils out of men

The devils have their place at last, and then

The man is healed who had them—where's the wrong

Save to the owner? Well, your synagoguesMake the split hoof and chewing of the cudThe test of lawful flesh. Not so are hogs.This rule has been the statute from the flood.

Save to the owner? Well, your synagogues

Make the split hoof and chewing of the cud

The test of lawful flesh. Not so are hogs.

This rule has been the statute from the flood.

Ahaz, your judgment has a fatal flaw.Is it not so with judges first and last—You break the law to specialize the law?—This is the devil that from you I cast.

Ahaz, your judgment has a fatal flaw.

Is it not so with judges first and last—

You break the law to specialize the law?—

This is the devil that from you I cast.

Icarus, Daedalus, Medea's dragons,Pegasus, Leonardo, Swedenborg,Cyrano de Bergerac, with dew-filled flagons,Bacon, who schemed with chemicals and forge,Lana, of copper spheres of air exhausted,Therefore made light to riseUp where the pathless ways are frostedIn the blue vitriol of the skies.Montgolfier, Franklin, von Zeppelin, Watt,Edison, an engine must be, spiral springs,Nor steam move not these more than condor wingsOf heaven's Argonaut,Gathering the sun-set clouds for golden fleece.Santos Dumont and Langley, over theseThe Americans, the brothers Wright.America finds wings for flight.At last out of the New World wings are bornTo wheel far up where cold is, and a lightDazzling and immaculate,In the heights where stands the temple of the Morn.Winged Victory more beautiful than Samothrace'sFor the New World opening the gateOf heaven at last, where mortals enter inUnconquerably and winThe great escape from earth, the measureless spacesOf air across the inimical abyssBetween ethereal precipice and precipice.Hail! spirits of the race'sCourage to be free, adventurersOf infinite desire!Hail! seed of the ancient wars,Of burning glasses, catapults, Greek fire!Hail! final conquerors,Out of whose vision greater vision springs—America with wings!The vulture lags behind, the Gorgones,Revealed or ambushed in the thunder clouds,Would tear from heaven these audacitiesOf deathless spirit, shatter them and spillThe blasphemy of genius from the sky.Gods are you, flyers, whom no danger shrouds,No terror shakes the will.Gods are you though you suffer and must die,Men winged as gods who fly!Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,With feathers made him wings, but steelSoars for the petrol demon's toil,Fed by the sap of trees far under earthIn the long eons past turned into oil.The petrol demon in the enchanted coilOf lightning howls and spins the invisible wheelWhich had its birthIn the rapt vision of Archimides.Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,With feathers made him wings. But now a swan,A steel-borne beetle cleaves the immensities,Fed with fire of amber and oil of trees,And soars against the sun,And over mountains, seas!Flight more auspicious than the flight of cranesIn Homer's Troyland, or than eagles flyingToward Imaus when the midnight wanes.Victorious flight! symbol of man defyingLow dungeons of the spirit, darkness, chains.Flight beyond superstition and the reignsOf tyrannies where thought of man should beSwift as his thought is free.Flight of an era born to-dayThat puts the past and all its dead away.Locusts of the new Jehovah sent to scourgeAll Pharaohs who enslave.Hornets with multiple eyes,Scorning surprise,And armed to purgeThe despot and the knaveOut of the fairer land where men shall live,Winning all things which were so fugitiveOf wisdom, happiness and peace,Of hope, of spiritual releaseFrom fear of life, life's mean significance,Till life be ordered, not a thing of chance.The hopelessness of him who criedVanity of VanitiesWas justified,But now no longer must abide.Failure was his, and failure filled the hoursOf our fathers in the past—let it depart.Triumph is come, and triumph must be ours.The archangels of earth through Israel,Through India and GreeceShall find us wings for life and for increaseOf living, and shall battle down the hellWhose fires still smolder and profane.Life and the human heartIn living must become the aeroplane,Not the yoked oxen and the cart.Let but the thought of East and West be blent,Europe, America, the Orient,To give life wings as Time's last great event:The final glory of wings to the soul of manIn an order of life human, but divine,Fashioned in carefulest thought, powerful but of delicate design,As the wings of the aeroplane are.Where spirit of man is used to the full, but saved,As the petrol demon, in this dragon of war,Uses and saves his power.Where neither thought, truth, love nor gifts, nor any flowerOf spirit of man, so mangled or enslavedIn the eras gone, is wasted or depraved.Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raisedWith winning of his wings.Dust he no more shall eat,Who crawls not, but from feetHas risen to wings!Man shall no longer python be.These wings are prophecies of a world made free!Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised.He has soared to the gate of heaven and gazedInto the meadows of infinity,Winged and with lightning shod,Beyond the old day's lowering cloud and murk.The heavens declare the glory of God,Man shows His handiwork!

Icarus, Daedalus, Medea's dragons,

Pegasus, Leonardo, Swedenborg,

Cyrano de Bergerac, with dew-filled flagons,

Bacon, who schemed with chemicals and forge,

Lana, of copper spheres of air exhausted,

Therefore made light to rise

Up where the pathless ways are frosted

In the blue vitriol of the skies.

Montgolfier, Franklin, von Zeppelin, Watt,Edison, an engine must be, spiral springs,Nor steam move not these more than condor wingsOf heaven's Argonaut,Gathering the sun-set clouds for golden fleece.Santos Dumont and Langley, over theseThe Americans, the brothers Wright.America finds wings for flight.At last out of the New World wings are bornTo wheel far up where cold is, and a lightDazzling and immaculate,In the heights where stands the temple of the Morn.Winged Victory more beautiful than Samothrace'sFor the New World opening the gateOf heaven at last, where mortals enter inUnconquerably and winThe great escape from earth, the measureless spacesOf air across the inimical abyssBetween ethereal precipice and precipice.Hail! spirits of the race'sCourage to be free, adventurersOf infinite desire!Hail! seed of the ancient wars,Of burning glasses, catapults, Greek fire!Hail! final conquerors,Out of whose vision greater vision springs—America with wings!

Montgolfier, Franklin, von Zeppelin, Watt,

Edison, an engine must be, spiral springs,

Nor steam move not these more than condor wings

Of heaven's Argonaut,

Gathering the sun-set clouds for golden fleece.

Santos Dumont and Langley, over these

The Americans, the brothers Wright.

America finds wings for flight.

At last out of the New World wings are born

To wheel far up where cold is, and a light

Dazzling and immaculate,

In the heights where stands the temple of the Morn.

Winged Victory more beautiful than Samothrace's

For the New World opening the gate

Of heaven at last, where mortals enter in

Unconquerably and win

The great escape from earth, the measureless spaces

Of air across the inimical abyss

Between ethereal precipice and precipice.

Hail! spirits of the race's

Courage to be free, adventurers

Of infinite desire!

Hail! seed of the ancient wars,

Of burning glasses, catapults, Greek fire!

Hail! final conquerors,

Out of whose vision greater vision springs—

America with wings!

The vulture lags behind, the Gorgones,Revealed or ambushed in the thunder clouds,Would tear from heaven these audacitiesOf deathless spirit, shatter them and spillThe blasphemy of genius from the sky.Gods are you, flyers, whom no danger shrouds,No terror shakes the will.Gods are you though you suffer and must die,Men winged as gods who fly!

The vulture lags behind, the Gorgones,

Revealed or ambushed in the thunder clouds,

Would tear from heaven these audacities

Of deathless spirit, shatter them and spill

The blasphemy of genius from the sky.

Gods are you, flyers, whom no danger shrouds,

No terror shakes the will.

Gods are you though you suffer and must die,

Men winged as gods who fly!

Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,With feathers made him wings, but steelSoars for the petrol demon's toil,Fed by the sap of trees far under earthIn the long eons past turned into oil.The petrol demon in the enchanted coilOf lightning howls and spins the invisible wheelWhich had its birthIn the rapt vision of Archimides.Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,With feathers made him wings. But now a swan,A steel-borne beetle cleaves the immensities,Fed with fire of amber and oil of trees,And soars against the sun,And over mountains, seas!

Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,

With feathers made him wings, but steel

Soars for the petrol demon's toil,

Fed by the sap of trees far under earth

In the long eons past turned into oil.

The petrol demon in the enchanted coil

Of lightning howls and spins the invisible wheel

Which had its birth

In the rapt vision of Archimides.

Borelli, in the centuries that are gone,

With feathers made him wings. But now a swan,

A steel-borne beetle cleaves the immensities,

Fed with fire of amber and oil of trees,

And soars against the sun,

And over mountains, seas!

Flight more auspicious than the flight of cranesIn Homer's Troyland, or than eagles flyingToward Imaus when the midnight wanes.Victorious flight! symbol of man defyingLow dungeons of the spirit, darkness, chains.Flight beyond superstition and the reignsOf tyrannies where thought of man should beSwift as his thought is free.Flight of an era born to-dayThat puts the past and all its dead away.

Flight more auspicious than the flight of cranes

In Homer's Troyland, or than eagles flying

Toward Imaus when the midnight wanes.

Victorious flight! symbol of man defying

Low dungeons of the spirit, darkness, chains.

Flight beyond superstition and the reigns

Of tyrannies where thought of man should be

Swift as his thought is free.

Flight of an era born to-day

That puts the past and all its dead away.

Locusts of the new Jehovah sent to scourgeAll Pharaohs who enslave.Hornets with multiple eyes,Scorning surprise,And armed to purgeThe despot and the knaveOut of the fairer land where men shall live,Winning all things which were so fugitiveOf wisdom, happiness and peace,Of hope, of spiritual releaseFrom fear of life, life's mean significance,Till life be ordered, not a thing of chance.

Locusts of the new Jehovah sent to scourge

All Pharaohs who enslave.

Hornets with multiple eyes,

Scorning surprise,

And armed to purge

The despot and the knave

Out of the fairer land where men shall live,

Winning all things which were so fugitive

Of wisdom, happiness and peace,

Of hope, of spiritual release

From fear of life, life's mean significance,

Till life be ordered, not a thing of chance.

The hopelessness of him who criedVanity of VanitiesWas justified,But now no longer must abide.Failure was his, and failure filled the hoursOf our fathers in the past—let it depart.Triumph is come, and triumph must be ours.The archangels of earth through Israel,Through India and GreeceShall find us wings for life and for increaseOf living, and shall battle down the hellWhose fires still smolder and profane.Life and the human heartIn living must become the aeroplane,Not the yoked oxen and the cart.Let but the thought of East and West be blent,Europe, America, the Orient,To give life wings as Time's last great event:The final glory of wings to the soul of manIn an order of life human, but divine,Fashioned in carefulest thought, powerful but of delicate design,As the wings of the aeroplane are.Where spirit of man is used to the full, but saved,As the petrol demon, in this dragon of war,Uses and saves his power.Where neither thought, truth, love nor gifts, nor any flowerOf spirit of man, so mangled or enslavedIn the eras gone, is wasted or depraved.

The hopelessness of him who cried

Vanity of Vanities

Was justified,

But now no longer must abide.

Failure was his, and failure filled the hours

Of our fathers in the past—let it depart.

Triumph is come, and triumph must be ours.

The archangels of earth through Israel,

Through India and Greece

Shall find us wings for life and for increase

Of living, and shall battle down the hell

Whose fires still smolder and profane.

Life and the human heart

In living must become the aeroplane,

Not the yoked oxen and the cart.

Let but the thought of East and West be blent,

Europe, America, the Orient,

To give life wings as Time's last great event:

The final glory of wings to the soul of man

In an order of life human, but divine,

Fashioned in carefulest thought, powerful but of delicate design,

As the wings of the aeroplane are.

Where spirit of man is used to the full, but saved,

As the petrol demon, in this dragon of war,

Uses and saves his power.

Where neither thought, truth, love nor gifts, nor any flower

Of spirit of man, so mangled or enslaved

In the eras gone, is wasted or depraved.

Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raisedWith winning of his wings.Dust he no more shall eat,Who crawls not, but from feetHas risen to wings!Man shall no longer python be.These wings are prophecies of a world made free!Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised.He has soared to the gate of heaven and gazedInto the meadows of infinity,Winged and with lightning shod,Beyond the old day's lowering cloud and murk.The heavens declare the glory of God,Man shows His handiwork!

Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised

With winning of his wings.

Dust he no more shall eat,

Who crawls not, but from feet

Has risen to wings!

Man shall no longer python be.

These wings are prophecies of a world made free!

Man shall no longer crawl, the curse is raised.

He has soared to the gate of heaven and gazed

Into the meadows of infinity,

Winged and with lightning shod,

Beyond the old day's lowering cloud and murk.

The heavens declare the glory of God,

Man shows His handiwork!

Oh you sabbatarians, methodists and puritans;You bigots, devotees and ranters;You formalists, pietists and fanatics,Teetotalers and hydropots,You thin ascetics, androgynous souls,Chaste and epicene spirits,Eyes blind to color, ears deaf to sound,Fingers insensitive,Do what you will,Make what laws you choose—Yet there are high spaces of raptureWhich you can never touch,They are beyond you and hidden from you.We leave you to the dull assemblies,Charades, cantatas and lectures;The civic meetings where you lie and actAnd work up business;The teas of forced conversation,And receptions of how-de-dos,And stereotyped smiles;The church sociables;And the calls your young men of clammy handsAnd fetid breathPay to anæmic virgins—These are yours;Take them—But I tell youIn places you know not of,We, the free spirits, the livers,Guests at the wedding feast of life,Drinkers of the wine made by Jesus,Worshipers of fire and of God,Who made the grape,And filled the veins of His legitimate childrenWith ethereal flame—We the lovers of life in unknown placesShall taste of ancient wine,And put flowers in golden vases,And open precious books of song,And look upon dreaming Buddhas,And marble masks of genius.We shall hear the sound of stringed instruments,Voicing the dreams of great spirits.We shall know the rapture of kissesAnd long embraces,And the sting of folly.We shall entwine our arms in voluptuous sleep,And in the misery of your denialsAnd your cowardice and your fearsYou shall not even dream that we exist.Unintelligible weeds! We, the blossoms of life's garden,Flourish on the hills of variable winds—We perish, but you never live.

Oh you sabbatarians, methodists and puritans;

You bigots, devotees and ranters;

You formalists, pietists and fanatics,

Teetotalers and hydropots,

You thin ascetics, androgynous souls,

Chaste and epicene spirits,

Eyes blind to color, ears deaf to sound,

Fingers insensitive,

Do what you will,

Make what laws you choose—

Yet there are high spaces of rapture

Which you can never touch,

They are beyond you and hidden from you.

We leave you to the dull assemblies,Charades, cantatas and lectures;The civic meetings where you lie and actAnd work up business;The teas of forced conversation,And receptions of how-de-dos,And stereotyped smiles;The church sociables;And the calls your young men of clammy handsAnd fetid breathPay to anæmic virgins—

We leave you to the dull assemblies,

Charades, cantatas and lectures;

The civic meetings where you lie and act

And work up business;

The teas of forced conversation,

And receptions of how-de-dos,

And stereotyped smiles;

The church sociables;

And the calls your young men of clammy hands

And fetid breath

Pay to anæmic virgins—

These are yours;Take them—But I tell youIn places you know not of,We, the free spirits, the livers,Guests at the wedding feast of life,Drinkers of the wine made by Jesus,Worshipers of fire and of God,Who made the grape,And filled the veins of His legitimate childrenWith ethereal flame—We the lovers of life in unknown placesShall taste of ancient wine,And put flowers in golden vases,And open precious books of song,And look upon dreaming Buddhas,And marble masks of genius.We shall hear the sound of stringed instruments,Voicing the dreams of great spirits.We shall know the rapture of kissesAnd long embraces,And the sting of folly.We shall entwine our arms in voluptuous sleep,And in the misery of your denialsAnd your cowardice and your fearsYou shall not even dream that we exist.

These are yours;

Take them—

But I tell you

In places you know not of,

We, the free spirits, the livers,

Guests at the wedding feast of life,

Drinkers of the wine made by Jesus,

Worshipers of fire and of God,

Who made the grape,

And filled the veins of His legitimate children

With ethereal flame—

We the lovers of life in unknown places

Shall taste of ancient wine,

And put flowers in golden vases,

And open precious books of song,

And look upon dreaming Buddhas,

And marble masks of genius.

We shall hear the sound of stringed instruments,

Voicing the dreams of great spirits.

We shall know the rapture of kisses

And long embraces,

And the sting of folly.

We shall entwine our arms in voluptuous sleep,

And in the misery of your denials

And your cowardice and your fears

You shall not even dream that we exist.

Unintelligible weeds! We, the blossoms of life's garden,Flourish on the hills of variable winds—We perish, but you never live.

Unintelligible weeds! We, the blossoms of life's garden,

Flourish on the hills of variable winds—

We perish, but you never live.

Athene! Virgin! Goddess! Queen! descend,Come to us and befriend.Set up your shrine among us and defendOur realm against corruptions which impend.*****Divinity of order and of law,Most powerful and wise,Our land reclaim.Patron of the assemblies of the free,Our cities shame!Dethrone our bastard Demos, partisansOf Moody, Campbell, all the Wesleyans.Come down with awe,Enceladus and Pallas strike, who riseAgainst your father and his hierarchy.Smite the giants Superstition, Force,Fanaticism, Ignorance and FaithIn village gods, and bury them beneathVolcanic mountains. Yoke them to the courseAnd labor of your wisdom. Fling your shield,Medusa faced, before the brows of clay,Who rule our clattering day;Flash it before their brows and makeStones for the pavement of the wayWhereon you drive your chariot, golden-wheeled.Descend, O Goddess, for the memory's sakeAnd for the hope's sake of your son,Franklin, your herald, Washington,Who dreamed to make perpetualOur Parthenon, column, court and hall.And save it from the donjon, minaret,The cross, the spire, the vane, the parapet!*****We have no god but Jesus,No god but Billiken.Nature and DionysiusCome back again!Jehovah is an alien tyrant, rules usFrom arid Palestine,Who mouths a heaven that fools us,And curses the olive and vine,And the smiles of the lyric nine.Gods are they, hard and full of wrathWho drive us on the unintelligible path.Gods are they, and unreckoning of their workToo puerile or despotic, or with feetThat drip blood on a mercy seat.They nerve our hands with hatred's dirk,Or weaken us with poison sweet.Drug us to mumble this is life, who feelIn our delirium, no less, that lifeIs an ocean that breaks the grist stones and the wheelSet up to feed this world of strifeBy Mary's son, Mary the wife——Come from the Islands of the Blest,Goddess, and give us wisdom, vision, rest.Reveal a Beauty for our hearts to love.The wooden ark of Moses, overlaidWith strips of gold,And all the spurious covenant thereofBy which our life is obelisedWe would no more behold,Who have so vainly with it temporized.Fruitless our spirits have these centuries prayedBefore the Janus cross,The oracle that speaks in riddles, asksPenitence, obedience, tasksWhich nature interdicts.We are the body on the crucifix,Not Jesus; we, the race, are crucified,And die upon the cross,For centuries have died.Come and restore our lossOf truth, the eyes of spirits undeceived,Courage with nature, strike the opiate jossTo ruin with your sword,O most adored!Give us Reality, O lover of men,Republics, cities, lands.Uplift our eyes to Beauty, once perceivedWe may rebuild the Areopagus,With wiser eyes and hands.Bring Thought, the Argus, consciousnessThat looks before and after,And grace perpetual of Mnemosyne—Remembering we shall be free!Save us, O Goddess, from the drifting crowd,Wondering, witless, loud,The lovers of the minute who possessNo reverence and no laughter!*****Goddess! with silver helmet, guardianYou may be, if we worship at your shrine,Before the gates of Boston and New York,Chicago, San Francisco, through the spanOf continents and isles; your heart inclineToward our turbulent blood from many climes,Worships and times.Lift from our necks the brass and jeweled torqueOf restless zealots and of idiot mouths;The locusts swarm, the land is cursed with drouths,Bring rain and dew,Plant olive trees,Set on our hills the emblem of the vine;Bring to our hearts the lofty puritiesOf song and laughter, wisdom, and renewTemples of beauty and academies!*****Set up your golden altarIn Parthenons in every village and shire.The crucifix and psalter,The ikons and the toys of vain desireWe cast into the fire.We keep the lover Jesus, for his hope,His humanism and his flaming zeal.He will approach your altar, he will kneelAt last before you, for the horoscopeOf life misread in youthAnd youthful dreams and faith.Goddess! our globe that hungers for the truthBetween the roar of life, silence of deathCannot be stayed or cowed. But, oh, descendFirst to our soil, Atlantis, and befriend.Make us a light across the fathomless seaOf centuries to be,Even as Athens is, divinity!

Athene! Virgin! Goddess! Queen! descend,Come to us and befriend.Set up your shrine among us and defendOur realm against corruptions which impend.

Athene! Virgin! Goddess! Queen! descend,

Come to us and befriend.

Set up your shrine among us and defend

Our realm against corruptions which impend.

*****

Divinity of order and of law,Most powerful and wise,Our land reclaim.Patron of the assemblies of the free,Our cities shame!Dethrone our bastard Demos, partisansOf Moody, Campbell, all the Wesleyans.Come down with awe,Enceladus and Pallas strike, who riseAgainst your father and his hierarchy.Smite the giants Superstition, Force,Fanaticism, Ignorance and FaithIn village gods, and bury them beneathVolcanic mountains. Yoke them to the courseAnd labor of your wisdom. Fling your shield,Medusa faced, before the brows of clay,Who rule our clattering day;Flash it before their brows and makeStones for the pavement of the wayWhereon you drive your chariot, golden-wheeled.Descend, O Goddess, for the memory's sakeAnd for the hope's sake of your son,Franklin, your herald, Washington,Who dreamed to make perpetualOur Parthenon, column, court and hall.And save it from the donjon, minaret,The cross, the spire, the vane, the parapet!

Divinity of order and of law,

Most powerful and wise,

Our land reclaim.

Patron of the assemblies of the free,

Our cities shame!

Dethrone our bastard Demos, partisans

Of Moody, Campbell, all the Wesleyans.

Come down with awe,

Enceladus and Pallas strike, who rise

Against your father and his hierarchy.

Smite the giants Superstition, Force,

Fanaticism, Ignorance and Faith

In village gods, and bury them beneath

Volcanic mountains. Yoke them to the course

And labor of your wisdom. Fling your shield,

Medusa faced, before the brows of clay,

Who rule our clattering day;

Flash it before their brows and make

Stones for the pavement of the way

Whereon you drive your chariot, golden-wheeled.

Descend, O Goddess, for the memory's sake

And for the hope's sake of your son,

Franklin, your herald, Washington,

Who dreamed to make perpetual

Our Parthenon, column, court and hall.

And save it from the donjon, minaret,

The cross, the spire, the vane, the parapet!

*****

We have no god but Jesus,No god but Billiken.Nature and DionysiusCome back again!Jehovah is an alien tyrant, rules usFrom arid Palestine,Who mouths a heaven that fools us,And curses the olive and vine,And the smiles of the lyric nine.Gods are they, hard and full of wrathWho drive us on the unintelligible path.Gods are they, and unreckoning of their workToo puerile or despotic, or with feetThat drip blood on a mercy seat.They nerve our hands with hatred's dirk,Or weaken us with poison sweet.Drug us to mumble this is life, who feelIn our delirium, no less, that lifeIs an ocean that breaks the grist stones and the wheelSet up to feed this world of strifeBy Mary's son, Mary the wife——Come from the Islands of the Blest,Goddess, and give us wisdom, vision, rest.Reveal a Beauty for our hearts to love.The wooden ark of Moses, overlaidWith strips of gold,And all the spurious covenant thereofBy which our life is obelisedWe would no more behold,Who have so vainly with it temporized.Fruitless our spirits have these centuries prayedBefore the Janus cross,The oracle that speaks in riddles, asksPenitence, obedience, tasksWhich nature interdicts.We are the body on the crucifix,Not Jesus; we, the race, are crucified,And die upon the cross,For centuries have died.Come and restore our lossOf truth, the eyes of spirits undeceived,Courage with nature, strike the opiate jossTo ruin with your sword,O most adored!Give us Reality, O lover of men,Republics, cities, lands.Uplift our eyes to Beauty, once perceivedWe may rebuild the Areopagus,With wiser eyes and hands.Bring Thought, the Argus, consciousnessThat looks before and after,And grace perpetual of Mnemosyne—Remembering we shall be free!Save us, O Goddess, from the drifting crowd,Wondering, witless, loud,The lovers of the minute who possessNo reverence and no laughter!

We have no god but Jesus,

No god but Billiken.

Nature and Dionysius

Come back again!

Jehovah is an alien tyrant, rules us

From arid Palestine,

Who mouths a heaven that fools us,

And curses the olive and vine,

And the smiles of the lyric nine.

Gods are they, hard and full of wrath

Who drive us on the unintelligible path.

Gods are they, and unreckoning of their work

Too puerile or despotic, or with feet

That drip blood on a mercy seat.

They nerve our hands with hatred's dirk,

Or weaken us with poison sweet.

Drug us to mumble this is life, who feel

In our delirium, no less, that life

Is an ocean that breaks the grist stones and the wheel

Set up to feed this world of strife

By Mary's son, Mary the wife——

Come from the Islands of the Blest,

Goddess, and give us wisdom, vision, rest.

Reveal a Beauty for our hearts to love.

The wooden ark of Moses, overlaid

With strips of gold,

And all the spurious covenant thereof

By which our life is obelised

We would no more behold,

Who have so vainly with it temporized.

Fruitless our spirits have these centuries prayed

Before the Janus cross,

The oracle that speaks in riddles, asks

Penitence, obedience, tasks

Which nature interdicts.

We are the body on the crucifix,

Not Jesus; we, the race, are crucified,

And die upon the cross,

For centuries have died.

Come and restore our loss

Of truth, the eyes of spirits undeceived,

Courage with nature, strike the opiate joss

To ruin with your sword,

O most adored!

Give us Reality, O lover of men,

Republics, cities, lands.

Uplift our eyes to Beauty, once perceived

We may rebuild the Areopagus,

With wiser eyes and hands.

Bring Thought, the Argus, consciousness

That looks before and after,

And grace perpetual of Mnemosyne—

Remembering we shall be free!

Save us, O Goddess, from the drifting crowd,

Wondering, witless, loud,

The lovers of the minute who possess

No reverence and no laughter!

*****

Goddess! with silver helmet, guardianYou may be, if we worship at your shrine,Before the gates of Boston and New York,Chicago, San Francisco, through the spanOf continents and isles; your heart inclineToward our turbulent blood from many climes,Worships and times.Lift from our necks the brass and jeweled torqueOf restless zealots and of idiot mouths;The locusts swarm, the land is cursed with drouths,Bring rain and dew,Plant olive trees,Set on our hills the emblem of the vine;Bring to our hearts the lofty puritiesOf song and laughter, wisdom, and renewTemples of beauty and academies!

Goddess! with silver helmet, guardian

You may be, if we worship at your shrine,

Before the gates of Boston and New York,

Chicago, San Francisco, through the span

Of continents and isles; your heart incline

Toward our turbulent blood from many climes,

Worships and times.

Lift from our necks the brass and jeweled torque

Of restless zealots and of idiot mouths;

The locusts swarm, the land is cursed with drouths,

Bring rain and dew,

Plant olive trees,

Set on our hills the emblem of the vine;

Bring to our hearts the lofty purities

Of song and laughter, wisdom, and renew

Temples of beauty and academies!

*****

Set up your golden altarIn Parthenons in every village and shire.The crucifix and psalter,The ikons and the toys of vain desireWe cast into the fire.We keep the lover Jesus, for his hope,His humanism and his flaming zeal.He will approach your altar, he will kneelAt last before you, for the horoscopeOf life misread in youthAnd youthful dreams and faith.Goddess! our globe that hungers for the truthBetween the roar of life, silence of deathCannot be stayed or cowed. But, oh, descendFirst to our soil, Atlantis, and befriend.Make us a light across the fathomless seaOf centuries to be,Even as Athens is, divinity!

Set up your golden altar

In Parthenons in every village and shire.

The crucifix and psalter,

The ikons and the toys of vain desire

We cast into the fire.

We keep the lover Jesus, for his hope,

His humanism and his flaming zeal.

He will approach your altar, he will kneel

At last before you, for the horoscope

Of life misread in youth

And youthful dreams and faith.

Goddess! our globe that hungers for the truth

Between the roar of life, silence of death

Cannot be stayed or cowed. But, oh, descend

First to our soil, Atlantis, and befriend.

Make us a light across the fathomless sea

Of centuries to be,

Even as Athens is, divinity!

All things proceed as though the stage were setFor acts arranged. I have not learned the part,The day enacts itself. I take the tube,Find daylight at Jamaica, know the placeThrough some rehearsal, all the country knowWhich glides along the window, is not seenFor definite memory. At Oyster BayA taxi stands in readiness; in a triceWe circle strips of water, slopes of hills,Climb where a granite wall supports a hill,A mass of blossoms, ripening berries, too,And enter at a gate, go up a drive,Shadowed by larches, cedars, silver willows.This taxi just ahead is in the play,Is here in life as I had seen it inThe crystal of prevision, reaches firstThe porte cochere. This moment from the doorComes Roosevelt, and greets the man who leavesThe taxi just ahead, then waits for me,Puts a strong hand that softens into mine,And says, O, this is bully!We go in.He leaves my antecessor in a roomSomewhere along the hall, and comes to meWho wait him in the roomy library.How are those lovely daughters? Oh, by George!I thought I might forget their names, I know—It's Madeline and Marcia. Yes, you knowCorinne adores the picture which you sentOf Madeline—your boy, too? In the war!That's bully—tea is coming—we must talk,I have five hundred things to ask you—setThe tea things on this table, Anna—now,Do you take sugar, lemon? O, you smoke!I'll give you a cigar.The talk begins.He's dressed in canvas khaki, flannel shirt,Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps;A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeksDrained slightly of their fat; gash in the neckWhere pus was emptied lately; one eye dim,And growing dimmer; almost blind in that.And when he walks he rolls a little likeA man whose youth is fading, like a cartThat rolls when springs are old. He is a moose,Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones;Some finest tips of antlers broken off,And eyes where images of ancient thingsFlit back and forth across them, keeping stillA certain slumberous indifferenceOr wisdom, it may be.But then the talk!Bronze dolphins in a fountain cannot spoutMore streams at once: Of course the war, the emperor,America in the war, his sons in France,The dangers, separation, let them go!The fate has been appointed—to our task,Live full our lives with duty, go to sleep!For I say, he exclaims, the man who fearsTo die should not be born, nor left to live.It's Celtic poetry, free verse. He says:You nobly celebrate in your Spoon RiverThe pioneers, the soldiers of the past,Why do you flout our Philippine adventure?No difference, Colonel, in the stock, the differenceLies in the causes. Well, another stream:Mark Hanna, Quay and others, what I hate,He says to me, is the Pharisee—I can standAll other men. And you will find the menSo much maligned had gentle qualities,And noble dreams. Poor Quay, he loved the Indians,Sent for me when he lay there dying, said,Look after such a tribe when I am dead.I want to crawl upon a sunny rockAnd die there like a wolf. Did he say that,Colonel, to you? Yes! and you know, a manWho says a thing like that has in his soulAn orb of light to flash that meaning forthOf heroism, nature.Time goes on,The play is staged, must end; my taxi comesIn half an hour or so. Before it comes,Let's walk about the farm and see my corn.A fellow on the porch is warming heelsAs we go by. I'll see him when you go,The Colonel says.The rail fence by the cornIs good to lean on as we stand and talkOf farming, cattle, country life. We turn,Sit for some moments in a garden houseOn which a rose vine clambers all in bloom,And from this hilly place look at the stripsOf water from the bay a mile beyond,Below some several terraces of hillsWhere firs and pines are growing. This resemblesA scene in Milton that I've read. He knows,Catches the reminiscence, quotes the lines—and thenSomething of country silence, look of grassWhere the wind stirs it, mystical little breathsComing between the roses; something, too,In Vulcan's figure; he is Vulcan, too,Deprived his shop, great bellows, hammer, anvil,Sitting so quietly beside me, handsSpread over knees; something of these evokesA pathos, and immediately in keyWith all of this he says: I have achievedBy labor, concentration, not at allBy gifts or genius, being commonplaceIn all my faculties.Not all, I say.One faculty is not, your over-mind,Eyed front and back to see all faculties,Govern and watch them. If we let you stateYour case against you, timid born, you say,Becoming brave, asthmatic, growing strong:No marksman, yet becoming skilled with guns;No gift of speech, yet winning golden speech;No gift of writing, writing books, no lessOf our America to thrill and live—If, as I say, we let you state your caseAgainst you as you do, there yet remainsThis over-mind, and that is what—a giftOf genius or of what? By George, he says,What are you, a theosophist? I don't know.I know some men achieve a single thing,Like courage, charity, in this incarnation;You have achieved some twenty things. I thinkThat this is going some for a man whose giftsAre commonplace and nothing else.We riseAnd saunter toward the house—and there's the manStill warming heels; my taxi, too, has come.We are to meet next Wednesday in New YorkAnd finish up some subjects—he has thoughtsHow I can help America, if I dropThis line or that a little, all in all.*****But something happens; I have met a loss;Would see no one, and write him I am off.And on that Wednesday flashes from the warSay Quentin has been killed: we had not metIf I had stayed to meet him.So, good-byUpon the lawn at Sagamore was good-by,Master of Properties, you stage the sceneAnd let us speak and pass into the wings!One thing was fitting—dying in your sleep—A touch of Nature, Colonel, you who lovedAnd were beloved of Nature, felt her handUpon your brow at last to give to youA bit of sleep, and after sleep perhapsRest and rejuvenation; you will wakeTo newer labors, fresher victoriesOver those faculties not disciplinedAs you desired them in these sixty years.

All things proceed as though the stage were set

For acts arranged. I have not learned the part,

The day enacts itself. I take the tube,

Find daylight at Jamaica, know the place

Through some rehearsal, all the country know

Which glides along the window, is not seen

For definite memory. At Oyster Bay

A taxi stands in readiness; in a trice

We circle strips of water, slopes of hills,

Climb where a granite wall supports a hill,

A mass of blossoms, ripening berries, too,

And enter at a gate, go up a drive,

Shadowed by larches, cedars, silver willows.

This taxi just ahead is in the play,

Is here in life as I had seen it in

The crystal of prevision, reaches first

The porte cochere. This moment from the door

Comes Roosevelt, and greets the man who leaves

The taxi just ahead, then waits for me,

Puts a strong hand that softens into mine,

And says, O, this is bully!

We go in.He leaves my antecessor in a roomSomewhere along the hall, and comes to meWho wait him in the roomy library.How are those lovely daughters? Oh, by George!I thought I might forget their names, I know—It's Madeline and Marcia. Yes, you knowCorinne adores the picture which you sentOf Madeline—your boy, too? In the war!That's bully—tea is coming—we must talk,I have five hundred things to ask you—setThe tea things on this table, Anna—now,Do you take sugar, lemon? O, you smoke!I'll give you a cigar.

We go in.

He leaves my antecessor in a room

Somewhere along the hall, and comes to me

Who wait him in the roomy library.

How are those lovely daughters? Oh, by George!

I thought I might forget their names, I know—

It's Madeline and Marcia. Yes, you know

Corinne adores the picture which you sent

Of Madeline—your boy, too? In the war!

That's bully—tea is coming—we must talk,

I have five hundred things to ask you—set

The tea things on this table, Anna—now,

Do you take sugar, lemon? O, you smoke!

I'll give you a cigar.

The talk begins.He's dressed in canvas khaki, flannel shirt,Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps;A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeksDrained slightly of their fat; gash in the neckWhere pus was emptied lately; one eye dim,And growing dimmer; almost blind in that.And when he walks he rolls a little likeA man whose youth is fading, like a cartThat rolls when springs are old. He is a moose,Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones;Some finest tips of antlers broken off,And eyes where images of ancient thingsFlit back and forth across them, keeping stillA certain slumberous indifferenceOr wisdom, it may be.

The talk begins.

He's dressed in canvas khaki, flannel shirt,

Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps;

A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeks

Drained slightly of their fat; gash in the neck

Where pus was emptied lately; one eye dim,

And growing dimmer; almost blind in that.

And when he walks he rolls a little like

A man whose youth is fading, like a cart

That rolls when springs are old. He is a moose,

Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones;

Some finest tips of antlers broken off,

And eyes where images of ancient things

Flit back and forth across them, keeping still

A certain slumberous indifference

Or wisdom, it may be.

But then the talk!Bronze dolphins in a fountain cannot spoutMore streams at once: Of course the war, the emperor,America in the war, his sons in France,The dangers, separation, let them go!The fate has been appointed—to our task,Live full our lives with duty, go to sleep!For I say, he exclaims, the man who fearsTo die should not be born, nor left to live.It's Celtic poetry, free verse. He says:You nobly celebrate in your Spoon RiverThe pioneers, the soldiers of the past,Why do you flout our Philippine adventure?No difference, Colonel, in the stock, the differenceLies in the causes. Well, another stream:Mark Hanna, Quay and others, what I hate,He says to me, is the Pharisee—I can standAll other men. And you will find the menSo much maligned had gentle qualities,And noble dreams. Poor Quay, he loved the Indians,Sent for me when he lay there dying, said,Look after such a tribe when I am dead.I want to crawl upon a sunny rockAnd die there like a wolf. Did he say that,Colonel, to you? Yes! and you know, a manWho says a thing like that has in his soulAn orb of light to flash that meaning forthOf heroism, nature.

But then the talk!

Bronze dolphins in a fountain cannot spout

More streams at once: Of course the war, the emperor,

America in the war, his sons in France,

The dangers, separation, let them go!

The fate has been appointed—to our task,

Live full our lives with duty, go to sleep!

For I say, he exclaims, the man who fears

To die should not be born, nor left to live.

It's Celtic poetry, free verse. He says:

You nobly celebrate in your Spoon River

The pioneers, the soldiers of the past,

Why do you flout our Philippine adventure?

No difference, Colonel, in the stock, the difference

Lies in the causes. Well, another stream:

Mark Hanna, Quay and others, what I hate,

He says to me, is the Pharisee—I can stand

All other men. And you will find the men

So much maligned had gentle qualities,

And noble dreams. Poor Quay, he loved the Indians,

Sent for me when he lay there dying, said,

Look after such a tribe when I am dead.

I want to crawl upon a sunny rock

And die there like a wolf. Did he say that,

Colonel, to you? Yes! and you know, a man

Who says a thing like that has in his soul

An orb of light to flash that meaning forth

Of heroism, nature.

Time goes on,The play is staged, must end; my taxi comesIn half an hour or so. Before it comes,Let's walk about the farm and see my corn.A fellow on the porch is warming heelsAs we go by. I'll see him when you go,The Colonel says.

Time goes on,

The play is staged, must end; my taxi comes

In half an hour or so. Before it comes,

Let's walk about the farm and see my corn.

A fellow on the porch is warming heels

As we go by. I'll see him when you go,

The Colonel says.

The rail fence by the cornIs good to lean on as we stand and talkOf farming, cattle, country life. We turn,Sit for some moments in a garden houseOn which a rose vine clambers all in bloom,And from this hilly place look at the stripsOf water from the bay a mile beyond,Below some several terraces of hillsWhere firs and pines are growing. This resemblesA scene in Milton that I've read. He knows,Catches the reminiscence, quotes the lines—and thenSomething of country silence, look of grassWhere the wind stirs it, mystical little breathsComing between the roses; something, too,In Vulcan's figure; he is Vulcan, too,Deprived his shop, great bellows, hammer, anvil,Sitting so quietly beside me, handsSpread over knees; something of these evokesA pathos, and immediately in keyWith all of this he says: I have achievedBy labor, concentration, not at allBy gifts or genius, being commonplaceIn all my faculties.

The rail fence by the corn

Is good to lean on as we stand and talk

Of farming, cattle, country life. We turn,

Sit for some moments in a garden house

On which a rose vine clambers all in bloom,

And from this hilly place look at the strips

Of water from the bay a mile beyond,

Below some several terraces of hills

Where firs and pines are growing. This resembles

A scene in Milton that I've read. He knows,

Catches the reminiscence, quotes the lines—and then

Something of country silence, look of grass

Where the wind stirs it, mystical little breaths

Coming between the roses; something, too,

In Vulcan's figure; he is Vulcan, too,

Deprived his shop, great bellows, hammer, anvil,

Sitting so quietly beside me, hands

Spread over knees; something of these evokes

A pathos, and immediately in key

With all of this he says: I have achieved

By labor, concentration, not at all

By gifts or genius, being commonplace

In all my faculties.

Not all, I say.One faculty is not, your over-mind,Eyed front and back to see all faculties,Govern and watch them. If we let you stateYour case against you, timid born, you say,Becoming brave, asthmatic, growing strong:No marksman, yet becoming skilled with guns;No gift of speech, yet winning golden speech;No gift of writing, writing books, no lessOf our America to thrill and live—If, as I say, we let you state your caseAgainst you as you do, there yet remainsThis over-mind, and that is what—a giftOf genius or of what? By George, he says,What are you, a theosophist? I don't know.I know some men achieve a single thing,Like courage, charity, in this incarnation;You have achieved some twenty things. I thinkThat this is going some for a man whose giftsAre commonplace and nothing else.

Not all, I say.

One faculty is not, your over-mind,

Eyed front and back to see all faculties,

Govern and watch them. If we let you state

Your case against you, timid born, you say,

Becoming brave, asthmatic, growing strong:

No marksman, yet becoming skilled with guns;

No gift of speech, yet winning golden speech;

No gift of writing, writing books, no less

Of our America to thrill and live—

If, as I say, we let you state your case

Against you as you do, there yet remains

This over-mind, and that is what—a gift

Of genius or of what? By George, he says,

What are you, a theosophist? I don't know.

I know some men achieve a single thing,

Like courage, charity, in this incarnation;

You have achieved some twenty things. I think

That this is going some for a man whose gifts

Are commonplace and nothing else.

We riseAnd saunter toward the house—and there's the manStill warming heels; my taxi, too, has come.We are to meet next Wednesday in New YorkAnd finish up some subjects—he has thoughtsHow I can help America, if I dropThis line or that a little, all in all.

We rise

And saunter toward the house—and there's the man

Still warming heels; my taxi, too, has come.

We are to meet next Wednesday in New York

And finish up some subjects—he has thoughts

How I can help America, if I drop

This line or that a little, all in all.

*****

But something happens; I have met a loss;Would see no one, and write him I am off.And on that Wednesday flashes from the warSay Quentin has been killed: we had not metIf I had stayed to meet him.

But something happens; I have met a loss;

Would see no one, and write him I am off.

And on that Wednesday flashes from the war

Say Quentin has been killed: we had not met

If I had stayed to meet him.

So, good-byUpon the lawn at Sagamore was good-by,Master of Properties, you stage the sceneAnd let us speak and pass into the wings!One thing was fitting—dying in your sleep—A touch of Nature, Colonel, you who lovedAnd were beloved of Nature, felt her handUpon your brow at last to give to youA bit of sleep, and after sleep perhapsRest and rejuvenation; you will wakeTo newer labors, fresher victoriesOver those faculties not disciplinedAs you desired them in these sixty years.

So, good-by

Upon the lawn at Sagamore was good-by,

Master of Properties, you stage the scene

And let us speak and pass into the wings!

One thing was fitting—dying in your sleep—

A touch of Nature, Colonel, you who loved

And were beloved of Nature, felt her hand

Upon your brow at last to give to you

A bit of sleep, and after sleep perhaps

Rest and rejuvenation; you will wake

To newer labors, fresher victories

Over those faculties not disciplined

As you desired them in these sixty years.

England has found another voice in youOf beauty and of truth,True to their soul, as you are true—Singer and soldier, yet a youth.Out of the trenches and the rage of blood,The hatred and the liesYou, like a wounded sky-lark, in a floodPour forth these melodies,Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soaredAbove the stench of hell and death's defeats.I look at you, as often I have poredOn the death mask of Keats.Or the face of him quickly and gladly goingThe waves of the sea under,To the land of man's unknowing,Or the land of wonder.And the war had you! what can it giveIn return for souls like yoursMangled or blotted out?—who shall forgiveThe war while time endures?Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands,The soldiers marching well,Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's handsClutch in a hemorrhage of hell.Yet you found God through this? through war,Through love found vision, perhaps peace?Keep them in your breast like the morning star—May their light increase.Waves on the sea's breast catch the lightWhile the hollows betweenAre dark—you are a wave whose heightIs smitten by the Light unseen,Urged by the Sea's power to the gloryOf the christening sun.When the calm comes and darkness, transitoryBe your doubt, or none.These words from me who have the hard way traveledOf pain and thought,In a weaving never wholly unraveled,Or wholly wrought,For your spirit and your songs, gladnessFor the hope of you, and praiseTo life, who gave you out of the world's madnessIn these our days.

England has found another voice in youOf beauty and of truth,True to their soul, as you are true—Singer and soldier, yet a youth.

England has found another voice in you

Of beauty and of truth,

True to their soul, as you are true—

Singer and soldier, yet a youth.

Out of the trenches and the rage of blood,The hatred and the liesYou, like a wounded sky-lark, in a floodPour forth these melodies,

Out of the trenches and the rage of blood,

The hatred and the lies

You, like a wounded sky-lark, in a flood

Pour forth these melodies,

Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soaredAbove the stench of hell and death's defeats.I look at you, as often I have poredOn the death mask of Keats.

Of a spirit which has suffered, yet has soared

Above the stench of hell and death's defeats.

I look at you, as often I have pored

On the death mask of Keats.

Or the face of him quickly and gladly goingThe waves of the sea under,To the land of man's unknowing,Or the land of wonder.

Or the face of him quickly and gladly going

The waves of the sea under,

To the land of man's unknowing,

Or the land of wonder.

And the war had you! what can it giveIn return for souls like yoursMangled or blotted out?—who shall forgiveThe war while time endures?

And the war had you! what can it give

In return for souls like yours

Mangled or blotted out?—who shall forgive

The war while time endures?

Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands,The soldiers marching well,Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's handsClutch in a hemorrhage of hell.

Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands,

The soldiers marching well,

Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's hands

Clutch in a hemorrhage of hell.

Yet you found God through this? through war,Through love found vision, perhaps peace?Keep them in your breast like the morning star—May their light increase.

Yet you found God through this? through war,

Through love found vision, perhaps peace?

Keep them in your breast like the morning star—

May their light increase.

Waves on the sea's breast catch the lightWhile the hollows betweenAre dark—you are a wave whose heightIs smitten by the Light unseen,

Waves on the sea's breast catch the light

While the hollows between

Are dark—you are a wave whose height

Is smitten by the Light unseen,

Urged by the Sea's power to the gloryOf the christening sun.When the calm comes and darkness, transitoryBe your doubt, or none.

Urged by the Sea's power to the glory

Of the christening sun.

When the calm comes and darkness, transitory

Be your doubt, or none.

These words from me who have the hard way traveledOf pain and thought,In a weaving never wholly unraveled,Or wholly wrought,

These words from me who have the hard way traveled

Of pain and thought,

In a weaving never wholly unraveled,

Or wholly wrought,

For your spirit and your songs, gladnessFor the hope of you, and praiseTo life, who gave you out of the world's madnessIn these our days.

For your spirit and your songs, gladness

For the hope of you, and praise

To life, who gave you out of the world's madness

In these our days.

As I shall die, let your beliefFind in these words too poor and briefMy soul's essential self.My griefDown to the day I knew you locksIts secret word in paradox:I who loved truth could not be true,Could only love the truth and glowWith words of truth who loved it so,Even while I dishonored you.I who loved constancy was false,And heeded but in part the callsOf loveliness for love and you.I am but half of that I hoped,And that half hardly more than wordsI cheered my soul with as it groped:As from their bowers of rain the birdsSing feebly, pining for the sun.As I am all of this, by fateLose what I could so well have won,Life leaves me half articulate,My failure, nature half-expressed,Or wholly hidden in my breast.Yes, dear, the secret of me liesWhere words scarce come to analyze.Yet who knows why he is this or that?What moves, defeats him, works him ill?What blood ancestral of the batNarrows his music to the shrillSqueak of a flitting thing that huntsFor gnats, which never singing, frontsThe full moon flooding down the vale,The perfect soul, the nightingale!You have wooed music all your life,And I have sought for love. I thinkMy soul was marked, dear, by a wifeWho loved a man immersed in drink,Who crushed her love which would not die.If this be true, my soul's great thirstWas blended with a fault accursed.My mother's love is my soul's cry.My father's vileness, lies and lusts,His cruel heart, inconstancyThat kept my mother with the crustsOf life to gnaw, are in my blood.My rainbow wings I scarce can loose,Or if I free them, there's the mudThat weighs and mars their use.You have wooed music. But supposeThe hampered hours and povertyBroke down your spirit's harmony,Then if you found you could achieveThe music in you, if you couldBut pick a pocket or deceive,Which would you call the greater good—The music or a sin withstood?Suppose you passed a window whereThe violin of your despairLay ready for your hands! At lastYou stole it as you hurried past,And hid it underneath your ragsUntil you reached your attic room,Then tuned the strings and burned the tags.And drew the bow till lyric fireShould all your thieving thoughts consume:In such case what is your desire—The music or the violin?And what in such case is your sin?And if they caught you in your theft,Would you, just to be honest, dear,Forefront your thief-self as your deftAnd dominant genius, or the earWhich tortured you?Would you not say,Music intrigues me night and day?My soul is the musician's. FirstIn my soul's love is music. WouldYou falsify to keep your good?Deny your theft, or put the worstConstruction on your soul, obscureThereby your soul's investitureOf music's gift and music's lure?If you were flame you would pretendWhat you would fain be to the end,Keep your good name and keep as wellThe violin. May this not beIn some realm an integrity?Now for myself, dear, though I lackThe gift of utterance to explainMy life's pursuit and passion, pain,Or why I acted thus, concealedThoughts that you hold were best revealed,Your eyes to heal themselves must trackAnd find my soul's way in its questFollowed from girlhood without rest.Music is not its hope, but love....And I saw somehow I could liftMy life through you, and rise aboveWhat I had been. And since your giftOf love saw me as truthful, trueI kept that best side to your view,And hoped to be what you desiredIf I but struggled, still aspired.And as for lapses, even whileI fooled you with the wanton's smile,He was my lover till you cameTo light my life with purer flame.Was it, beloved, so great a sin?He was a practice violin.Oh, how I knew this when your stringsSang to me afterward when I sleptUpon your breast again. I wept,Do you remember? I was grievingNeither for him, nor your deceiving,Rather (how strange is life) that heWas prelude to your harmony;Rather that while I walked with him,With you I found the cherubim,Left my old self at last with wings,Saw beauty clear where it was dimBefore through my imaginings.Do you suppose the primrose knowsWhat skill adds petals to its crown?How many failures laugh and frownUpon the hand that crosses, sows?The hand is ignorant of the powerObedient in the primrose flowerTo the hand's skill that toils to addNew petals till the flower be cladIn fuller glory. What's the bondBetween us two, that I respondTo what you are? Nor do you knowWhat lies within me fain to growUnder your hand.But if the wormShould call itself the butterfly,Since it will soon become one, IBetter to be myself affirmThat I am Beauty, Truth—for youI would be Beauty, Truth, imbueYour life with love and loveliness.And you can make me Beauty, Truth,And I can bring you soul successIf you but train my flower whose youthStill may be governed, keep erectMy hope in this poor earthen sod.I think this is a task which GodAppoints for us. We may neglectThe task in this life, but to findIt is a task we leave behind,Only to meet it, till we seeOur fate worked out in lives to be.O, from my lesser self to spreadMy golden wings above your head,Through love of love and you discardThe sting, the rings of green, the shard.Oh, to be Psyche, passion triedThrough flesh, desire, purified!Love is my lode-star, music yours—Souls must go where the lode-star lures.

As I shall die, let your beliefFind in these words too poor and briefMy soul's essential self.

As I shall die, let your belief

Find in these words too poor and brief

My soul's essential self.

My griefDown to the day I knew you locksIts secret word in paradox:I who loved truth could not be true,Could only love the truth and glowWith words of truth who loved it so,Even while I dishonored you.I who loved constancy was false,And heeded but in part the callsOf loveliness for love and you.I am but half of that I hoped,And that half hardly more than wordsI cheered my soul with as it groped:As from their bowers of rain the birdsSing feebly, pining for the sun.As I am all of this, by fateLose what I could so well have won,Life leaves me half articulate,My failure, nature half-expressed,Or wholly hidden in my breast.Yes, dear, the secret of me liesWhere words scarce come to analyze.Yet who knows why he is this or that?What moves, defeats him, works him ill?What blood ancestral of the batNarrows his music to the shrillSqueak of a flitting thing that huntsFor gnats, which never singing, frontsThe full moon flooding down the vale,The perfect soul, the nightingale!

My grief

Down to the day I knew you locks

Its secret word in paradox:

I who loved truth could not be true,

Could only love the truth and glow

With words of truth who loved it so,

Even while I dishonored you.

I who loved constancy was false,

And heeded but in part the calls

Of loveliness for love and you.

I am but half of that I hoped,

And that half hardly more than words

I cheered my soul with as it groped:

As from their bowers of rain the birds

Sing feebly, pining for the sun.

As I am all of this, by fate

Lose what I could so well have won,

Life leaves me half articulate,

My failure, nature half-expressed,

Or wholly hidden in my breast.

Yes, dear, the secret of me lies

Where words scarce come to analyze.

Yet who knows why he is this or that?

What moves, defeats him, works him ill?

What blood ancestral of the bat

Narrows his music to the shrill

Squeak of a flitting thing that hunts

For gnats, which never singing, fronts

The full moon flooding down the vale,

The perfect soul, the nightingale!

You have wooed music all your life,And I have sought for love. I thinkMy soul was marked, dear, by a wifeWho loved a man immersed in drink,Who crushed her love which would not die.If this be true, my soul's great thirstWas blended with a fault accursed.My mother's love is my soul's cry.My father's vileness, lies and lusts,His cruel heart, inconstancyThat kept my mother with the crustsOf life to gnaw, are in my blood.My rainbow wings I scarce can loose,Or if I free them, there's the mudThat weighs and mars their use.

You have wooed music all your life,

And I have sought for love. I think

My soul was marked, dear, by a wife

Who loved a man immersed in drink,

Who crushed her love which would not die.

If this be true, my soul's great thirst

Was blended with a fault accursed.

My mother's love is my soul's cry.

My father's vileness, lies and lusts,

His cruel heart, inconstancy

That kept my mother with the crusts

Of life to gnaw, are in my blood.

My rainbow wings I scarce can loose,

Or if I free them, there's the mud

That weighs and mars their use.

You have wooed music. But supposeThe hampered hours and povertyBroke down your spirit's harmony,Then if you found you could achieveThe music in you, if you couldBut pick a pocket or deceive,Which would you call the greater good—The music or a sin withstood?Suppose you passed a window whereThe violin of your despairLay ready for your hands! At lastYou stole it as you hurried past,And hid it underneath your ragsUntil you reached your attic room,Then tuned the strings and burned the tags.And drew the bow till lyric fireShould all your thieving thoughts consume:In such case what is your desire—The music or the violin?And what in such case is your sin?And if they caught you in your theft,Would you, just to be honest, dear,Forefront your thief-self as your deftAnd dominant genius, or the earWhich tortured you?

You have wooed music. But suppose

The hampered hours and poverty

Broke down your spirit's harmony,

Then if you found you could achieve

The music in you, if you could

But pick a pocket or deceive,

Which would you call the greater good—

The music or a sin withstood?

Suppose you passed a window where

The violin of your despair

Lay ready for your hands! At last

You stole it as you hurried past,

And hid it underneath your rags

Until you reached your attic room,

Then tuned the strings and burned the tags.

And drew the bow till lyric fire

Should all your thieving thoughts consume:

In such case what is your desire—

The music or the violin?

And what in such case is your sin?

And if they caught you in your theft,

Would you, just to be honest, dear,

Forefront your thief-self as your deft

And dominant genius, or the ear

Which tortured you?

Would you not say,Music intrigues me night and day?My soul is the musician's. FirstIn my soul's love is music. WouldYou falsify to keep your good?Deny your theft, or put the worstConstruction on your soul, obscureThereby your soul's investitureOf music's gift and music's lure?If you were flame you would pretendWhat you would fain be to the end,Keep your good name and keep as wellThe violin. May this not beIn some realm an integrity?

Would you not say,

Music intrigues me night and day?

My soul is the musician's. First

In my soul's love is music. Would

You falsify to keep your good?

Deny your theft, or put the worst

Construction on your soul, obscure

Thereby your soul's investiture

Of music's gift and music's lure?

If you were flame you would pretend

What you would fain be to the end,

Keep your good name and keep as well

The violin. May this not be

In some realm an integrity?

Now for myself, dear, though I lackThe gift of utterance to explainMy life's pursuit and passion, pain,Or why I acted thus, concealedThoughts that you hold were best revealed,Your eyes to heal themselves must trackAnd find my soul's way in its questFollowed from girlhood without rest.Music is not its hope, but love....And I saw somehow I could liftMy life through you, and rise aboveWhat I had been. And since your giftOf love saw me as truthful, trueI kept that best side to your view,And hoped to be what you desiredIf I but struggled, still aspired.And as for lapses, even whileI fooled you with the wanton's smile,He was my lover till you cameTo light my life with purer flame.Was it, beloved, so great a sin?He was a practice violin.Oh, how I knew this when your stringsSang to me afterward when I sleptUpon your breast again. I wept,Do you remember? I was grievingNeither for him, nor your deceiving,Rather (how strange is life) that heWas prelude to your harmony;Rather that while I walked with him,With you I found the cherubim,Left my old self at last with wings,Saw beauty clear where it was dimBefore through my imaginings.

Now for myself, dear, though I lack

The gift of utterance to explain

My life's pursuit and passion, pain,

Or why I acted thus, concealed

Thoughts that you hold were best revealed,

Your eyes to heal themselves must track

And find my soul's way in its quest

Followed from girlhood without rest.

Music is not its hope, but love....

And I saw somehow I could lift

My life through you, and rise above

What I had been. And since your gift

Of love saw me as truthful, true

I kept that best side to your view,

And hoped to be what you desired

If I but struggled, still aspired.

And as for lapses, even while

I fooled you with the wanton's smile,

He was my lover till you came

To light my life with purer flame.

Was it, beloved, so great a sin?

He was a practice violin.

Oh, how I knew this when your strings

Sang to me afterward when I slept

Upon your breast again. I wept,

Do you remember? I was grieving

Neither for him, nor your deceiving,

Rather (how strange is life) that he

Was prelude to your harmony;

Rather that while I walked with him,

With you I found the cherubim,

Left my old self at last with wings,

Saw beauty clear where it was dim

Before through my imaginings.

Do you suppose the primrose knowsWhat skill adds petals to its crown?How many failures laugh and frownUpon the hand that crosses, sows?The hand is ignorant of the powerObedient in the primrose flowerTo the hand's skill that toils to addNew petals till the flower be cladIn fuller glory. What's the bondBetween us two, that I respondTo what you are? Nor do you knowWhat lies within me fain to growUnder your hand.

Do you suppose the primrose knows

What skill adds petals to its crown?

How many failures laugh and frown

Upon the hand that crosses, sows?

The hand is ignorant of the power

Obedient in the primrose flower

To the hand's skill that toils to add

New petals till the flower be clad

In fuller glory. What's the bond

Between us two, that I respond

To what you are? Nor do you know

What lies within me fain to grow

Under your hand.

But if the wormShould call itself the butterfly,Since it will soon become one, IBetter to be myself affirmThat I am Beauty, Truth—for youI would be Beauty, Truth, imbueYour life with love and loveliness.And you can make me Beauty, Truth,And I can bring you soul successIf you but train my flower whose youthStill may be governed, keep erectMy hope in this poor earthen sod.I think this is a task which GodAppoints for us. We may neglectThe task in this life, but to findIt is a task we leave behind,Only to meet it, till we seeOur fate worked out in lives to be.

But if the worm

Should call itself the butterfly,

Since it will soon become one, I

Better to be myself affirm

That I am Beauty, Truth—for you

I would be Beauty, Truth, imbue

Your life with love and loveliness.

And you can make me Beauty, Truth,

And I can bring you soul success

If you but train my flower whose youth

Still may be governed, keep erect

My hope in this poor earthen sod.

I think this is a task which God

Appoints for us. We may neglect

The task in this life, but to find

It is a task we leave behind,

Only to meet it, till we see

Our fate worked out in lives to be.

O, from my lesser self to spreadMy golden wings above your head,Through love of love and you discardThe sting, the rings of green, the shard.Oh, to be Psyche, passion triedThrough flesh, desire, purified!Love is my lode-star, music yours—Souls must go where the lode-star lures.

O, from my lesser self to spread

My golden wings above your head,

Through love of love and you discard

The sting, the rings of green, the shard.

Oh, to be Psyche, passion tried

Through flesh, desire, purified!

Love is my lode-star, music yours—

Souls must go where the lode-star lures.

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