Section Three
In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.
(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: "There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: 'Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair.... A disciple,... becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.'")
To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service.I once knew a teacher,Who turned from desire,Who said to the young men"Wine is a fire."Who said to the merchants:—"Gold is a flameThat sears and torturesIf you play at the game."I once knew a teacherWho turned from desireWho said to the soldiers,"Hate is a fire."Who said to the statesmen:—"Power is a flameThat flays and blistersIf you play at the game."I once knew a teacherWho turned from desire,Who said to the lordly,"Pride is a fire."Who thus warned the revellers:—"Life is a flame.Be cold as the dewWould you win at the gameWith hearts like the stars,With hearts like the stars."Interrupting very loudly for the last time.SO BEWARE,SO BEWARE,SO BEWARE OF THE FIRE.Clear the streets,BOOM, BOOM,Clear the streets,BOOM, BOOM,GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM,GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM,LEST SOULS BE TRAPPEDIN A TERRIBLE TOMB.SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSETO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:—"THERE GOES THE ALARM,THERE GOES THE ALARM.THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF,THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH,AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER'S IRON ARM."CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA....CLANG... CLANG... CLANG....CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA....CLANG... CLANG... CLANG....CLANG... A... RANGA.... CLANG... A... RANGA....CLANG... CLANG...CLANG....
A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher.
IA master deep-eyedEre his manhood was ripe,He sang like a thrush,He could play any pipe.So dull in the schoolThat he scarcely could spell,He read but a bit,And he figured not well.A bare-footed fool,Shod only with grace;Long hair streaming downRound a wind-hardened face;He smiled like a girl,Or like clear winter skies,A virginal lightMaking stars of his eyes.In swiftness and poise,A proud child of the deer,A white fawn he was,Yet a fawn without fear.No youth thought him vain,Or made mock of his hair,Or laughed when his waysWere most curiously fair.A mastiff at fight,He could strike to the earthThe envious oneWho would challenge his worth.However we bowedTo the schoolmaster mild,Our spirits went outTo the fawn-footed child.His beckoning ledOur troop to the brush.We found nothing thereBut a wind and a hush.He sat by a stoneAnd he looked on the ground,As if in the weedsThere was something profound.His pipe seemed to neigh,Then to bleat like a sheep,Then sound like a streamOr a waterfall deep.It whispered strange tales,Human words it spoke not.Told fair things to come,And our marvellous lotIf now with fawn-stepsUnshod we advancedTo the midst of the groveAnd in reverence danced.We obeyed as he pipedSoft grass to young feet,Was a medicine mighty,A remedy meet.Our thin blood awoke,It grew dizzy and wild,Though scarcely a wordMoved the lips of a child.Our dance gave allegiance,It set us apart,We tripped a strange measure,Uplifted of heart.
IIWe thought to be proudOf our fawn everywhere.We could hardly see howSimple books were a care.No rule of the schoolThis strange student could tame.He was banished one day,While we quivered with shame.He piped back our loveOn a moon-silvered night,Enticed us once moreTo the place of delight.A greeting he sangAnd it made our blood beat,It tramped upon customAnd mocked at defeat.He builded a fireAnd we tripped in a ring,The embers our booksAnd the fawn our good king.And now we approachedAll the mysteries rareThat shadowed his eyelidsAnd blew through his hair.That spell now was peaceThe deep strength of the trees,The children of natureWe clambered her knees.Our breath and our moodsWere in tune with her own,Tremendous her presence,Eternal her throne.The ostracized childOur white foreheads kissed,Our bodies and soulsBecame lighter than mist.Sweet dresses like snowOur small lady-loves wore,Like moonlight the thoughtsThat our bosoms upbore.Like a lily the touchOf each cold little hand.The loves of the starsWe could now understand.O quivering air!O the crystalline night!O pauses of aweAnd the faces swan-white!O ferns in the dusk!O forest-shrined hour!O earth that sent upwardThe thrill and the power,To lift us like leaves,A delirious whirl,The masterful boyAnd the delicate girl!What child that strange night-timeCan ever forget?His fealty dueAnd his infinite debtTo the folly divine,To the exquisite ruleOf the perilous master,The fawn-footed fool?
IIINow soldiers we seem,And night brings a new thing,A terrible ire,As of thunder awing.A warrior power,That old chivalry stirred,When knights took up arms,As the maidens gave word.THE END OF OUR WAR,WILL BE GLORY UNTOLD.WHEN THE TOWN LIKE A GREATBUDDING ROSE SHALL UNFOLD!Near, nearer that war,And that ecstasy comes,We hear the trees beatingInvisible drums.The fields of the nightAre starlit above,Our girls are white torchesOf conquest and love.No nerve without will,And no breast without breath,We whirl with the planetsThat never know death!
A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted by George Mather Richards.
I saw a proud, mysterious cat,I saw a proud, mysterious catToo proud to catch a mouse or rat—Mew, mew, mew.But catnip she would eat, and purr,But catnip she would eat, and purr.And goldfish she did much prefer—Mew, mew, mew.I saw a cat—'twas but a dream,I saw a cat—'twas but a dreamWho scorned the slave that brought her cream—Mew, mew, mew.Unless the slave were dressed in style,Unless the slave were dressed in styleAnd knelt before her all the while—Mew, mew, mew.Did you ever hear of a thing like that?Did you ever hear of a thing like that?Did you ever hear of a thing like that?Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.Mew... mew... mew.
To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.Here lies a kitten good, who keptA kitten's proper place.He stole no pantry eatables,Nor scratched the baby's face.He let the alley-cats alone.He had no yowling vice.His shirt was always laundried well,He freed the house of mice.Until his death he had not causedHis little mistress tears,He wore his ribbon prettily,He washed behind his ears.Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday.
Dawn this morning burned all redWatching them in wonder.There I saw our spangled flagDivide the clouds asunder.Then there followed Washington.Ah, he rode from glory,Cold and mighty as his nameAnd stern as Freedom's story.Unsubdued by burning dawnLed his continentals.Vast they were, and strange to seeIn gray old regimentals:—Marching still with bleeding feet,Bleeding feet and jesting—Marching from the judgment throneWith energy unresting.How their merry quickstep played—Silver, sharp, sonorous,Piercing through with prophecyThe demons' rumbling chorus—Behold the ancient powers of sinAnd slavery before them!—Sworn to stop the glorious dawn,The pit-black clouds hung o'er them.Plagues that rose to blast the dayFiend and tiger faces,Monsters plotting bloodshed forThe patient toiling races.Round the dawn their cannon raged,Hurling bolts of thunder,Yet before our spangled flagTheir host was cut asunder.Like a mist they fled away....Ended wrath and roaring.Still our restless soldier-hostFrom East to West went pouring.High beside the sun of noonThey bore our banner splendid.All its days of stain and shameAnd heaviness were ended.Men were swelling now the throngFrom great and lowly station—Valiant citizens to-dayOf every tribe and nation.Not till night their rear-guard came,Down the west went marching,And left behind the sunset-raysIn beauty overarching.War-god banners lead us still,Rob, enslave and harryLet us rather choose to-dayThe flag the angels carry—Flag we love, but brighter far—Soul of it made splendid:Let its days of stain and shameAnd heaviness be ended.Let its fifes fill all the sky,Redeemed souls marching after,Hills and mountains shake with song,While seas roll on in laughter.
To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry.
Hawk of the Rocks,Yours is our cause to-day.Watching your foesHere in our war array,Young men we stand,Wolves of the West at bay.Power, power for warComes from these trees divine;Power from the boughs,Boughs where the dew-beads shine,Power from the cones—Yea, from the breath of the pine!Power to restoreAll that the white hand mars.See the dead eastCrushed with the iron cars—Chimneys blackBlinding the sun and stars!Hawk of the pines,Hawk of the plain-winds fleet,You shall be kingThere in the iron street,Factory and forgeTrodden beneath your feet.There will proud treesGrow as they grow by streams.There will proud thoughtsWalk as in warrior dreams.There will proud deedsBloom as when battle gleams!Warriors of Art,We will hold council there,Hewing in stoneThings to the trapper fair,Painting the grayVeils that the spring moons wear,This our revenge,This one tremendous change:Making new towns,Lit with a star-fire strange,Wild as the dawnGilding the bison-range.All the young menChanting your cause that day,Red-men, new-madeOut of the Saxon clay,Strong and redeemed,Bold in your war-array!
An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese People
Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty: Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most beautiful mountain.
The minstrel speaks."Now do you know of AvalonThat sailors call Japan?She holds as rare a chivalryAs ever bled for man.King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hillWhere Iyeyasu lies,And there the broad Pendragon flagIn deathless splendor flies."The jingo answers."Nay, minstrel, but the great ships comeFrom out the sunset sea.We cannot greet the souls they bringWith welcome high and free.How can the Nippon nondescriptsThat weird and dreadful bandBe aught but what we find them here:—The blasters of the land?"The minstrel replies."First race, first men from anywhereTo face you, eye to eye.Forthatdo you curse AvalonAnd raise a hue and cry?These toilers cannot kiss your hand,Or fawn with hearts bowed down.Be glad for them, and Avalon,And Arthur's ghostly crown."No doubt your guests, with sage debateIn grave things gentlemenWill let your trade and farms aloneAnd turn them back again.But why should brawling braggarts riseWith hasty words of shameTo drive them back like dogs and swineWho in due honor came?"The jingo answers."We cannot give them honor, sir.We give them scorn for scorn.And Rumor steals around the worldAll white-skinned men to warnAgainst this sleek silk-merchant hereAnd viler coolie-manAnd wrath within the courts of warBrews on against Japan!"The minstrel replies."Must Avalon, with hope forlorn,Her back against the wall,Have lived her brilliant life in vainWhile ruder tribes take all?Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts,A ghost with spear and crown,Behind the great Pendragon flagAnd be again cut down?"Tho Europe's self shall move againstHigh Jimmu Tenno's throneThe Forty-seven Ronin MenWill not be found alone.For Percival and BedivereAnd Nogi side by sideWill stand,—with mourning Merlin there,Tho all go down in pride."But has the world the envious dream—Ah, such things cannot be,—To tear their fairy-land like silkAnd toss it in the sea?Must venom rob the future dayThe ultimate world-manOf rare Bushido, code of codes,The fair heart of Japan?"Go, be the guest of Avalon.Believe me, it lies thereBehind the mighty gray sea-wallWhere heathen bend in prayer:Where peasants lift adoring eyesTo Fuji's crown of snow.King Arthur's knights will be your hosts,So cleanse your heart, and go."And you will find but gardens sweetPrepared beyond the seas,And you will find but gentlefolkBeneath the cherry-trees.So walk you worthy of your ChristTho church bells do not sound,And weave the bands of brotherhoodOn Jimmu Tenno's ground."
(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)
This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune:—
"Last night I lay a-sleeping,There came a dream so fair,I stood in Old JerusalemBeside the temple there,—" etc.
Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily. It is here given to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it.
To be sung.I heard Immanuel singingWithin his own good lands,I saw him bend above his harp.I watched his wandering handsLost amid the harp-strings;Sweet, sweet I heard him play.His wounds were altogether healed.Old things had passed away.All things were new, but music.The blood of David ranWithin the Son of David,Our God, the Son of Man.He was ruddy like a shepherd.His bold young face, how fair.Apollo of the silver bowHad not such flowing hair.To be read very softly, but in spirited response.I saw Immanuel singingOn a tree-girdled hill.The glad remembering branchesDimly echoed stillThe grand new song proclaimingThe Lamb that had been slain.New-built, the Holy CityGleamed in the murmuring plain.The crowning hours were over.The pageants all were past.Within the many mansionsThe hosts, grown still at last,In homes of holy mysterySlept long by crooning springsOr waked to peaceful glory,A universe of Kings.To be sung.He left his people happy.He wandered free to sighAlone in lowly friendshipWith the green grass and the sky.He murmured ancient musicHis red heart burned to singBecause his perfect conquestHad grown a weary thing.No chant of gilded triumph—His lonely song was madeOf Art's deliberate freedom;Of minor chords arrayedIn soft and shadowy colorsThat once were radiant flowers:—The Rose of Sharon, bleedingIn Olive-shadowed bowers:—And all the other rosesIn the songs of East and WestOf love and war and worshipping,And every shield and crestOf thistle or of lotusOr sacred lily wroughtIn creeds and psalms and palacesAnd temples of white thought:—To be read very softly, yet in spirited response.All these he sang, half-smilingAnd weeping as he smiled,Laughing, talking to his harpAs to a new-born child:—As though the arts forgottenBut bloomed to prophecyThese careless, fearless harp-strings,New-crying in the sky.To be sung."When this his hour of sorrowFor flowers and Arts of menHas passed in ghostly music,"I asked my wild heart then—What will he sing to-morrow,What wonder, all his ownAlone, set free, rejoicing,With a green hill for his throne?What will he sing to-morrowWhat wonder all his ownAlone, set free, rejoicing,With a green hill for his throne?
I. The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and UtopiasWe find your soft Utopias as whiteAs new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells,O, scribes who dare forget how wild we areHow human breasts adore alarum bells.You house us in a hive of prigs and saintsCommunal, frugal, clean and chaste by law.I'd rather brood in bloody ElsinoreOr be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw.Promise us all our share in AgincourtSay that our clerks shall venture scorns and death,That future ant-hills will not be too goodFor Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth.Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-warMan's deathless soul will hack and hew its way,Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fateScorning the utmost steps of yesterday.Never a shallow jester any more!Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain.Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wiseAnd Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain.
II. The Rhymer's Reply. Incense and SplendorIncense and Splendor haunt me as I go.Though my good works have been, alas, too few,Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me,And future ages pass in tall review.I see the years to come as armies vast,Stalking tremendous through the fields of time.MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born,Flame-like to hover o'er the moil and grime,Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone,Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn—Laying new, precious pavements with a song,Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn.I have seen lovers by those new-built wallsClothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red.Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of loveUnder the wreaths that crowned each royal head.Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers.Passion was turned to civic strength that day—Piling the marbles, making fairer domesWith zeal that else had burned bright youth away.I have seen priestesses of life go byGliding in samite through the incense-sea—Innocent children marching with them there,Singing in flowered robes, "THE EARTH IS FREE":While on the fair, deep-carved unfinished towersSentinels watched in armor, night and day—Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream—Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array!
I look on the specious electrical lightBlatant, mechanical, crawling and white,Wickedly red or malignantly greenLike the beads of a young Senegambian queen.Showing, while millions of souls hurry on,The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn,By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl,Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl,By maggoty motions in sickening lineProclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine,While there far above the steep cliffs of the streetThe stars sing a message elusive and sweet.Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toilHis clumsy contraptions of coil upon coilTill the thing he invents, in its use and its range,Leads on to the marvellous CHANGE BEYOND CHANGE.Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies,As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise.And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night,Till we join with the planets who choir their delight.The signs in the street and the signs in the skiesShall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise,And Broadway make one with that marvellous stairThat is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer.
The angels guide him now,And watch his curly head,And lead him in their games,The little boy we led.He cannot come to harm,He knows more than we know,His light is brighter farThan daytime here below.His path leads on and on,Through pleasant lawns and flowers,His brown eyes open wideAt grass more green than ours.With playmates like himself,The shining boy will sing,Exploring wondrous woods,Sweet with eternal spring.
A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and InterstateTraffic in Young Girls
Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago,Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow.Galahad... knight who perished... awaken again,Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men.Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea,We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free.Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace,Help us the intricate, desperate battle to faceTill the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land,Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand.Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red!Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head!Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower,Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power.Leave not life's fairest to perish—strangers to thee,Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea!
Let not young souls be smothered out beforeThey do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly,Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
(In the Beginning)The sun is a huntress young,The sun is a red, red joy,The sun is an Indian girl,Of the tribe of the Illinois.
(Mid-morning)The sun is a smouldering fire,That creeps through the high gray plain,And leaves not a bush of cloudTo blossom with flowers of rain.
(Noon)The sun is a wounded deer,That treads pale grass in the skies,Shaking his golden horns,Flashing his baleful eyes.
(Sunset)The sun is an eagle old,There in the windless west.Atop of the spirit-cliffsHe builds him a crimson nest.
There dwelt a widow learned and devout,Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill.Three sons she had, who went to find the world.They promised to return, but wandered still.The cities used them well, they won their way,Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs.Worn out with honors, and apart from her,They died as many a self-made exile dies.The mother had a hearth that would not quench,The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom.She said to us who came with wondering eyes—"This is a magic fire, a magic room."The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on,Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade,And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light.The neighbors peering in were half afraid.Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came,One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor.They left a naked stone, but how it blazed!And in the thunderstorm it flared the more.And now it was that men were heard to say,"This light should be beloved by all the town."At last they made the slope a place of prayer,Where marvellous thoughts from God came sweeping down.They left their churches crumbling in the sun,They met on that soft hill, one brotherhood;One strength and valor only, one delight,One laughing, brooding genius, great and good.Now many gray-haired prodigals come home,The place out-flames the cities of the land,And twice-born Brahmans reach us from afar,With subtle eyes prepared to understand.Higher and higher burns the eastern steep,Showing the roads that march from every place,A steady beacon o'er the weary leagues,At dead of night it lights the traveller's face!Thus has the widow conquered half the earth,She who increased in faith, though all alone,Who kept her empty house a magic place,Has made the town a holy angel's throne.
A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois
Censers are swingingOver the town;Censers are swinging,Look overhead!Censers are swinging,Heaven comes down.City, dead city,Awake from the dead!Censers, tremendous,Gleam overhead.Wind-harps are ringing,Wind-harps unseen—Calling and calling:—"Wake from the dead.Rise, little city,Shine like a queen."Soldiers of ChristFor battle grow keen.Heaven-sent windsHaunt alley and lane.Singing of lifeIn town-meadows greenAfter the toilAnd battle and pain.Incense is pouringLike the spring rainDown on the mobThat moil through the street.Blessed are theyWho behold it and gainPower made more mightyThro' every defeat.Builders, toil on.Make all complete.Make Springfield wonderful.Make her renownWorthy this day,Till, at God's feet,Tranced, saved forever,Waits the white town.Censers are swingingOver the town,Censers gigantic!Look overhead!Hear the winds singing:—"Heaven comes down.City, dead city,Awake from the dead."
Sometimes we remember kisses,Remember the dear heart-leap when they came:Not always, but sometimes we rememberThe kindness, the dumbness, the good flameOf laughter and farewell.Beside the roadAfar from those who said "Good-by" I write,Far from my city task, my lawful load.Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder,Streaming clouds, banners of new-born nightEnchant me now. The splendors growing bolderMake bold my soul for some new wise delight.I write the day's event, and quench my drouth,Pausing beside the spring with happy mind.And now I feel those kisses on my mouth,Hers most of all, one little friend most kind.
I went down into the desertTo meet Elijah—Arisen from the dead.I thought to find him in an echoing cave;For so my dream had said.I went down into the desertTo meet John the Baptist.I walked with feet that bled,Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold.I spied foul fiends instead.I went down into the desertTo meet my God.By him be comforted.I went down into the desertTo meet my God.And I met the devil in red.I went down into the desertTo meet my God.O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead!I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground,I see you there, half-buried in the sand.I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare,The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head.
True Love is founded in rocks of RemembranceIn stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain.The workman lays wearily granite on granite,And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain.Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet,Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone.'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion.With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne.
II hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on:Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone.Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine—Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine:Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none;Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one).
IIWe grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweetNo longer turning to the tryst with flying feet.We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloomAnd tenderness of passion's touch, and in its roomWill come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom.Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life!Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife.Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come—It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum,The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag—And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag.
IIIWe will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can—Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man.Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there.It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air—It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh—It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky;It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but showsIts haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows.It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams,And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seemsA flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night,Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight.But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air,The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair.Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark,Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark—Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strangeHangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change.
IVLove?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time—Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime—And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes—Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise.Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial—And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile—We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play,Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay—As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild,True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled!
Too soon you wearied of our tears.And then you danced with spangled feet,Leading Belshazzar's chattering courtA-tinkling through the shadowy street.With mead they came, with chants of shame.DESIRE'S red flag before them flew.And Istar's music moved your mouthAnd Baal's deep shames rewoke in you.Now you could drive the royal car;Forget our Nation's breaking load:Now you could sleep on silver beds—(Bitter and dark was our abode.)And so, for many a night you laughed,And knew not of my hopeless prayer,Till God's own spirit whipped you forthFrom Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair.Darling daughter of Babylon—Rose by the black Euphrates flood—Again your beauty grew more dearThan my slave's bread, than my heart's blood.We sang of Zion, good to know,Where righteousness and peace abide....What of your second sacrilegeCarousing at Belshazzar's side?Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands—Your paint and henna washed away.Your place, you said, was with the slavesWho sewed the thick cloth, night and day.You were a pale and holy maidToil-bound with us. One night you said:—"Your God shall be my God untilI slumber with the patriarch dead."Pardon, daughter of Babylon,If, on this night rememberingOur lover walks under the wallsOf hanging gardens in the spring,A venom comes from broken hope,From memories of your comrade-songUntil I curse your painted eyesAnd do your flower-mouth too much wrong.
Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here....Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawnsAnd the tremendous Amaranth descendsSweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?Does it not mean my God would have me say:—"Whether you will or no, O city young,Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you,Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?"Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.Such things I see, and some of them shall comeThough now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray,Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise.Naught can delay it. Though it may not beJust as I dream, it comes at last I knowWith streets like channels of an incense-sea.