Listen, dearest! you must love me more,More than you did before!—Hark, what a beating here of wings!Never at rest,Dear, in your breast!—Is it your heart with its flutterings,Making a music, love, for us both?Or merely a moth, a velvet-winged moth,Which out of the garden's fragrance swings,Weaving a spell,That holds the rose and the moon in thrall?—I love you more than I can tell;And no recallHow long agoOur quarrel and all!—You say, you know,A perfect pearl grows out of—well,A little friction; tiny grainOf sand or shell—So love grew out of that moment's pain,The heart's disdain—Since then I have thought of no one but you,And how your heart would beat on mine,Like light on dew.And I thought how foolish to fret and pine!Better to claim the fault all mine!To go to you and tell you that:And how stale and flatAll life without you was, and vain!And when I came, you turned and smiled,Like a darling child,And I knew from your look that, in your heart,You had followed the self-same trainOf thought that made me yours again.—Dearest! no more!—We shall never part!—So. Turn your face as you did before.—I smooth your browAnd kiss you.—Now....Tell me true—Did you miss me, dear, as I missed you?
Listen, dearest! you must love me more,More than you did before!—Hark, what a beating here of wings!Never at rest,Dear, in your breast!—Is it your heart with its flutterings,Making a music, love, for us both?Or merely a moth, a velvet-winged moth,Which out of the garden's fragrance swings,Weaving a spell,That holds the rose and the moon in thrall?—I love you more than I can tell;And no recallHow long agoOur quarrel and all!—You say, you know,A perfect pearl grows out of—well,A little friction; tiny grainOf sand or shell—So love grew out of that moment's pain,The heart's disdain—Since then I have thought of no one but you,And how your heart would beat on mine,Like light on dew.And I thought how foolish to fret and pine!Better to claim the fault all mine!To go to you and tell you that:And how stale and flatAll life without you was, and vain!And when I came, you turned and smiled,Like a darling child,And I knew from your look that, in your heart,You had followed the self-same trainOf thought that made me yours again.—
Dearest! no more!—We shall never part!—So. Turn your face as you did before.—
I smooth your browAnd kiss you.—Now....Tell me true—Did you miss me, dear, as I missed you?
Above the world a glareOf sunset—guns and spears;An army, no one hears,Of mist and air:Long lines of bronze and gold,Huge helmets, each a cloud;And then a fortress oldThere in the night that phantoms seem to crowd.A face of flame; a handOf crimson alchemyIs waved: and, solemnly,At its command,Opens a fiery well,A burning hole,From which a stream of hell,A river of blood, in frenzy, seems to roll.And there, upon a throne,Like some vast precipice,Above that River of Dis,Behold a King! alone!Around whom shapes of bloodTake form: each one the peerOf those, who, in the woodOf Dante's Hell froze up the heart with fear.Then shapes, that breast to breastGallop to face a foe:And through the crimson glowTh' imperial crestOf him whose banner fliesAbove a world that burns,A raven in the skies,And as it flies into a Death's-Head turns.The wild trees writhe and twistTheir gaunt limbs, wrung with fear:And now into my earA word seems hissed;A message, filled with dread,A dark, foreboding word,—"Behold! we are the dead,Who here on Earth lived only by the sword!"
Above the world a glareOf sunset—guns and spears;An army, no one hears,Of mist and air:Long lines of bronze and gold,Huge helmets, each a cloud;And then a fortress oldThere in the night that phantoms seem to crowd.
A face of flame; a handOf crimson alchemyIs waved: and, solemnly,At its command,Opens a fiery well,A burning hole,From which a stream of hell,A river of blood, in frenzy, seems to roll.
And there, upon a throne,Like some vast precipice,Above that River of Dis,Behold a King! alone!Around whom shapes of bloodTake form: each one the peerOf those, who, in the woodOf Dante's Hell froze up the heart with fear.
Then shapes, that breast to breastGallop to face a foe:And through the crimson glowTh' imperial crestOf him whose banner fliesAbove a world that burns,A raven in the skies,And as it flies into a Death's-Head turns.The wild trees writhe and twistTheir gaunt limbs, wrung with fear:And now into my earA word seems hissed;A message, filled with dread,A dark, foreboding word,—"Behold! we are the dead,Who here on Earth lived only by the sword!"
Upon the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughtersIn battle speak while at their feet,In gulfs of human waters,A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat:And to my heart, in doubt, I said,"God?—God's above the storm!O heart, be brave, be comforted,And keep your hearth-stone warmFor her who breasts the storm—God's Peace, the fair of form."I heard the Battle Angels cry above the slain's red mountains,While from their wings the lightnings hurledOf Death's destroying fountains,And thunder of their revels rolled around the ruined world:Still to my heart, in fear, I cried,"God?—God is watching there!My heart,—oh, keep the doorway wideHere in your House of Care,For her who wanders there,God's Peace, with happy hair."The darkness and the battle passed: and rushing on wild pinionsThe hosts of Havoc shrieked their hateAnd fled to Hell's dominions,—And, lo! I heard, out in the night, a knocking at the gate:And one who cried aloud to me:—"The night and storm are gone!Oh, open wide the door and seeWho waits here in the dawn!—Peace, with God's splendor onBack to the sad world drawn!"
Upon the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughtersIn battle speak while at their feet,In gulfs of human waters,A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat:And to my heart, in doubt, I said,"God?—God's above the storm!O heart, be brave, be comforted,And keep your hearth-stone warmFor her who breasts the storm—God's Peace, the fair of form."I heard the Battle Angels cry above the slain's red mountains,While from their wings the lightnings hurledOf Death's destroying fountains,And thunder of their revels rolled around the ruined world:Still to my heart, in fear, I cried,"God?—God is watching there!My heart,—oh, keep the doorway wideHere in your House of Care,For her who wanders there,God's Peace, with happy hair."
The darkness and the battle passed: and rushing on wild pinionsThe hosts of Havoc shrieked their hateAnd fled to Hell's dominions,—And, lo! I heard, out in the night, a knocking at the gate:And one who cried aloud to me:—"The night and storm are gone!Oh, open wide the door and seeWho waits here in the dawn!—Peace, with God's splendor onBack to the sad world drawn!"
They pass, with heavy eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross,The Nations, stricken with their loss,And lifting faces of despair.What is the prayer they pray to Him,Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.Is it forgiveness for great sinThey plead before the Iron Cross?Or for some gift of gold or dross?Or battle lost, that they would win?With eyes where hate and horror meet,They pass before the Iron Cross,The Cross, that ancient words emboss,Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.His hair is fallen on his face.His head hangs sidewise from the Cross—The Crucified, who knows all loss,And had on Earth no resting place."O world of men," he seems to say,"Behold me on your Iron Cross!To me why kneel and tell your loss?Why kneel to me and weep and pray?"Have I not taught you to forgive?And bade you from my Iron CrossBelieve, and bear your grief and loss,That after death you too may live?"You have not followed at my call!You keep me on this Iron Cross,And pray me keep you from all loss,And save and comfort you withal.—"You ask for love, and hate the more!—You keep me on this Iron Cross!—Restore to me my greater loss,The brotherhood of rich and poor."* * * *They pass, with weary eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross—The Nations, wailing of their loss,And lifting faces of despair.
They pass, with heavy eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross,The Nations, stricken with their loss,And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sinThey plead before the Iron Cross?Or for some gift of gold or dross?Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,They pass before the Iron Cross,The Cross, that ancient words emboss,Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.His head hangs sidewise from the Cross—The Crucified, who knows all loss,And had on Earth no resting place.
"O world of men," he seems to say,"Behold me on your Iron Cross!To me why kneel and tell your loss?Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
"Have I not taught you to forgive?And bade you from my Iron CrossBelieve, and bear your grief and loss,That after death you too may live?
"You have not followed at my call!You keep me on this Iron Cross,And pray me keep you from all loss,And save and comfort you withal.—
"You ask for love, and hate the more!—You keep me on this Iron Cross!—Restore to me my greater loss,The brotherhood of rich and poor."
* * * *
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,Before the Christ upon the Cross—The Nations, wailing of their loss,And lifting faces of despair.
Between the death of day and birth of night,By War's red light,I met with one in trailing sorrows clad,Whose features hadThe look of Him who died to set men right.Around him many horrors, like great worms,Terrific forms,Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine,—Gaunt and obscene,Urged on to battle with a thousand arms.Columns of steel, and iron belching flame,Before them came:And cities crumbled; and amid them trodHavoc, their god,With Desolation that no tongue may name.And out of Heaven came a burning breath,And on it Death,Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herdsOf beasts, like birds,Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth.Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies;And mouths, with criesOf famine; and the madness of Despair;And everywhereCurses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes.And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name,That grew a flameAbove the world, and said, "Give heed! give heed!See how they bleed!My wounds! my wounds!—Was it for this I came?"Where is the love for which I shed my blood?And where the goodI preached and died for?—Lo! ye have deniedAnd crucifiedMe here again, who swore me brotherhood!"Then overhead the vault of night was rent:The firmamentWinged thunder over of aerial craft;And Battle laughedTitanic laughter as its way it went.
Between the death of day and birth of night,By War's red light,I met with one in trailing sorrows clad,Whose features hadThe look of Him who died to set men right.
Around him many horrors, like great worms,Terrific forms,Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine,—Gaunt and obscene,Urged on to battle with a thousand arms.
Columns of steel, and iron belching flame,Before them came:And cities crumbled; and amid them trodHavoc, their god,With Desolation that no tongue may name.
And out of Heaven came a burning breath,And on it Death,Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herdsOf beasts, like birds,Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth.
Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies;And mouths, with criesOf famine; and the madness of Despair;And everywhereCurses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes.
And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name,That grew a flameAbove the world, and said, "Give heed! give heed!See how they bleed!My wounds! my wounds!—Was it for this I came?
"Where is the love for which I shed my blood?And where the goodI preached and died for?—Lo! ye have deniedAnd crucifiedMe here again, who swore me brotherhood!"
Then overhead the vault of night was rent:The firmamentWinged thunder over of aerial craft;And Battle laughedTitanic laughter as its way it went.
The rose, that wrote its message on the noon'sBright manuscript, has turned her perfumed faceTowards Fall, and waits, heart-heavy, for the moon'sPale flower to take her place.With eyes distraught, and dark disheveled hair,The Season dons a tattered cloak of stormAnd waits with Night that, darkly, seems to shareHer trouble and alarm.It is the close of summer. In the skyThe sunset lit a fire of drift and satWatching the last Day, robed in empire, dieUpon the burning ghat.The first leaf crimsons and the last rose falls,And Night goes stalking on, her cloak of rainDripping, and followed through her haunted hallsBy ail Death's phantom train.The sorrow of the Earth and all that dies,And all that suffers, in her breast she bears;Outside the House of Life she stops and criesThe burden of her cares.Then on the window knocks with crooked hands,Her tree-like arms to Heaven wildly-hurled:Love hears her crying, "Who then understands?—Has God forgot the world?"
The rose, that wrote its message on the noon'sBright manuscript, has turned her perfumed faceTowards Fall, and waits, heart-heavy, for the moon'sPale flower to take her place.
With eyes distraught, and dark disheveled hair,The Season dons a tattered cloak of stormAnd waits with Night that, darkly, seems to shareHer trouble and alarm.
It is the close of summer. In the skyThe sunset lit a fire of drift and satWatching the last Day, robed in empire, dieUpon the burning ghat.
The first leaf crimsons and the last rose falls,And Night goes stalking on, her cloak of rainDripping, and followed through her haunted hallsBy ail Death's phantom train.
The sorrow of the Earth and all that dies,And all that suffers, in her breast she bears;Outside the House of Life she stops and criesThe burden of her cares.
Then on the window knocks with crooked hands,Her tree-like arms to Heaven wildly-hurled:Love hears her crying, "Who then understands?—Has God forgot the world?"
Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hersAnd saw her vampire beauty, which is lust,All else is dustWithin the compass of the universe.With heart of Jael and with face of RuthShe sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffsHeart's blood and laughsAt all Life calls most noble and the truth.The fire of conquest and the wine of dreamsAre in her veins; and in her eyes the lureOf things unsure,Urging the world forever to extremes.Without her, Life would stagnate in a while.—Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain.—So Life attainHer end, she cares not if the means be vile.She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse.—Hers is to build and then exterminate:To slay, create,And twixt the two maintain an equal course.
Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hersAnd saw her vampire beauty, which is lust,All else is dustWithin the compass of the universe.
With heart of Jael and with face of RuthShe sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffsHeart's blood and laughsAt all Life calls most noble and the truth.
The fire of conquest and the wine of dreamsAre in her veins; and in her eyes the lureOf things unsure,Urging the world forever to extremes.
Without her, Life would stagnate in a while.—Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain.—So Life attainHer end, she cares not if the means be vile.
She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse.—Hers is to build and then exterminate:To slay, create,And twixt the two maintain an equal course.
Ever since man was man a Fiend has stoodOutside his House of Good,—War, with his terrible toys, that win men's heartsTo follow murderous arts.His spurs, death-won, are but of little use,Except as old refuseOf Life; to hang and testify with rustOf deeds, long one with dust.A rotting fungus on a log, a tree,A toiling worm, or bee,Serves God's high purpose here on Earth to buildMore than War's maimed and killed.The Hebetude of asses, following stillSome Emperor's will to kill,Is that of men who give their lives—for what?—The privilege to be shot!Grant men more vision, Lord! to read thy words,That are not guns and swords,But trees and flowers, lovely forms of Earth,And all fair things of worth.So he may rise above the brute and snake,And of his reason makeA world befitting, as thou hast designed,His greater soul and mind!So he may rid himself of worm and beast,And sit with Love at feast,And make him worthy to be named thy son,As He, thy Holy One! Amen.
Ever since man was man a Fiend has stoodOutside his House of Good,—War, with his terrible toys, that win men's heartsTo follow murderous arts.
His spurs, death-won, are but of little use,Except as old refuseOf Life; to hang and testify with rustOf deeds, long one with dust.
A rotting fungus on a log, a tree,A toiling worm, or bee,Serves God's high purpose here on Earth to buildMore than War's maimed and killed.
The Hebetude of asses, following stillSome Emperor's will to kill,Is that of men who give their lives—for what?—The privilege to be shot!
Grant men more vision, Lord! to read thy words,That are not guns and swords,But trees and flowers, lovely forms of Earth,And all fair things of worth.
So he may rise above the brute and snake,And of his reason makeA world befitting, as thou hast designed,His greater soul and mind!
So he may rid himself of worm and beast,And sit with Love at feast,And make him worthy to be named thy son,As He, thy Holy One! Amen.
The season of the rose and peace is past:It could not last.There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighsOf sorrow in the rain-lashed plains and skies,While Earth regards, aghast,The last red leaf that flies.The world is cringing in the darkness whereWar left his lair,And everything takes on a lupine look,Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook,And shaking torrent hairAt every little brook.Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and—hark!There in the darkThe ponderous stir of metal, iron feet;And with it, heard around the world, the beatOf Battle; sounds that markHis heart's advance, retreat.With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways;And, screeching, playsThe hell-born music Havoc dances to;And, following with his skeleton-headed crewOf ravening Nights and Days,Horror invades the blue.Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fistAnd writes a listOf beautiful cities on the ghastly sky:And underneath them, with no reason why,In blood and tears and mist,The postscript, "These must die!"Change is the portion and chief heritageOf every Age.The spirit of God still waits its time.—And WarMay blur His message for a while, and marThe writing on His page,To this our sorrowful star.But there above the conflict, orbed in rays,Is drawn the faceOf Peace; at last who comes into her own;Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone,And give her highest placeIn the human heart alone.
The season of the rose and peace is past:It could not last.There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighsOf sorrow in the rain-lashed plains and skies,While Earth regards, aghast,The last red leaf that flies.
The world is cringing in the darkness whereWar left his lair,And everything takes on a lupine look,Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook,And shaking torrent hairAt every little brook.
Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and—hark!There in the darkThe ponderous stir of metal, iron feet;And with it, heard around the world, the beatOf Battle; sounds that markHis heart's advance, retreat.
With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways;And, screeching, playsThe hell-born music Havoc dances to;And, following with his skeleton-headed crewOf ravening Nights and Days,Horror invades the blue.
Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fistAnd writes a listOf beautiful cities on the ghastly sky:And underneath them, with no reason why,In blood and tears and mist,The postscript, "These must die!"
Change is the portion and chief heritageOf every Age.The spirit of God still waits its time.—And WarMay blur His message for a while, and marThe writing on His page,To this our sorrowful star.
But there above the conflict, orbed in rays,Is drawn the faceOf Peace; at last who comes into her own;Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone,And give her highest placeIn the human heart alone.
An hour from dawn:The snow sweeps onAs it swept with sleet last night:The Earth aroundBreathes never a sound,Wrapped in its shroud of white.A waked cock crowsUnder the snows;Then silence.—After whileThe sky grows blue,And a star looks throughWith a kind o' bitter smile.A whining dog;An axe on a log,And a muffled voice that calls:A cow's long low;Then footsteps slowStamping into the stalls.A bed of strawWhere the wind blows rawThrough cracks of the stable door:A child's small cry,A voice nearby,That says, "One mouth the more."A different noteIn a man's rough throatAs he turns at an entering tread—Satyrs! see!"My woman—sheWas brought last night to bed!"A cry of "Halt!"—"Ach! ich bin kalt!""A spy!"—"No."—"That is clear!There's a good shake-downI' the jail in town—For her!"—And then, "My orders here."A shot, sharp-rolledAs the clouds unfold:A scream; and a cry forlorn....Clothed red with fire,Like the Heart's Desire,Look down the Christmas Morn.The babe with lightIs haloed bright,And it is Christmas Day:A cry of woe;Then footsteps slow,And the wild guns, far away.
An hour from dawn:The snow sweeps onAs it swept with sleet last night:The Earth aroundBreathes never a sound,Wrapped in its shroud of white.
A waked cock crowsUnder the snows;Then silence.—After whileThe sky grows blue,And a star looks throughWith a kind o' bitter smile.
A whining dog;An axe on a log,And a muffled voice that calls:A cow's long low;Then footsteps slowStamping into the stalls.
A bed of strawWhere the wind blows rawThrough cracks of the stable door:A child's small cry,A voice nearby,That says, "One mouth the more."
A different noteIn a man's rough throatAs he turns at an entering tread—Satyrs! see!"My woman—sheWas brought last night to bed!"
A cry of "Halt!"—"Ach! ich bin kalt!""A spy!"—"No."—"That is clear!There's a good shake-downI' the jail in town—For her!"—And then, "My orders here."
A shot, sharp-rolledAs the clouds unfold:A scream; and a cry forlorn....Clothed red with fire,Like the Heart's Desire,Look down the Christmas Morn.
The babe with lightIs haloed bright,And it is Christmas Day:A cry of woe;Then footsteps slow,And the wild guns, far away.
Imperial Madness, will of hand,Builds vast an altar here, and rearsBefore the world, on godly land,A Moloch form of blood and tears.And far as eye can see, behold,Priests plunge into its brazen armsMen, that its iron maw of moldMangles, returning horrible forms.Its Priests are armies, moving slow,And crowned like kings, in human-guise:And theirs it is to make it flow—The crimson stream of sacrifice.
Imperial Madness, will of hand,Builds vast an altar here, and rearsBefore the world, on godly land,A Moloch form of blood and tears.
And far as eye can see, behold,Priests plunge into its brazen armsMen, that its iron maw of moldMangles, returning horrible forms.
Its Priests are armies, moving slow,And crowned like kings, in human-guise:And theirs it is to make it flow—The crimson stream of sacrifice.
The Season speaks this year of lifeConfusing words of strife,Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowersIn all Earth's bowers.With heart of Jael, face of Ruth,She goes her way uncouthThrough hills and fields, where fog and sunset seemWild smoke and steam.Around her, spotted as a leopard skin,She draws her cloak of whin,And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glareWild on her hair.Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burnWith frost; her moony urnShe lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm,Rears his gaunt form.And all night long she seems to say"Come forth, my Winds, and slay!—"And everywhere is heard the wailing cryOf dreams that die.
The Season speaks this year of lifeConfusing words of strife,Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowersIn all Earth's bowers.
With heart of Jael, face of Ruth,She goes her way uncouthThrough hills and fields, where fog and sunset seemWild smoke and steam.
Around her, spotted as a leopard skin,She draws her cloak of whin,And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glareWild on her hair.
Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burnWith frost; her moony urnShe lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm,Rears his gaunt form.
And all night long she seems to say"Come forth, my Winds, and slay!—"And everywhere is heard the wailing cryOf dreams that die.
A little child, one night, awoke and cried,"Oh, help me, father! there is something wildBefore me! help me!" Hurrying to his sideI answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child.""A dream?—" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see!It was so dark!—Take me into your bed!"—And I, who loved him, held him soothingly,And smiling on his terror, comforted.He nestled in my arms. I held him fast;And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears,Until he smiled again, asleep at last,Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....How like a child the world! who, in this nightOf strife, beholds strange monsters threateningAnd with black fear, having so little light,Cries to its Father, God, for comforting.And well for it, if, answering the call,The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!—How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall,Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.
A little child, one night, awoke and cried,"Oh, help me, father! there is something wildBefore me! help me!" Hurrying to his sideI answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."
"A dream?—" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see!It was so dark!—Take me into your bed!"—And I, who loved him, held him soothingly,And smiling on his terror, comforted.
He nestled in my arms. I held him fast;And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears,Until he smiled again, asleep at last,Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....
How like a child the world! who, in this nightOf strife, beholds strange monsters threateningAnd with black fear, having so little light,Cries to its Father, God, for comforting.
And well for it, if, answering the call,The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!—How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall,Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.
The Day brims high its ewerOf blue with starry light,And crowns as King that hewerOf clouds (which take their flightAcross the sky) old Night.And Tempest there, who housesWithin them, like a cave,Lies down and dreams and drowsesUpon the Earth's huge grave,With wandering wind and wave.The storm moves on; and wingingFrom out the east—a bird,The moon drifts, calmly bringingA message and a wordOf peace, in Heaven it heard.Of peace and times called golden,Whose beauty makes it glowWith love, like that of olden,Which mortals used to knowThere in the long-ago.
The Day brims high its ewerOf blue with starry light,And crowns as King that hewerOf clouds (which take their flightAcross the sky) old Night.
And Tempest there, who housesWithin them, like a cave,Lies down and dreams and drowsesUpon the Earth's huge grave,With wandering wind and wave.
The storm moves on; and wingingFrom out the east—a bird,The moon drifts, calmly bringingA message and a wordOf peace, in Heaven it heard.
Of peace and times called golden,Whose beauty makes it glowWith love, like that of olden,Which mortals used to knowThere in the long-ago.
One blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thoughtNursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes,Survives, though shattered, and about it caught,The strangling dodder streams.Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or pouch,Rusty and rotting where men fought and slew:Bald, trampled paths that seem with fear to crouch,Feeling a bloody dew.Here nothing that was beauty's once remains.War left the garden to its dead alone:And Life and Love, who toiled here, for their painsHave nothing once their own.Death leans upon the battered door, at gaze—The house is silent where there once was stirOf husbandry, that led laborious days,With Love for comforter.Now in Love's place, Death, old and halt and blind,Gropes, searching everywhere for what may live.—War left it empty as his vacant mind;It has no more to give.
One blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thoughtNursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes,Survives, though shattered, and about it caught,The strangling dodder streams.
Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or pouch,Rusty and rotting where men fought and slew:Bald, trampled paths that seem with fear to crouch,Feeling a bloody dew.
Here nothing that was beauty's once remains.War left the garden to its dead alone:And Life and Love, who toiled here, for their painsHave nothing once their own.
Death leans upon the battered door, at gaze—The house is silent where there once was stirOf husbandry, that led laborious days,With Love for comforter.
Now in Love's place, Death, old and halt and blind,Gropes, searching everywhere for what may live.—War left it empty as his vacant mind;It has no more to give.
And these are Christians!—God! the horror of it—How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how longWilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it,Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!Are these Thy teachings?—Where is then that pity,Which bade the weary, suffering come to Thee?—War takes its toll of life in field and City,And Thou must see!—O Christianity!And then the children!—Oh, Thou art another!Not God! but Fiend, whom God has given release!—Will prayer avail naught? tears of father, mother?To give at last the weary world surceaseFrom butchery? that back again hath brought herInto that age barbarian that pricedHate above Love; and, shod with steel and slaughter,Stamped on the Cross and on the face of Christ.
And these are Christians!—God! the horror of it—How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how longWilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it,Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!
Are these Thy teachings?—Where is then that pity,Which bade the weary, suffering come to Thee?—War takes its toll of life in field and City,And Thou must see!—O Christianity!
And then the children!—Oh, Thou art another!Not God! but Fiend, whom God has given release!—Will prayer avail naught? tears of father, mother?To give at last the weary world surcease
From butchery? that back again hath brought herInto that age barbarian that pricedHate above Love; and, shod with steel and slaughter,Stamped on the Cross and on the face of Christ.
Black clouds hung low and heavy,Above the sunset glare;And in the garden dimlyWe wandered here and there.So full of strife, of troubleThe night was dark, afraid,Like our own love, so merelyFor tears and sighings made.That when it came to parting,And I must mount and go,With all my soul I wished it—That God would lay me low.
Black clouds hung low and heavy,Above the sunset glare;And in the garden dimlyWe wandered here and there.
So full of strife, of troubleThe night was dark, afraid,Like our own love, so merelyFor tears and sighings made.
That when it came to parting,And I must mount and go,With all my soul I wished it—That God would lay me low.
They hold their own, they have no peersIn gloom and glow, in hopes and fears,In love and terror, hovering roundThe lore of that enchanted ground!—That mystic region, where one hears,By bandit towers, the hunt that nearsWild through the Hartz; the demon cheersOf Hackelnberg; his horn and hound—They hold their own.Dark Wallenstein; and, down the years,The Lorelei; and, creased with sneers,Faust, Margaret;—the Sabboth sound,Witch-whirling, of the Brocken, drownedIn storm, through which Mephisto leers,—They hold their own.
They hold their own, they have no peersIn gloom and glow, in hopes and fears,In love and terror, hovering roundThe lore of that enchanted ground!—That mystic region, where one hears,By bandit towers, the hunt that nearsWild through the Hartz; the demon cheersOf Hackelnberg; his horn and hound—They hold their own.
Dark Wallenstein; and, down the years,The Lorelei; and, creased with sneers,Faust, Margaret;—the Sabboth sound,Witch-whirling, of the Brocken, drownedIn storm, through which Mephisto leers,—They hold their own.
I had forgot how, in my dayThe Sabine fields around me layIn amaranth and asphodel,With many a cold Bandusian wellBright-bubbling by the mountain-way.In forest dells of Faun and FayHow, lounging in the fountain's spray,I talked with Horace; felt his spell,I had forgot.With Pyrrha and with LydiaHow oft I sat, while LalagaSang, and the fine Falerian fell,Sparkling, and heard the poet tellOf loves whose beauty lasts for aye,I had forgot.
I had forgot how, in my dayThe Sabine fields around me layIn amaranth and asphodel,With many a cold Bandusian wellBright-bubbling by the mountain-way.In forest dells of Faun and FayHow, lounging in the fountain's spray,I talked with Horace; felt his spell,I had forgot.
With Pyrrha and with LydiaHow oft I sat, while LalagaSang, and the fine Falerian fell,Sparkling, and heard the poet tellOf loves whose beauty lasts for aye,I had forgot.
In her vast church of glimmering blue,Gray-stoled from feet to chin,Her dark locks beaded with the dew,The nun-like dawn comes in:At once the hills put on their spencersOf purple, swinging streaming censersOf mist before the God of DayWho goes with pomp his way.With sapphire draperies of lightIs hung the sombre pines;Filling each valley, every heightWith sacerdotal lines—Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured,The forests bow and, heavenly gestured,Lift high the chalice of the sun,Intoning, "Night is done!"
In her vast church of glimmering blue,Gray-stoled from feet to chin,Her dark locks beaded with the dew,The nun-like dawn comes in:At once the hills put on their spencersOf purple, swinging streaming censersOf mist before the God of DayWho goes with pomp his way.
With sapphire draperies of lightIs hung the sombre pines;Filling each valley, every heightWith sacerdotal lines—Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured,The forests bow and, heavenly gestured,Lift high the chalice of the sun,Intoning, "Night is done!"
Enormously it liftsIts tower against the splendor of the west;Like some wild dream that driftsBefore the mind, and at the will's behest,—Enchantment-based, gigantic steel and stone,—Is given permanence;A concrete fact,Complete, alone,Glorious, immense,Such as no nation here on Earth has known:Epitomizing allThat is American, that stands for youth,And strength and truth;That's individual,And beautiful and free,—Resistless strength and tireless energy.Even as a cataract,Its superb factSuggests vast forces Nature builds with—Joy,And Power and Thought,She to her aid has broughtFor eons past, will bring for eons yet to be,Shaping the world to her desire: the threeHer counsellors constantly,Her architects, through whom her dreams come true,—Her workmen, bringing forth,With toil that shall not cease,Mountains and plains and seas,That make the EarthThe glory that it is:And, one with these,Such works of man as this,This building, towering into the blue,A beacon, round which like an ocean wide,Circles and flows the restless human tide.
Enormously it liftsIts tower against the splendor of the west;Like some wild dream that driftsBefore the mind, and at the will's behest,—Enchantment-based, gigantic steel and stone,—Is given permanence;A concrete fact,Complete, alone,Glorious, immense,Such as no nation here on Earth has known:Epitomizing allThat is American, that stands for youth,And strength and truth;That's individual,And beautiful and free,—Resistless strength and tireless energy.
Even as a cataract,Its superb factSuggests vast forces Nature builds with—Joy,And Power and Thought,She to her aid has broughtFor eons past, will bring for eons yet to be,Shaping the world to her desire: the threeHer counsellors constantly,Her architects, through whom her dreams come true,—Her workmen, bringing forth,With toil that shall not cease,Mountains and plains and seas,That make the EarthThe glory that it is:And, one with these,Such works of man as this,This building, towering into the blue,A beacon, round which like an ocean wide,Circles and flows the restless human tide.
Master of human harmonics, where gongAnd harp and violin and flute accord;Each instrument confessing you its lord,Within the deathless orchestra of Song.Albeit at times your music may sound wrongTo our dulled senses, and its meaning barredTo Earth's slow understanding, never marredYour message brave: clear, and of trumpet tongue.Poet-revealer, who, both soon and late,Within an age of doubt kept clean your faith,Crying your cry of "With the world all's well!"How shall we greet you from our low estate,Keys in the keyboard that is life and death,The organ whence we hear your music swell?
Master of human harmonics, where gongAnd harp and violin and flute accord;Each instrument confessing you its lord,Within the deathless orchestra of Song.Albeit at times your music may sound wrongTo our dulled senses, and its meaning barredTo Earth's slow understanding, never marredYour message brave: clear, and of trumpet tongue.Poet-revealer, who, both soon and late,Within an age of doubt kept clean your faith,Crying your cry of "With the world all's well!"How shall we greet you from our low estate,Keys in the keyboard that is life and death,The organ whence we hear your music swell?
Riley, whose pen has made the world your debtor,Whose Art has kept you young through sixty years,Brimming our hearts with laughter and with tears,Holding her faith pure to the very letter:We come to you to-day, both man and woman,And happy little children, girl and boy,—To laurel you with all our love and joy,And crown you for the dreams your pen made human:For Orphant Annie and for Old Aunt Mary,The Raggedty Man, who never will grow older,And all the kindly folks from Griggsby's Station,Immortal throngs, with Spirk and Wunk and Faery,Who swarm behind you, peering o'er your shoulder,Sharing with you the blessings of a Nation.
Riley, whose pen has made the world your debtor,Whose Art has kept you young through sixty years,Brimming our hearts with laughter and with tears,Holding her faith pure to the very letter:We come to you to-day, both man and woman,And happy little children, girl and boy,—To laurel you with all our love and joy,And crown you for the dreams your pen made human:For Orphant Annie and for Old Aunt Mary,The Raggedty Man, who never will grow older,And all the kindly folks from Griggsby's Station,Immortal throngs, with Spirk and Wunk and Faery,Who swarm behind you, peering o'er your shoulder,Sharing with you the blessings of a Nation.
What "blushing Hippocrene" is here! what fireOf the "warm South" with magic of old Spain!—Through which again I seem to view the trainOf all Cervantes' dreams, his heart's desire:The melancholy Knight, in gaunt attireOf steel rides by upon the windmill-plainWith Sancho Panza by his side again,While, heard afar, a swineherd from a byreWinds a hoarse horn.And all at once I seeThe glory of that soul who rode uponImpossible quests,—following a deathless dreamOf righted wrongs, that never were to be,—Like many another champion who has goneQuesting a cause that perished like a dream.
What "blushing Hippocrene" is here! what fireOf the "warm South" with magic of old Spain!—Through which again I seem to view the trainOf all Cervantes' dreams, his heart's desire:The melancholy Knight, in gaunt attireOf steel rides by upon the windmill-plainWith Sancho Panza by his side again,While, heard afar, a swineherd from a byreWinds a hoarse horn.
And all at once I seeThe glory of that soul who rode uponImpossible quests,—following a deathless dreamOf righted wrongs, that never were to be,—Like many another champion who has goneQuesting a cause that perished like a dream.
With her fair face she made my heaven,Beneath whose stars and moon and sunI worshiped, praying, having striven,For wealth through which she might be won.And yet she had no soul: A womanAs fair and cruel as a god;Who played with hearts as nothing human,And tossed them by and on them trod.She killed a soul; she did it nightly;Luring it forth from peace and prayer,To strangle it, and laughing lightly,Cast it into the gutter there.And yet, not for a purer visionWould I exchange; or ParadisePossess instead of Hell, my prison,Where burns the passion of her eyes.
With her fair face she made my heaven,Beneath whose stars and moon and sunI worshiped, praying, having striven,For wealth through which she might be won.
And yet she had no soul: A womanAs fair and cruel as a god;Who played with hearts as nothing human,And tossed them by and on them trod.
She killed a soul; she did it nightly;Luring it forth from peace and prayer,To strangle it, and laughing lightly,Cast it into the gutter there.
And yet, not for a purer visionWould I exchange; or ParadisePossess instead of Hell, my prison,Where burns the passion of her eyes.