LET us keep home safe for them—Fires, laughter and song,The curtains close, the beds all smooth and white,The leisure long.Let us make good things for them—Sweet meats and bright conserves,Nourishing breads and all the dear delightsHunger deserves.Let us lift high God for them,And like tall candles holdThe straight white lights that in the trench they knew—Were more than gold.Let us grow up for them,And hold us to impassioned lofty thought—So they shall never come to be ashamedOf that for which they fought.Let us all work hard for them—For such as live and come to us once more;To those that do not come. Ah! for those men—Passionate love and honor, evermore!
LET us keep home safe for them—Fires, laughter and song,The curtains close, the beds all smooth and white,The leisure long.Let us make good things for them—Sweet meats and bright conserves,Nourishing breads and all the dear delightsHunger deserves.Let us lift high God for them,And like tall candles holdThe straight white lights that in the trench they knew—Were more than gold.Let us grow up for them,And hold us to impassioned lofty thought—So they shall never come to be ashamedOf that for which they fought.Let us all work hard for them—For such as live and come to us once more;To those that do not come. Ah! for those men—Passionate love and honor, evermore!
LET us keep home safe for them—Fires, laughter and song,The curtains close, the beds all smooth and white,The leisure long.
Let us make good things for them—Sweet meats and bright conserves,Nourishing breads and all the dear delightsHunger deserves.
Let us lift high God for them,And like tall candles holdThe straight white lights that in the trench they knew—Were more than gold.
Let us grow up for them,And hold us to impassioned lofty thought—So they shall never come to be ashamedOf that for which they fought.
Let us all work hard for them—For such as live and come to us once more;To those that do not come. Ah! for those men—Passionate love and honor, evermore!
ON the Stem of the WorldA flower hangs blighted,Flower that plightedIts scarlet, uncurled,To Pageant of KingsAnd war-garlandingsAnd banners unfurled.On the Stalk of the WorldThat flower hangs broken,Gold pollen-token,Nothingward hurled,Withered its finenessIts perfumed divineness,Petals far whirled!On the Branch of the World,Bud of tomorrow,Watered by sorrow,Holds, all impearled,Blossom increase,Petals of peaceIn sunlight whorled.Ye, who walk doubting,Care for this Flower!Not yet its hour,In all the shouting....Only, soft hid in the stamens, is lyingPollen of souls that dared all the dying.They gave the seed. Wet from our cryingBlooms the New World.
ON the Stem of the WorldA flower hangs blighted,Flower that plightedIts scarlet, uncurled,To Pageant of KingsAnd war-garlandingsAnd banners unfurled.On the Stalk of the WorldThat flower hangs broken,Gold pollen-token,Nothingward hurled,Withered its finenessIts perfumed divineness,Petals far whirled!On the Branch of the World,Bud of tomorrow,Watered by sorrow,Holds, all impearled,Blossom increase,Petals of peaceIn sunlight whorled.Ye, who walk doubting,Care for this Flower!Not yet its hour,In all the shouting....Only, soft hid in the stamens, is lyingPollen of souls that dared all the dying.They gave the seed. Wet from our cryingBlooms the New World.
ON the Stem of the WorldA flower hangs blighted,Flower that plightedIts scarlet, uncurled,To Pageant of KingsAnd war-garlandingsAnd banners unfurled.
On the Stalk of the WorldThat flower hangs broken,Gold pollen-token,Nothingward hurled,Withered its finenessIts perfumed divineness,Petals far whirled!
On the Branch of the World,Bud of tomorrow,Watered by sorrow,Holds, all impearled,Blossom increase,Petals of peaceIn sunlight whorled.
Ye, who walk doubting,Care for this Flower!Not yet its hour,In all the shouting....Only, soft hid in the stamens, is lyingPollen of souls that dared all the dying.They gave the seed. Wet from our cryingBlooms the New World.
MORNING broke on Fécamp shore.The sun rose from the sea.Along the stone digue, wooden shoesClattered busily,And one glad, little Norman voiceCarolled, “Sans Souci.”“No care! no care! Tra-lal-la-la!”The child’s glad voice sang on;A red-capped figure crossed the digueTo where the great boats swungAt peaceful anchor, with their netsSpread azure in the sun.Evening came to the little townWhere white cliffs wall the sea.A dark bell rang, “To arms! To arms!”The women on the quayChoked back the tears, when Jean and PierreMarched forth gallantly.And then no lift of little voiceSinging, “Sans Souci.”“Black care, Black care for home and hearth!”For children needing bread!Oh! the men’s faces! Oh! their eyes,That would be cold and deadEre the new moon, all pitilessAnd smiling at her dreams,Took her strange way of battlefieldsAnd bloody battle-streams.The ripe grain dies on Fécamp hills.Sails wither at the quay.Old people totter to the digue,And shiver ceaselessly,And in the pallid Gothic churchThe dead and wounded seeTo it that no Norman voiceCarols “Sans Souci.”Deep care, deep care, for us who tryTo save and clothe and feed!Men taunt us for our dream of PeaceOur hope of better breed!Courage! Let faith fight down the yearsOh! let our battle be,That the world’s children some day singAnother, “Sans Souci!”
MORNING broke on Fécamp shore.The sun rose from the sea.Along the stone digue, wooden shoesClattered busily,And one glad, little Norman voiceCarolled, “Sans Souci.”“No care! no care! Tra-lal-la-la!”The child’s glad voice sang on;A red-capped figure crossed the digueTo where the great boats swungAt peaceful anchor, with their netsSpread azure in the sun.Evening came to the little townWhere white cliffs wall the sea.A dark bell rang, “To arms! To arms!”The women on the quayChoked back the tears, when Jean and PierreMarched forth gallantly.And then no lift of little voiceSinging, “Sans Souci.”“Black care, Black care for home and hearth!”For children needing bread!Oh! the men’s faces! Oh! their eyes,That would be cold and deadEre the new moon, all pitilessAnd smiling at her dreams,Took her strange way of battlefieldsAnd bloody battle-streams.The ripe grain dies on Fécamp hills.Sails wither at the quay.Old people totter to the digue,And shiver ceaselessly,And in the pallid Gothic churchThe dead and wounded seeTo it that no Norman voiceCarols “Sans Souci.”Deep care, deep care, for us who tryTo save and clothe and feed!Men taunt us for our dream of PeaceOur hope of better breed!Courage! Let faith fight down the yearsOh! let our battle be,That the world’s children some day singAnother, “Sans Souci!”
MORNING broke on Fécamp shore.The sun rose from the sea.Along the stone digue, wooden shoesClattered busily,And one glad, little Norman voiceCarolled, “Sans Souci.”“No care! no care! Tra-lal-la-la!”The child’s glad voice sang on;A red-capped figure crossed the digueTo where the great boats swungAt peaceful anchor, with their netsSpread azure in the sun.
Evening came to the little townWhere white cliffs wall the sea.A dark bell rang, “To arms! To arms!”The women on the quayChoked back the tears, when Jean and PierreMarched forth gallantly.
And then no lift of little voiceSinging, “Sans Souci.”“Black care, Black care for home and hearth!”For children needing bread!Oh! the men’s faces! Oh! their eyes,That would be cold and deadEre the new moon, all pitilessAnd smiling at her dreams,Took her strange way of battlefieldsAnd bloody battle-streams.
The ripe grain dies on Fécamp hills.Sails wither at the quay.Old people totter to the digue,And shiver ceaselessly,And in the pallid Gothic churchThe dead and wounded seeTo it that no Norman voiceCarols “Sans Souci.”Deep care, deep care, for us who tryTo save and clothe and feed!Men taunt us for our dream of PeaceOur hope of better breed!Courage! Let faith fight down the yearsOh! let our battle be,That the world’s children some day singAnother, “Sans Souci!”
SOOTH, Citizens! there are few hours to dawnOf a red day and black gun-horrored night.The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawnOf golden-balled and silver-webbed light.Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite—To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.Americans! How stand we? Does the DreamStill hold? Once more the robust States declareAgainst the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem,Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we shareThe same proud purpose to defend the Scheme,Under the flag our lofty standards bear?Americans! Look we with fearless eyesLoyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her,Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies,Will our set faces prove our calibre—Our Destiny all penalties incur,So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formedFor War, or Peace in solid moveless Race!We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmedTo cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face.We are Souls, standing in our rightful place,Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowersPortentously the brooding Europe pall.Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours,When our World-Dream must either stand or fall—Arm ye with Loyalty!—Hark, hear the call!Democracy still trumpets on the towers!
SOOTH, Citizens! there are few hours to dawnOf a red day and black gun-horrored night.The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawnOf golden-balled and silver-webbed light.Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite—To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.Americans! How stand we? Does the DreamStill hold? Once more the robust States declareAgainst the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem,Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we shareThe same proud purpose to defend the Scheme,Under the flag our lofty standards bear?Americans! Look we with fearless eyesLoyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her,Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies,Will our set faces prove our calibre—Our Destiny all penalties incur,So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formedFor War, or Peace in solid moveless Race!We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmedTo cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face.We are Souls, standing in our rightful place,Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowersPortentously the brooding Europe pall.Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours,When our World-Dream must either stand or fall—Arm ye with Loyalty!—Hark, hear the call!Democracy still trumpets on the towers!
SOOTH, Citizens! there are few hours to dawnOf a red day and black gun-horrored night.The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawnOf golden-balled and silver-webbed light.Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite—To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.
Americans! How stand we? Does the DreamStill hold? Once more the robust States declareAgainst the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem,Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we shareThe same proud purpose to defend the Scheme,Under the flag our lofty standards bear?
Americans! Look we with fearless eyesLoyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her,Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies,Will our set faces prove our calibre—Our Destiny all penalties incur,So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.
Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formedFor War, or Peace in solid moveless Race!We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmedTo cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face.We are Souls, standing in our rightful place,Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.
Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowersPortentously the brooding Europe pall.Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours,When our World-Dream must either stand or fall—Arm ye with Loyalty!—Hark, hear the call!Democracy still trumpets on the towers!
THE Penmarch roads are sandy white;By the old church the blue nets dry,Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright,Tremulous scarlet splashes highOn tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes,Stiff snowy caps and ribbon huesGo clattering to the market place.’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace,(And little Bretons form a ring,And pause to hear a Lady sing.)What does she sing, this Lady, whoIs like embodied song, her eyes,Clear with the light of faith where throughLooks sweetness of her soul’s surmise?What are the words she sings, her smileSo Mother-merry? What the wileThat draws the small coifs nearer, near,And charms away the peasant fear(Shy little Bretons keep their ring,And stay to hear the Lady sing.)Blue sky is part, blue sea is part;Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain;Her wide eyes deepen with her artLike gentian flowers after rain.’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay—Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play.No wonder wooden shoes keep timeTo magic of her lilting rhythm.(Gay little Bretons hold their ring,Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”)That was one summer. Now a dirgeBreaks on that coast in bitter wail,And news told by the ocean surgeMakes Breton-maids and mothers quail.O holy Fires of fisher-lights.Gleam out no more on Pardon nights!The great red sails hang listless, tornThe empty blue nets trail forlorn.And yet I think that little feetSometimes on Penmarch beaches meet,And Penmarch children cease their playTo talk of how She sang that day,And that once more a happy ringIs formed to hear a Lady sing!
THE Penmarch roads are sandy white;By the old church the blue nets dry,Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright,Tremulous scarlet splashes highOn tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes,Stiff snowy caps and ribbon huesGo clattering to the market place.’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace,(And little Bretons form a ring,And pause to hear a Lady sing.)What does she sing, this Lady, whoIs like embodied song, her eyes,Clear with the light of faith where throughLooks sweetness of her soul’s surmise?What are the words she sings, her smileSo Mother-merry? What the wileThat draws the small coifs nearer, near,And charms away the peasant fear(Shy little Bretons keep their ring,And stay to hear the Lady sing.)Blue sky is part, blue sea is part;Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain;Her wide eyes deepen with her artLike gentian flowers after rain.’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay—Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play.No wonder wooden shoes keep timeTo magic of her lilting rhythm.(Gay little Bretons hold their ring,Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”)That was one summer. Now a dirgeBreaks on that coast in bitter wail,And news told by the ocean surgeMakes Breton-maids and mothers quail.O holy Fires of fisher-lights.Gleam out no more on Pardon nights!The great red sails hang listless, tornThe empty blue nets trail forlorn.And yet I think that little feetSometimes on Penmarch beaches meet,And Penmarch children cease their playTo talk of how She sang that day,And that once more a happy ringIs formed to hear a Lady sing!
THE Penmarch roads are sandy white;By the old church the blue nets dry,Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright,Tremulous scarlet splashes highOn tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes,Stiff snowy caps and ribbon huesGo clattering to the market place.’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace,(And little Bretons form a ring,And pause to hear a Lady sing.)
What does she sing, this Lady, whoIs like embodied song, her eyes,Clear with the light of faith where throughLooks sweetness of her soul’s surmise?What are the words she sings, her smileSo Mother-merry? What the wileThat draws the small coifs nearer, near,And charms away the peasant fear(Shy little Bretons keep their ring,And stay to hear the Lady sing.)
Blue sky is part, blue sea is part;Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain;Her wide eyes deepen with her artLike gentian flowers after rain.’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay—Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play.No wonder wooden shoes keep timeTo magic of her lilting rhythm.(Gay little Bretons hold their ring,Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”)
That was one summer. Now a dirgeBreaks on that coast in bitter wail,And news told by the ocean surgeMakes Breton-maids and mothers quail.O holy Fires of fisher-lights.Gleam out no more on Pardon nights!The great red sails hang listless, tornThe empty blue nets trail forlorn.And yet I think that little feetSometimes on Penmarch beaches meet,And Penmarch children cease their playTo talk of how She sang that day,And that once more a happy ringIs formed to hear a Lady sing!
TODAY’S your turn to take the road of fire;Your turn to rally at the gates of hell;Your turn for steel and gas and blood and mire,In shell-holes and through mazes of barbed wire,Where men before you fought and bled and fell.And we go with you, we, who know your face—Its dear and merry shining, and intent;Follow you blindly to this testing place.Breathless, with you at this, the ultimate paceYour fleet strong spirit takes for its ascent.Whatever agony is yours is ours,Whatever thing the soul of you endures;We are the witness of your manhood’s powers;Not one of us who has your measure cowers—What we know of you all our thought insures.Go you, then, to the Front! May God be good!Whatever face you raise to Him will beThe face of one, who for our Hope has stood,Manly and resolute, whose spirit wouldBe at the Front, and elsewhere could not be!
TODAY’S your turn to take the road of fire;Your turn to rally at the gates of hell;Your turn for steel and gas and blood and mire,In shell-holes and through mazes of barbed wire,Where men before you fought and bled and fell.And we go with you, we, who know your face—Its dear and merry shining, and intent;Follow you blindly to this testing place.Breathless, with you at this, the ultimate paceYour fleet strong spirit takes for its ascent.Whatever agony is yours is ours,Whatever thing the soul of you endures;We are the witness of your manhood’s powers;Not one of us who has your measure cowers—What we know of you all our thought insures.Go you, then, to the Front! May God be good!Whatever face you raise to Him will beThe face of one, who for our Hope has stood,Manly and resolute, whose spirit wouldBe at the Front, and elsewhere could not be!
TODAY’S your turn to take the road of fire;Your turn to rally at the gates of hell;Your turn for steel and gas and blood and mire,In shell-holes and through mazes of barbed wire,Where men before you fought and bled and fell.
And we go with you, we, who know your face—Its dear and merry shining, and intent;Follow you blindly to this testing place.Breathless, with you at this, the ultimate paceYour fleet strong spirit takes for its ascent.
Whatever agony is yours is ours,Whatever thing the soul of you endures;We are the witness of your manhood’s powers;Not one of us who has your measure cowers—What we know of you all our thought insures.
Go you, then, to the Front! May God be good!Whatever face you raise to Him will beThe face of one, who for our Hope has stood,Manly and resolute, whose spirit wouldBe at the Front, and elsewhere could not be!
DOWN the glad morning lane a lucent veilOf dogwood wavers like a windblown screenRevealing vistas lit by golden trailOf netted water-brooks that interveneWhere ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen;Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhaleOn the spring world; a buoyant path of greenMakes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grailOf exquisite re-capture of the frailFresh renascence of all that fair has been.Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyesThat watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom!Are ours the only forms that may not riseOut of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom?Nay—burst we forth out of the moment’s doom,Instinct toward suns of flowering destinies,Lifting glad lips to deep full-breasted skies,Branching like stars where radiant dreams resume.
DOWN the glad morning lane a lucent veilOf dogwood wavers like a windblown screenRevealing vistas lit by golden trailOf netted water-brooks that interveneWhere ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen;Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhaleOn the spring world; a buoyant path of greenMakes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grailOf exquisite re-capture of the frailFresh renascence of all that fair has been.Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyesThat watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom!Are ours the only forms that may not riseOut of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom?Nay—burst we forth out of the moment’s doom,Instinct toward suns of flowering destinies,Lifting glad lips to deep full-breasted skies,Branching like stars where radiant dreams resume.
DOWN the glad morning lane a lucent veilOf dogwood wavers like a windblown screenRevealing vistas lit by golden trailOf netted water-brooks that interveneWhere ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen;Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhaleOn the spring world; a buoyant path of greenMakes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grailOf exquisite re-capture of the frailFresh renascence of all that fair has been.Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyesThat watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom!Are ours the only forms that may not riseOut of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom?Nay—burst we forth out of the moment’s doom,Instinct toward suns of flowering destinies,Lifting glad lips to deep full-breasted skies,Branching like stars where radiant dreams resume.
No. 1—Aerial.
DOWN the long garden path the message came,Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed;“My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame,Yet do I know defeat and barren shame;Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?”A lily-bell hung in her curving spire;Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail;Womanly roses opened; did this fire,This wordless furthering of deep desireWaft from their midst down to the meadow-rail?Who took the message? Did the iris there,Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls.Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flareConcentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dareTo think that it might answer to the call?Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship,Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way,Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tipShoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slipImpatiently from honeyed bud and spray.Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow;Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they seeThe yellow tulip near them suddenly growQuivering, tremulous? Does the tulip knowWhat meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?
DOWN the long garden path the message came,Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed;“My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame,Yet do I know defeat and barren shame;Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?”A lily-bell hung in her curving spire;Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail;Womanly roses opened; did this fire,This wordless furthering of deep desireWaft from their midst down to the meadow-rail?Who took the message? Did the iris there,Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls.Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flareConcentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dareTo think that it might answer to the call?Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship,Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way,Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tipShoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slipImpatiently from honeyed bud and spray.Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow;Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they seeThe yellow tulip near them suddenly growQuivering, tremulous? Does the tulip knowWhat meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?
DOWN the long garden path the message came,Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed;“My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame,Yet do I know defeat and barren shame;Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?”
A lily-bell hung in her curving spire;Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail;Womanly roses opened; did this fire,This wordless furthering of deep desireWaft from their midst down to the meadow-rail?
Who took the message? Did the iris there,Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls.Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flareConcentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dareTo think that it might answer to the call?
Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship,Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way,Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tipShoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slipImpatiently from honeyed bud and spray.
Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow;Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they seeThe yellow tulip near them suddenly growQuivering, tremulous? Does the tulip knowWhat meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?
No. 2—Invasion.
In wooded depths the lilies grew,Nunlike in canopies of green.Hanging white bells of paladinIn Gothic ferns beneath the yew—A sanctuary, with the dewTelling its beads by leafy screen.And where the dandelion ranks,Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield,Was far away in sedgy field—Too dense with spears of thistle hordesTo menace distant lily chords,Or chapel treasure all unsealed;And all day nettle airships sail,And on the moonlight thistle swordsLeap from their scabbards, flashing towardsThe priestly yew that guards the vale;Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail,And violets rush borderwards.Alas! By stealth th’ invader came,Intrenched near lily convents, whereA startled fragrance fills the air.Green cells are pierced by nettle spike,And dandelions, shield and pikeRavish white bells that rang to prayer!
In wooded depths the lilies grew,Nunlike in canopies of green.Hanging white bells of paladinIn Gothic ferns beneath the yew—A sanctuary, with the dewTelling its beads by leafy screen.And where the dandelion ranks,Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield,Was far away in sedgy field—Too dense with spears of thistle hordesTo menace distant lily chords,Or chapel treasure all unsealed;And all day nettle airships sail,And on the moonlight thistle swordsLeap from their scabbards, flashing towardsThe priestly yew that guards the vale;Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail,And violets rush borderwards.Alas! By stealth th’ invader came,Intrenched near lily convents, whereA startled fragrance fills the air.Green cells are pierced by nettle spike,And dandelions, shield and pikeRavish white bells that rang to prayer!
In wooded depths the lilies grew,Nunlike in canopies of green.Hanging white bells of paladinIn Gothic ferns beneath the yew—A sanctuary, with the dewTelling its beads by leafy screen.
And where the dandelion ranks,Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield,Was far away in sedgy field—Too dense with spears of thistle hordesTo menace distant lily chords,Or chapel treasure all unsealed;
And all day nettle airships sail,And on the moonlight thistle swordsLeap from their scabbards, flashing towardsThe priestly yew that guards the vale;Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail,And violets rush borderwards.
Alas! By stealth th’ invader came,Intrenched near lily convents, whereA startled fragrance fills the air.Green cells are pierced by nettle spike,And dandelions, shield and pikeRavish white bells that rang to prayer!
No. 3—Diplomats
Archippus, ambassadorTo the poppy emperor,Enters with his wings extended,Orange, black and samite blended,Bows o’er cups of columbines,And at taste of royal winesFlashes spangled semaphoreMessage—“To the end of the war.”Philemon, black, green and pearlWavers to syringa whirl;Lightly shod, his errant feetWin the white pavilions sweet;As he flits to salvia cells,Dipping into ruby wellsHis antennae, as he goesWig-wag—“Beauty has no foes.”Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned,Flutters to the brilliant band;He confers with larkspur sages,Loiters with the pansy pages,Tells his heraldry and crestTo the rose’s burning breast;Soon doth Turnus flutter free,Wing-endorsing “Liberty.”Protoparce, grey and blunt,Enters on his stealthy hunt;Tongue protuding from his head,Heavy wings and brutal tread,Bulging eyes and savage thirst,Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst;See him prowling, full of schemes,Subtle midst the flower-dreams!Valiant tulips, trust no more!Close your helmets. This is war!
Archippus, ambassadorTo the poppy emperor,Enters with his wings extended,Orange, black and samite blended,Bows o’er cups of columbines,And at taste of royal winesFlashes spangled semaphoreMessage—“To the end of the war.”Philemon, black, green and pearlWavers to syringa whirl;Lightly shod, his errant feetWin the white pavilions sweet;As he flits to salvia cells,Dipping into ruby wellsHis antennae, as he goesWig-wag—“Beauty has no foes.”Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned,Flutters to the brilliant band;He confers with larkspur sages,Loiters with the pansy pages,Tells his heraldry and crestTo the rose’s burning breast;Soon doth Turnus flutter free,Wing-endorsing “Liberty.”Protoparce, grey and blunt,Enters on his stealthy hunt;Tongue protuding from his head,Heavy wings and brutal tread,Bulging eyes and savage thirst,Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst;See him prowling, full of schemes,Subtle midst the flower-dreams!Valiant tulips, trust no more!Close your helmets. This is war!
Archippus, ambassadorTo the poppy emperor,Enters with his wings extended,Orange, black and samite blended,Bows o’er cups of columbines,And at taste of royal winesFlashes spangled semaphoreMessage—“To the end of the war.”
Philemon, black, green and pearlWavers to syringa whirl;Lightly shod, his errant feetWin the white pavilions sweet;As he flits to salvia cells,Dipping into ruby wellsHis antennae, as he goesWig-wag—“Beauty has no foes.”
Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned,Flutters to the brilliant band;He confers with larkspur sages,Loiters with the pansy pages,Tells his heraldry and crestTo the rose’s burning breast;Soon doth Turnus flutter free,Wing-endorsing “Liberty.”
Protoparce, grey and blunt,Enters on his stealthy hunt;Tongue protuding from his head,Heavy wings and brutal tread,Bulging eyes and savage thirst,Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst;See him prowling, full of schemes,Subtle midst the flower-dreams!Valiant tulips, trust no more!Close your helmets. This is war!
No. 4—Spies
Ask me no questions. Fireflies last nightWent over all the ground with searching light,And only found that, where the peony-headHung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red.Tell me not why. I only know that sinceI paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince,A group of tents, some warlike grey, some whiteCover the ground, pitched in a single night.No explanation gives me peace of mind,When long battalioned caravans I findCrossing my garden walk; and when I seeUnder-ground trenches grow unceasingly.Give me no reasons for squat forms that passLurking at twilight near the ribbon grass.Only the owl and I our vigil keep,With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.
Ask me no questions. Fireflies last nightWent over all the ground with searching light,And only found that, where the peony-headHung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red.Tell me not why. I only know that sinceI paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince,A group of tents, some warlike grey, some whiteCover the ground, pitched in a single night.No explanation gives me peace of mind,When long battalioned caravans I findCrossing my garden walk; and when I seeUnder-ground trenches grow unceasingly.Give me no reasons for squat forms that passLurking at twilight near the ribbon grass.Only the owl and I our vigil keep,With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.
Ask me no questions. Fireflies last nightWent over all the ground with searching light,And only found that, where the peony-headHung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red.
Tell me not why. I only know that sinceI paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince,A group of tents, some warlike grey, some whiteCover the ground, pitched in a single night.
No explanation gives me peace of mind,When long battalioned caravans I findCrossing my garden walk; and when I seeUnder-ground trenches grow unceasingly.
Give me no reasons for squat forms that passLurking at twilight near the ribbon grass.Only the owl and I our vigil keep,With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.
No 5—Rendezvous
Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night,She spreads illumined petals, and her whiteMystical raying disk spills frankincenseFrom her stored sweet and balmy opulence.Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines,Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines,Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent,Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent.What secret doth she hold? What visions stirAt the slow calm awakening of her?Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread,And to the encircling dark she leans her head.Then, who can tell what fragrant message straysO’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways?To what green tent her sighing languors steal?What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel?Till—Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wingsFloats from his moonlit forest wanderings,And by enchantment led, there plights his trothTo the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth.Now, while the garden drowses, and the coolOf passing midnight deepens in the pool,While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep—Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep.The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old;And all the simple forms and feasts are cold.But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith,The Forest knows,—the flowers keep their Faith.
Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night,She spreads illumined petals, and her whiteMystical raying disk spills frankincenseFrom her stored sweet and balmy opulence.Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines,Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines,Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent,Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent.What secret doth she hold? What visions stirAt the slow calm awakening of her?Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread,And to the encircling dark she leans her head.Then, who can tell what fragrant message straysO’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways?To what green tent her sighing languors steal?What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel?Till—Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wingsFloats from his moonlit forest wanderings,And by enchantment led, there plights his trothTo the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth.Now, while the garden drowses, and the coolOf passing midnight deepens in the pool,While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep—Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep.The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old;And all the simple forms and feasts are cold.But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith,The Forest knows,—the flowers keep their Faith.
Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night,She spreads illumined petals, and her whiteMystical raying disk spills frankincenseFrom her stored sweet and balmy opulence.
Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines,Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines,Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent,Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent.
What secret doth she hold? What visions stirAt the slow calm awakening of her?Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread,And to the encircling dark she leans her head.
Then, who can tell what fragrant message straysO’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways?To what green tent her sighing languors steal?What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel?
Till—Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wingsFloats from his moonlit forest wanderings,And by enchantment led, there plights his trothTo the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth.
Now, while the garden drowses, and the coolOf passing midnight deepens in the pool,While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep—Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep.
The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old;And all the simple forms and feasts are cold.But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith,The Forest knows,—the flowers keep their Faith.
HERE is the waving river line, and hereA rail-road made(And here float lilies white as those that wereWhere Marsyas played.)The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planesFor air ship raid(Yet—still steals up the hidden cirrus lanesThe Huntress Maid!)The country road is gashed with lurid signsOf commerce-gods:(Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantinesHang votive pods!)The man who walks in front of me to workHas pointed ears(He speaks with modern emphasis and jerkSo it appears)—But where he toils the chimneys range their pipesIn Syrinx form(Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what typesOf dancers swarm?)Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say“No one escapes—— ”(Ye Gods,Whois that smiling such a wayAmong the grapes?)
HERE is the waving river line, and hereA rail-road made(And here float lilies white as those that wereWhere Marsyas played.)The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planesFor air ship raid(Yet—still steals up the hidden cirrus lanesThe Huntress Maid!)The country road is gashed with lurid signsOf commerce-gods:(Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantinesHang votive pods!)The man who walks in front of me to workHas pointed ears(He speaks with modern emphasis and jerkSo it appears)—But where he toils the chimneys range their pipesIn Syrinx form(Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what typesOf dancers swarm?)Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say“No one escapes—— ”(Ye Gods,Whois that smiling such a wayAmong the grapes?)
HERE is the waving river line, and hereA rail-road made(And here float lilies white as those that wereWhere Marsyas played.)
The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planesFor air ship raid(Yet—still steals up the hidden cirrus lanesThe Huntress Maid!)
The country road is gashed with lurid signsOf commerce-gods:(Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantinesHang votive pods!)
The man who walks in front of me to workHas pointed ears(He speaks with modern emphasis and jerkSo it appears)—
But where he toils the chimneys range their pipesIn Syrinx form(Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what typesOf dancers swarm?)
Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say“No one escapes—— ”(Ye Gods,Whois that smiling such a wayAmong the grapes?)
HE sees the white moon climb the city skies,Far over rank, black roofs and balconies,And with her spectral radiance anointThe slender lance of every steeple point.Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge,And through the avenues the people surge.Behind him are his walls where, numb and oldHis books and pictures seem aloof and cold.Below, he hears the gong and shout and call;Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall,And bows himself upon the window sill,In a communion motionless and still.He leaves the temples where the merchants trade,Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade,And hand and hand with the white moon he straysAway to leafy lanes and country ways.He vizualizes green of plashy meadOf kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed,Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloomAnd purple lilacs bursting into plume.Electric beads may dot the cities plain,But in his heart old candles flare again;Old doors stand open, and beside old stilesHe leans, and listens as in other whiles.So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home,To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam;So hand in hand with the young moon he straysOut of the city gates to the old days.
HE sees the white moon climb the city skies,Far over rank, black roofs and balconies,And with her spectral radiance anointThe slender lance of every steeple point.Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge,And through the avenues the people surge.Behind him are his walls where, numb and oldHis books and pictures seem aloof and cold.Below, he hears the gong and shout and call;Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall,And bows himself upon the window sill,In a communion motionless and still.He leaves the temples where the merchants trade,Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade,And hand and hand with the white moon he straysAway to leafy lanes and country ways.He vizualizes green of plashy meadOf kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed,Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloomAnd purple lilacs bursting into plume.Electric beads may dot the cities plain,But in his heart old candles flare again;Old doors stand open, and beside old stilesHe leans, and listens as in other whiles.So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home,To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam;So hand in hand with the young moon he straysOut of the city gates to the old days.
HE sees the white moon climb the city skies,Far over rank, black roofs and balconies,And with her spectral radiance anointThe slender lance of every steeple point.
Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge,And through the avenues the people surge.Behind him are his walls where, numb and oldHis books and pictures seem aloof and cold.
Below, he hears the gong and shout and call;Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall,And bows himself upon the window sill,In a communion motionless and still.
He leaves the temples where the merchants trade,Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade,And hand and hand with the white moon he straysAway to leafy lanes and country ways.
He vizualizes green of plashy meadOf kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed,Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloomAnd purple lilacs bursting into plume.
Electric beads may dot the cities plain,But in his heart old candles flare again;Old doors stand open, and beside old stilesHe leans, and listens as in other whiles.
So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home,To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam;So hand in hand with the young moon he straysOut of the city gates to the old days.
LAST night I heard Masefield,Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tombReading old plays and masquesAnd gipsy drama of old England.I saw strange eyes flickering—sad,Set in a face recording vigils,Moody, unfellowed prowlingsVague contemplations and wanderings.I saw his face, dream-magnetic,Pale, withheld, until he toldStories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest;Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow,And a smile like water shook on his face.I heard the grind of creaking anchor chainsFelt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull,Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoopsSlink as some halliard parted, and was caught.I heard dead seamen’s lipsRecounting heaps of gold in sunken ships;I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women,Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes.Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voiceDroned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace,Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms,England—before the War!Last night I heard Masefield.He stood downcast on a little platform,While I careened, helm up, full canvassedClose-hauled on happy seas.He stood limply on a little platformWorld-blind before the rows of set, still, faces,Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word“Beauty.”
LAST night I heard Masefield,Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tombReading old plays and masquesAnd gipsy drama of old England.I saw strange eyes flickering—sad,Set in a face recording vigils,Moody, unfellowed prowlingsVague contemplations and wanderings.I saw his face, dream-magnetic,Pale, withheld, until he toldStories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest;Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow,And a smile like water shook on his face.I heard the grind of creaking anchor chainsFelt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull,Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoopsSlink as some halliard parted, and was caught.I heard dead seamen’s lipsRecounting heaps of gold in sunken ships;I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women,Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes.Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voiceDroned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace,Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms,England—before the War!Last night I heard Masefield.He stood downcast on a little platform,While I careened, helm up, full canvassedClose-hauled on happy seas.He stood limply on a little platformWorld-blind before the rows of set, still, faces,Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word“Beauty.”
LAST night I heard Masefield,Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tombReading old plays and masquesAnd gipsy drama of old England.
I saw strange eyes flickering—sad,Set in a face recording vigils,Moody, unfellowed prowlingsVague contemplations and wanderings.
I saw his face, dream-magnetic,Pale, withheld, until he toldStories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest;Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow,And a smile like water shook on his face.
I heard the grind of creaking anchor chainsFelt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull,Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoopsSlink as some halliard parted, and was caught.
I heard dead seamen’s lipsRecounting heaps of gold in sunken ships;I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women,Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes.
Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voiceDroned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace,Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms,England—before the War!
Last night I heard Masefield.He stood downcast on a little platform,While I careened, helm up, full canvassedClose-hauled on happy seas.
He stood limply on a little platformWorld-blind before the rows of set, still, faces,Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word“Beauty.”
“It would be strange if with such ample survival of the ancient polytheism in modern law there were no reminiscence of the Fauns, the Satyrs, the Pans of the olden world."—Rennell Rodd.
“It would be strange if with such ample survival of the ancient polytheism in modern law there were no reminiscence of the Fauns, the Satyrs, the Pans of the olden world."—Rennell Rodd.
FAR in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The cone fires burn.Mid the pines and rocks,And the tall shepherds wearThe curly white fleece,And a man, with a beard,Like a horse’s mane,Plays a small pipe,A carvéd pipe,Till the goats come straggling in,And the bees come drowsing by,And the olives come dropping down;And he will be playing like that,And they will be coming like that,Long after our solemn mummings ceaseIn the mountains, the mountains of Greece.Far in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The values are strange—The worth of a tree,The strength of a rock,The health of a sheep,The length of a brook,The dip of a bird,The wisdom of mules.They will offer you grapes,Or a horn-spoon of curd,Or wine in a cup,Or honey and bread;And they will keep all these values,These dear simple valuesLong after our silly values cease,In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.In the mountains, the mountains of GreeceThey lie in a cave,And hark to wood-sounds,Perhaps cross themselves,Saying, aghast!“There be wild things,Hidden things, dread things.Strange things, weird things, great things.”(They quake, and are not very brave,)But when they sleep and dream,They dream as far as they please.As grand and great as they please—Of miles of red-fezzed TurksDone to death by one Greek,Of clouds that turn into men,Of fountains with golden rain,Of seas and golden ships,Of reveling women and maids,And hosts of little boysDressed in skins of fur,Dancing and playing pipes;And of Someone very strange,With horns perhaps, but a smile,A smile like hot sweet fire—And they will be dreaming like that,And thinking like that,Long after our stupid teachings are dead.Yea—Yea—Yea—Long after we are dead,In the mountains,The mountains of Greece.
FAR in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The cone fires burn.Mid the pines and rocks,And the tall shepherds wearThe curly white fleece,And a man, with a beard,Like a horse’s mane,Plays a small pipe,A carvéd pipe,Till the goats come straggling in,And the bees come drowsing by,And the olives come dropping down;And he will be playing like that,And they will be coming like that,Long after our solemn mummings ceaseIn the mountains, the mountains of Greece.Far in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The values are strange—The worth of a tree,The strength of a rock,The health of a sheep,The length of a brook,The dip of a bird,The wisdom of mules.They will offer you grapes,Or a horn-spoon of curd,Or wine in a cup,Or honey and bread;And they will keep all these values,These dear simple valuesLong after our silly values cease,In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.In the mountains, the mountains of GreeceThey lie in a cave,And hark to wood-sounds,Perhaps cross themselves,Saying, aghast!“There be wild things,Hidden things, dread things.Strange things, weird things, great things.”(They quake, and are not very brave,)But when they sleep and dream,They dream as far as they please.As grand and great as they please—Of miles of red-fezzed TurksDone to death by one Greek,Of clouds that turn into men,Of fountains with golden rain,Of seas and golden ships,Of reveling women and maids,And hosts of little boysDressed in skins of fur,Dancing and playing pipes;And of Someone very strange,With horns perhaps, but a smile,A smile like hot sweet fire—And they will be dreaming like that,And thinking like that,Long after our stupid teachings are dead.Yea—Yea—Yea—Long after we are dead,In the mountains,The mountains of Greece.
FAR in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The cone fires burn.Mid the pines and rocks,And the tall shepherds wearThe curly white fleece,And a man, with a beard,Like a horse’s mane,Plays a small pipe,A carvéd pipe,Till the goats come straggling in,And the bees come drowsing by,And the olives come dropping down;And he will be playing like that,And they will be coming like that,Long after our solemn mummings ceaseIn the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
Far in the mountains,The mountains of Greece,The values are strange—The worth of a tree,The strength of a rock,The health of a sheep,The length of a brook,The dip of a bird,The wisdom of mules.They will offer you grapes,Or a horn-spoon of curd,Or wine in a cup,Or honey and bread;And they will keep all these values,These dear simple valuesLong after our silly values cease,In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
In the mountains, the mountains of GreeceThey lie in a cave,And hark to wood-sounds,Perhaps cross themselves,Saying, aghast!“There be wild things,Hidden things, dread things.Strange things, weird things, great things.”(They quake, and are not very brave,)But when they sleep and dream,They dream as far as they please.As grand and great as they please—Of miles of red-fezzed TurksDone to death by one Greek,Of clouds that turn into men,Of fountains with golden rain,Of seas and golden ships,Of reveling women and maids,And hosts of little boysDressed in skins of fur,Dancing and playing pipes;
And of Someone very strange,With horns perhaps, but a smile,A smile like hot sweet fire—And they will be dreaming like that,And thinking like that,Long after our stupid teachings are dead.Yea—Yea—Yea—Long after we are dead,In the mountains,The mountains of Greece.
YOU, who sit opposite and move your lips,And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon,And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips—Why do you pause, for it is afternoon.What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mistBefore your sweet eyes, as the hours creep?While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast,A fast you keep.Where dwells who now should come and feast with you?Where fares he, years off—leagues off? Thirsts and praysFor the one sign to make his life come true?For the one clue to lead him to your ways?Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls?Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait?What if, in vain your tender name he calls—Entering late?If he should fail, I see you still serene,Leaving the tables where the garlands die,Passing the fountained courts that interveneTo the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye.O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascendI see you toil; your pallid candle shakes;The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend,Drops—faded flakes.
YOU, who sit opposite and move your lips,And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon,And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips—Why do you pause, for it is afternoon.What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mistBefore your sweet eyes, as the hours creep?While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast,A fast you keep.Where dwells who now should come and feast with you?Where fares he, years off—leagues off? Thirsts and praysFor the one sign to make his life come true?For the one clue to lead him to your ways?Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls?Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait?What if, in vain your tender name he calls—Entering late?If he should fail, I see you still serene,Leaving the tables where the garlands die,Passing the fountained courts that interveneTo the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye.O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascendI see you toil; your pallid candle shakes;The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend,Drops—faded flakes.
YOU, who sit opposite and move your lips,And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon,And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips—Why do you pause, for it is afternoon.What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mistBefore your sweet eyes, as the hours creep?While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast,A fast you keep.
Where dwells who now should come and feast with you?Where fares he, years off—leagues off? Thirsts and praysFor the one sign to make his life come true?For the one clue to lead him to your ways?Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls?Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait?What if, in vain your tender name he calls—Entering late?
If he should fail, I see you still serene,Leaving the tables where the garlands die,Passing the fountained courts that interveneTo the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye.O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascendI see you toil; your pallid candle shakes;The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend,Drops—faded flakes.
THOU wilt not smite him, Israfel?Prone on his little couch he lies,With the death-shadow in his eyes.He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell.Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel?Thou must not smite him, Israfel.For all his race throbs in his fame,The sole hope of a noble name;That small hand like a tinted shellHolds high tradition, Israfel.Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.He turns his asking eyes on me.I am his sun and moon and sea;My life tides in his life-tides swell.Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.Since thou hast smitten, Israfel,Know this, thy sword so bitter keenDestroys a thing that might have been;Yet, smiting him, it was as wellTo kill my Soul, thou Israfel!
THOU wilt not smite him, Israfel?Prone on his little couch he lies,With the death-shadow in his eyes.He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell.Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel?Thou must not smite him, Israfel.For all his race throbs in his fame,The sole hope of a noble name;That small hand like a tinted shellHolds high tradition, Israfel.Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.He turns his asking eyes on me.I am his sun and moon and sea;My life tides in his life-tides swell.Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.Since thou hast smitten, Israfel,Know this, thy sword so bitter keenDestroys a thing that might have been;Yet, smiting him, it was as wellTo kill my Soul, thou Israfel!
THOU wilt not smite him, Israfel?Prone on his little couch he lies,With the death-shadow in his eyes.He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell.Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel?
Thou must not smite him, Israfel.For all his race throbs in his fame,The sole hope of a noble name;That small hand like a tinted shellHolds high tradition, Israfel.
Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.He turns his asking eyes on me.I am his sun and moon and sea;My life tides in his life-tides swell.Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.
Since thou hast smitten, Israfel,Know this, thy sword so bitter keenDestroys a thing that might have been;Yet, smiting him, it was as wellTo kill my Soul, thou Israfel!
AROSY haze misted the air, perfumeOf flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings,Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom,Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings.Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom;Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled stringsSprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room.So quietly the human throng moved by,It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest faceWas wistful, pensive, reverent of eyeWandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace;And there were soft communings, whispers shy—Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace.Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry,And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place.“We are the most like you,” the young girls said.“Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers;Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed;Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.”Then was I, listening, rare astonished,Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers,Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head.“You are not very like us,” sighed the flowers.Then there came women made of night and stars,Women of dusky eye and cirrus tressFrom whom men rush to wreckage and to wars,Frenzied of their inscrutable caress.“We are like you,” they said, “competitorsFor admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers”Negation from green-hooded councilors,“You are not like us,” soft condemned the flowers.And then there drifted by hard graceless forms,Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no senseOf umbelled mysteries, of disks, and normsOf myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense;Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms,Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers,Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms.“These surely are not like us” breathed the flowers.Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise.Creeping in slow persistance like a vine;And there were wells of light within her eyes;Her hair was milk-weed white. By every signOf age, dried stalk of past fecundities.She was the silvern wraith of fair Design.“Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours;Mine has been Love and many children mine.”“Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us,” smiled the flowers!
AROSY haze misted the air, perfumeOf flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings,Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom,Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings.Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom;Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled stringsSprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room.So quietly the human throng moved by,It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest faceWas wistful, pensive, reverent of eyeWandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace;And there were soft communings, whispers shy—Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace.Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry,And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place.“We are the most like you,” the young girls said.“Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers;Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed;Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.”Then was I, listening, rare astonished,Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers,Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head.“You are not very like us,” sighed the flowers.Then there came women made of night and stars,Women of dusky eye and cirrus tressFrom whom men rush to wreckage and to wars,Frenzied of their inscrutable caress.“We are like you,” they said, “competitorsFor admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers”Negation from green-hooded councilors,“You are not like us,” soft condemned the flowers.And then there drifted by hard graceless forms,Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no senseOf umbelled mysteries, of disks, and normsOf myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense;Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms,Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers,Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms.“These surely are not like us” breathed the flowers.Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise.Creeping in slow persistance like a vine;And there were wells of light within her eyes;Her hair was milk-weed white. By every signOf age, dried stalk of past fecundities.She was the silvern wraith of fair Design.“Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours;Mine has been Love and many children mine.”“Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us,” smiled the flowers!
AROSY haze misted the air, perfumeOf flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings,Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom,Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings.Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom;Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled stringsSprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room.
So quietly the human throng moved by,It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest faceWas wistful, pensive, reverent of eyeWandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace;And there were soft communings, whispers shy—Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace.Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry,And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place.
“We are the most like you,” the young girls said.“Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers;Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed;Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.”Then was I, listening, rare astonished,Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers,Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head.“You are not very like us,” sighed the flowers.
Then there came women made of night and stars,Women of dusky eye and cirrus tressFrom whom men rush to wreckage and to wars,Frenzied of their inscrutable caress.“We are like you,” they said, “competitorsFor admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers”Negation from green-hooded councilors,“You are not like us,” soft condemned the flowers.
And then there drifted by hard graceless forms,Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no senseOf umbelled mysteries, of disks, and normsOf myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense;Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms,Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers,Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms.“These surely are not like us” breathed the flowers.
Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise.Creeping in slow persistance like a vine;And there were wells of light within her eyes;Her hair was milk-weed white. By every signOf age, dried stalk of past fecundities.She was the silvern wraith of fair Design.“Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours;Mine has been Love and many children mine.”“Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us,” smiled the flowers!
JUST now the Mother left me, and I standHolding her trove, a sheaf of shining curl—All that is left of “Once a little girl,”Alive and warm and glowing in my hand.Like to a Seer gazing into space,I muse upon this silken treasure, whereThe coiled lights quicken, and I see the fairWoman-ward leaning of a childish face.I see that face gaze down the crowded years,Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stirTo find the deep maternal heart of Her,Who gazes back all undeterred by tears.I see the child eyes give their radiant speechOnce more to mother-eyes that never failed;I see a heart that never yet has quailedAnswer those eyes over the long years’ reach....The Winter sun goes down; quick chills the airOutside my window.... While the West grows old,I stand in Sanctuary, for I holdUndying Faith, enshrined in golden hair.
JUST now the Mother left me, and I standHolding her trove, a sheaf of shining curl—All that is left of “Once a little girl,”Alive and warm and glowing in my hand.Like to a Seer gazing into space,I muse upon this silken treasure, whereThe coiled lights quicken, and I see the fairWoman-ward leaning of a childish face.I see that face gaze down the crowded years,Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stirTo find the deep maternal heart of Her,Who gazes back all undeterred by tears.I see the child eyes give their radiant speechOnce more to mother-eyes that never failed;I see a heart that never yet has quailedAnswer those eyes over the long years’ reach....The Winter sun goes down; quick chills the airOutside my window.... While the West grows old,I stand in Sanctuary, for I holdUndying Faith, enshrined in golden hair.
JUST now the Mother left me, and I standHolding her trove, a sheaf of shining curl—All that is left of “Once a little girl,”Alive and warm and glowing in my hand.
Like to a Seer gazing into space,I muse upon this silken treasure, whereThe coiled lights quicken, and I see the fairWoman-ward leaning of a childish face.
I see that face gaze down the crowded years,Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stirTo find the deep maternal heart of Her,Who gazes back all undeterred by tears.
I see the child eyes give their radiant speechOnce more to mother-eyes that never failed;I see a heart that never yet has quailedAnswer those eyes over the long years’ reach....
The Winter sun goes down; quick chills the airOutside my window.... While the West grows old,I stand in Sanctuary, for I holdUndying Faith, enshrined in golden hair.
ISHOULD like to be very lonely indeed—Much lonelier than I am;With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed,And simplicity like the sun, and no other needBut to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.And then I should like to think such silent things,As only the flowers think;I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine,And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine,As a flower floats over a brink.I should like to be very lonely indeed—So the world would draw around me,Like a green cave flower lit, echo and shadow keyed,With a door that to naught but a path of clouds would lead,Or the bed in a blossoming tree.And then I would pipe my thoughts so shyly out,And watch them dance, dryad dressed;I would talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout;I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out,And bathe in the Sea of the West!
ISHOULD like to be very lonely indeed—Much lonelier than I am;With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed,And simplicity like the sun, and no other needBut to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.And then I should like to think such silent things,As only the flowers think;I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine,And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine,As a flower floats over a brink.I should like to be very lonely indeed—So the world would draw around me,Like a green cave flower lit, echo and shadow keyed,With a door that to naught but a path of clouds would lead,Or the bed in a blossoming tree.And then I would pipe my thoughts so shyly out,And watch them dance, dryad dressed;I would talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout;I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out,And bathe in the Sea of the West!
ISHOULD like to be very lonely indeed—Much lonelier than I am;With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed,And simplicity like the sun, and no other needBut to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.
And then I should like to think such silent things,As only the flowers think;I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine,And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine,As a flower floats over a brink.
I should like to be very lonely indeed—So the world would draw around me,Like a green cave flower lit, echo and shadow keyed,With a door that to naught but a path of clouds would lead,Or the bed in a blossoming tree.
And then I would pipe my thoughts so shyly out,And watch them dance, dryad dressed;I would talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout;I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out,And bathe in the Sea of the West!