WHAT GRANDPA MOUSE SAID
"The moon"s a holy owl-queen: She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till evening, Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us: They hoot with horrid noise And eat the naughty mousie-girls And wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moon-vine every night And to the owl-queen pray: Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees For her to take away.
And never squeak, my children, Nor gnaw the smoke-house door.
The owl-queen then will then love us And send her birds no more."
At the end I asked for my room and retired. I slept maybe an hour. I was awakened by those tireless little rascals racing along the dark hall and saying in horrible solemn tones, pretending to scare one another:
"The moon"s a holy owl-queen: She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till night, Then "allies out to war!
She sicks the owls upon us, They "OOT with "orrid noise And eat ... the naughty boys, And the MOON"S A HOLY OWL-QUEEN!
SHE KEEPS THEM IN A JAR!"
And so it went on, over and over.
Thereupon I made a mighty and a rash resolve. I renewed that same resolve in the morning when I woke. I said within myself "_I shall write one hundred Poems on the Moon!_"
Of course I did not keep my resolve to write one hundred pieces about the moon. But here are a few of those I did write immediately after:
THE FLUTE OF THE LONELY
[To the tune of Gaily the Troubadour.]
Faintly the ne"er-do-well Breathed through his flute: All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute.
In their neat doorways sat, Labors all done, Helpless, relaxed, o"er-wrought, Evening begun.
None of them there beguiled Work-thoughts away, Like to this reckless, wild Loafer by day.
(Weeds in his flowers upgrown!
Fences awry!
Rubbish and bottles heaped!
Yard like a sty!)
There in his lonely door, Leering and lean, Staggering, liquor-stained, Outlawed, obscene---- Played he his moonlight thought, Mastered his flute.
All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute.
None but he, in that block, Knew such a tune.
All loved the strain, and all _Looked at the moon!_
THE SHIELD OF FAITH
The full moon is the Shield of Faith, And when it hangs on high Another shield seems on my arm The hard world to defy.
Yea, when the moon has knighted me, Then every poisoned dart Of daytime memory turns away From my dream-armored heart.
The full moon is the Shield of Faith: As long as it shall rise, I know that Mystery comes again, That Wonder never dies.
I know that Shadow has its place, That Noon is not our goal, That Heaven has non-official hours To soothe and mend the soul;
That witchcraft can be angel-craft And wizard deeds sublime; That utmost darkness bears a flower, Though long the budding-time.
THE ROSE OF MIDNIGHT
[What the Gardener"s Daughter Said]
The moon is now an opening flower, The sky a cliff of blue.
The moon is now a silver rose; Her pollen is the dew.
Her pollen is the mist that swings Across her face of dreams: Her pollen is the faint cold light That through the garden streams.
All earth is but a pa.s.sion-flower With blood upon his crown.
And what shall fill his failing veins And lift his head, bowed down?
This cup of peace, this silver rose Bending with fairy breath Shall lift that pa.s.sion-flower, the earth, A million times from Death!
THE PATH IN THE SKY
I sailed a little shallop Upon a pretty sea In blue and hazy mountains, Scarce mountains unto me; Their summits lost in wonder, They wrapped the lake around, And when my shallop landed I trod on a vague ground,
And climbed and climbed toward heaven, Though scarce before my feet I found one step unveiled there The blue-haze vast, complete, Until I came to Zion The gravel paths of G.o.d: My endless trail pierced the thick veil To flaming flowers and sod.
I rested, looked behind me And saw where I had been.
_My little lake. It was the moon._ Sky-mountains closed it in.
PROCLAMATIONS
_Immediately upon my return from my journey the following Proclamations were printed in Farm and Fireside, through the great kindness of the editors, as another phase of the same crusade._
A PROCLAMATION OF BALM IN GILEAD
Go to the fields, O city laborers, till your wounds are healed. Forget the street-cars, the skysc.r.a.pers, the slums, the Ma.r.s.eillaise song.
We proclaim to the broken-hearted, still able to labor, the glories of the ploughed land. The harvests are wonderful. And there is a spiritual harvest appearing. A great agricultural flowering of art and song is destined soon to appear. Where corn and wheat are growing, men are singing the psalms of David, not the Ma.r.s.eillaise.
You to whom the universe has become a blast-furnace, a c.o.ke-oven, a cinder-strewn freight-yard, to whom the history of all ages is a tragedy with the climax now, to whom our democracy and our flag are but playthings of the hypocrite,--turn to the soil, turn to the earth, your mother, and she will comfort you. Rest, be it ever so little, from your black broodings. Think with the farmer once more, as your fathers did. Revere with the farmer our centuries-old civilization, however little it meets the city"s trouble.
Revere the rural customs that have their roots in the immemorial benefits of nature.
With the farmer look again upon the Const.i.tution as something brought by Providence, prepared for by the ages. Go to church, the cross-roads church, and say the Lord"s Prayer again. Help them with their temperance crusade. It is a deeper matter than you think. Listen to the laughter of the farmer"s children. Know that not all the earth is a-weeping.
Know that so long as there is black soil deep on the prairie, so long as gra.s.s will grow on it, we have a vast green haven.
The roots of some of our trees are still in the earth. Our mountains need not to be moved from their places. Wherever there is tillable land, there is a budding and blooming of old-fashioned Americanism, which the farmer is making splendid for us against the better day.