Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here....
Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns And the tremendous Amaranth descends Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?
Does it not mean my G.o.d would have me say:-- "Whether you will or no, O city young, Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?"
Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.
Such things I see, and some of them shall come Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray, Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.
Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise.
Naught can delay it. Though it may not be Just as I dream, it comes at last I know With streets like channels of an incense-sea.
The Alchemist"s Pet.i.tion
Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep Like a white statue dropped into the deep, Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold, And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold.
But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in h.e.l.l My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth-- In such unquenched desires consumed his youth-- Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall, Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall-- Amen.
Two Easter Stanzas
I
The Hope of the Resurrection
Though I have watched so many mourners weep O"er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep-- Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days That pa.s.sed and left me in the sun"s bright rays.
Now though you go on smiling in the sun Our love is slain, and love and you were one.
You are the first, you I have known so long, Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong.
Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right Amid the lilies and the candle-light.
I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear We two may meet, confused and parted here.
Ah, when man"s dearest dies, "tis then he goes To that old balm that heals the centuries" woes.
Then Christ"s wild cry in all the streets is rife:-- "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
II
We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not
Though better men may fear that trumpet"s warning, I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, With golden hope my spirit still adorning.
Our G.o.d who made you all so fair and sweet Is three times gentle, and before his feet Rejoicing I shall say:--"The girl you gave Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save.
Oh, G.o.d, her maker, if my ingrate breath Is worth this rescue from the Second Death, Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too That scorned my graceless years and trophies few.
Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned.
We now as comrades through the stars may take The rich and arduous quests I did forsake.
Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng And quickly find that woman-soul so strong.
I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart, A brooding secret mercy like your own That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne.
The Traveller-heart
(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment)
I would be one with the dark, dark earth:-- Follow the plough with a yokel tread.
I would be part of the Indian corn, Walking the rows with the plumes o"erhead.
I would be one with the lavish earth, Eating the bee-stung apples red: Walking where lambs walk on the hills; By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.
I would be one with the dark-bright night When sparkling skies and the lightning wed-- Walking on with the vicious wind By roads whence even the dogs have fled.
I would be one with the sacred earth On to the end, till I sleep with the dead.
Terror shall put no spears through me.
Peace shall jewel my shroud instead.
I shall be one with all pit-black things Finding their lowering threat unsaid: Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,-- Oak-roots arching about my head!
Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, Acorns fall round my breast that bled.
Children shall weave there a flowery chain, Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:--
Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: Sweet with the life of my sunburned days When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.
The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith"s Son
The North Star whispers: "You are one Of those whose course no chance can change.
You blunder, but are not undone, Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.
"When here you walk, a bloodless shade, A singer all men else forget.
Your chants of hammer, forge and spade Will move the prairie-village yet.
"That young, stiff-necked, reviling town Beholds your fancies on her walls, And paints them out or tears them down, Or bars them from her feasting-halls.