O ye million hungerers and ye sun-rays Ye are the many mothers of this invisible G.o.d, This Earth"s star and sun that rises singing and toiling among you, This that is I, in joy, in the garden, Singing to you, ye morning-glories, Calling to you, ye swinging spears of the larkspur.
Patterns. [Amy Lowell]
I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my pa.s.sion Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please.
And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon -- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.
Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se"nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one.
I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked, Up and down.
In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat.
He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go Up and down In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each b.u.t.ton, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?
Richard Cory. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]
Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, -- And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Of One Self-Slain. [Charles Hanson Towne]
When he went blundering back to G.o.d, His songs half written, his work half done, Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod, What hills of peace or pain he won?
I hope G.o.d smiled and took his hand, And said, "Poor truant, pa.s.sionate fool!
Life"s book is hard to understand: Why couldst thou not remain at school?"
The Silent Folk. [Charles Wharton Stork]
Oh, praise me not the silent folk; To me they only seem Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak And m.u.f.fled, frozen stream.
I want the leaves to talk and tell The joy that"s in the tree, And water-nymphs to weave a spell Of pixie melody.
Your silent folk may be sincere, But still, when all is said, We have to grant they"re rather drear, -- And maybe, too, they"re dead.