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 GODS AND DEVILS 
 
 By 
 
 JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 
 
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 COKiRIGHT DEPOStR 
 
GODS AND DEVILS 
 
GODS AND DEVILS 
 
 By 
 
 JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 
 
 \ «N 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JAMES T. WHITE & COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
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 COPYRICHTID 19t8 BY 
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CONTENTS 
 
 GODS AND DEVILS 7 
 
 THE WAY OF A MAID 8 
 
 THE TREES ARE DEAD II 
 
 THE DANCER IN THE WOOD I3 
 
 THE STILL TREES '..15 
 
 \ SPRING 16 
 
 THERE IS NO MESSAGE I7 
 
 SO COME, MY FRIEND ! 18 
 
 SYCAMORES 19 
 
 TO A WORM 20 
 
 A BALLAD OF GODS 21 
 
 WE WHO CAN DREAM NO ANGELS 2$ 
 
 FOR A BUNNY 27 
 
 AN ANCIENT TERROR 29 
 
 PRAYER 32 
 
 SATISFACTION 33 
 
 RECIPROCITY 34 
 
 TO THE NAZARENE 35 
 
 TO A CHRISTIAN 37 
 
 THE DEAD MAN 39 
 
CONTENTS— Con/i/m^i 
 
 TO HELL-AND-HEAVEN BUILDERS 41 
 
 GODLINESS 42 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING 43 
 
 we've gone AND DONE IT 44 
 
 ARGUMENT 45 
 
 WHEN THE NIGHT IS VERY LONG \^ 
 
 THE NEW GOLGOTHA 4^ 
 
GODS AND DEVILS 
 
THE WAY OF A MAID 
 
 The soul-stuff that is God and hope 
 And song and all strange hidden things, — 
 Is one <v)ith creeping-things that grope, 
 And one ivith birds on fairy swings. 
 
 The soul-stuff — that is dream and song-— 
 Diuells in no certain biding-place ; 
 Where great Orion strides along 
 It is, and in the deivy face 
 
 Of violets, and in the grim 
 Heart of the mountain peak it lies — 
 This soul-stuff that is one ivith Him, 
 And His created thing that dies. 
 
 And when the soul-stuff would he gay, 
 It fashions for its mood a rose, 
 And through the glories of a day 
 With beauty for a gown it goes. 
 
 Or when the soul-stuff would be proud. 
 And grand and awful in its pride. 
 It builds a mountain crowned with cloud 
 With forests growing on its side. 
 
 8 
 
And 'when 'tiuould preach a homily 
 
 Of ivisdom for small men to hear 
 
 {tVe little men ivho cannot see!) 
 
 It broods and speaks through some great seer. 
 
 But ivhen the soul-stuff, iveary grown 
 Of paltry things, ivould have delight — 
 JVould have at once a heart of stone 
 And youth, desire and beauty bright — 
 
 JVould be beloved and hated too. 
 
 Be fickle, siveet and unafraid — 
 
 It smiles and sings quite happy through 
 
 The bright eyes of a maid. 
 
T 
 
 THE TREES ARE DEAD 
 
 HE trees are dead, you say, but they will live. 
 
 green, 
 
 They will break forth in wondrous silver and 
 Laughter and tremulous song, when April woos 
 With wine. The trees are dead, but they will live. 
 
 You say: And thus we too shall be a space 
 Silent and seeming dead, and shall come forth 
 At the Great Call with laughter like a song. 
 
 And you believe your tale with a deep joy. 
 
 But here among the trees, that will give laughing 
 Answer to April, stands a haggard oak, 
 Riven by lightning, broken and rotted and dead. 
 Here are no buds to answer the warm kiss 
 Of April's tempting sun; no perfumed wine 
 Will fill the veins there underneath the bark, 
 When winter flees before the hosts of spring. 
 
 Here's death — as you shall know it; yes and I. 
 Here's very death — and not his brother, sleep. 
 
 Must we have comfort, now your tale is proven 
 A snare? Must we seek hope once more among 
 The trees, that sleep and wake again? or die 
 And rot, and mix with the Great Mother? 
 
 11 
 
Yet there — Or am I weaving, too, a snare, 
 Out of the strands of hope? — yet there, perhaps, 
 In that strange mixing with the Mother of All, 
 The answer lies: that we must look for life 
 Hereafter, not by one and one, — your soul 
 Alone among the souls of other men. 
 Drifting and staying, a thing apart forever — 
 But we must see, when all at last is counted 
 And the great sum is made, how one by one 
 We have returned to Her, the Mother of All — 
 The bit of soul-stufT that She loaned to us. 
 
 For we must live at last a part of Her — 
 For we shall be forever as one with Her. 
 
 12 
 
THE DANCER IN THE WOOD 
 
 To E. L. 
 
 NO song of nymph within the laughing dell, 
 No dance of naiad by the wooded lake; 
 All graceful sprites, that in the forest dwell 
 Or in the fancy their free wooing make, 
 Are faded on the wind, and their soft spell 
 
 Dreams into silence, with the words they spake. 
 
 Yet when Apollo — envious red was he — 
 
 Beat his reluctant wings against the west, 
 
 Within a wood that whispers of the sea, 
 
 I saw three maples bend to make a nest; 
 
 And, on a sudden, blithe and merrily. 
 
 Like Dancing April came their maiden guest. 
 
 Her raiment was a windspun woof of spray 
 That covered her with kisses for a veil; 
 Her dancing lilted like a lyric lay 
 
 Of a wild young poet, singing a lover's tale; 
 And her two feet, that trod the fragrant way. 
 
 Kept time with hearts that know not how to 
 fail- 
 is 
 
Kept time with lovers' hearts, for she was young 
 And had come forth to dance the dance of spring- 
 
 And when her body's anthem had been sung, 
 Wordless and sweet, as kisses on the wing, 
 
 She fled.— Like chimes that have been rung 
 The maples trembled at so fair a thing. 
 
 14 
 
THE STILL TREES 
 
 I THANK you, Elm and Beech and all my friends 
 That live so wisely on the happy hills, 
 I thank you for your silence. Even a friend — 
 Especially a friend — must have his moods, 
 His long still days of dreaming silence, spent 
 In strange communion with his soul and God. 
 And you, my friends, have chosen for your silence 
 The slow lean months of winter. All the burdens 
 And all the joys of this embattled earth 
 You dare forget, so that your soul and God 
 May have their hour of studious solitude. 
 So I, O friends, who walk among you now, 
 Go searching inward to the soul in me, 
 And bend my dreams unto the God we know. 
 I thank you. Elm and Beech and all my friends 
 That live so wisely on the happy hills. 
 
 15 
 
SPRING 
 
 A THOUSAND little slimy things 
 'Are praising God with me. 
 They go chipping and chirping about their pond, 
 Little smooth jigglers and wigglers that only a 
 
 child could touch; 
 And every ecstatic wiggle is a "Hail Mary!" 
 And the chips and chirps are a squeaky "Amen 
 chorus." 
 
 These happy little devils know what they are 
 
 wiggling about, 
 And chipping and chirping about. 
 Just as well as I know why I stand on the mountain 
 
 top and shout. 
 Very likely, one of these days. 
 They and I will do a little cursing together; 
 But now, in the spring, we are praising, praising; 
 A thousand little slimy things 
 Are praising God with me. 
 
 16 
 
THERE IS NO MESSAGE 
 
 THERE is no message in the barren sky, 
 No strange hand-writing in some starry code 
 I might discover with my poesy. 
 
 For I have watched Arcturus through his course; 
 
 Orion I have followed like a hound 
 
 Eager for crumbs. The clustered Pleiades, 
 
 The cold white fires of Aldebaran, 
 
 Have answered all my queries with a stare. 
 
 The limbo of dead stars is black and cold. 
 There is no message in the barren sky. 
 
 17 
 
so COME, MY FRIEND! 
 
 TTJITH silence and the hill and one gaunt tree, 
 
 «' ^ And light like music from the reigning moon, 
 Filling the eyes with visions calm and old, 
 And whispering silent symphony to the ears. 
 
 Prophetic of strange aeons still and cold, 
 How can I hold my little earthly fears? 
 
 Here very death comes masking as a boon, 
 And hears my welcome as he welcomes me. 
 For here with silence and the strange sweet light 
 There is the slow heave of immensity — 
 Its vast pure song, that surges without end, 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 Now my soul 
 Stirs, singing, in me, to the lilt. So, friend, 
 Friend Death, come lead me to the timeless goal! 
 This night I am yours without your alchemy; 
 I am at one with death and song, this night. 
 
 18 
 
SYCAMORES 
 
 GHOSTS— 
 High, eerie ghosts with a hundred arms, 
 Beckoning — warning away, 
 Whispering — hissing; 
 High, eerie ghosts of old dead rivers, 
 Little slim ghosts of young dead creeks. 
 
 19 
 
TO A WORM 
 
 DO you know you are green, little worm, 
 Like the leaf you feed on? 
 Perhaps it is on account of the birds, who would like 
 
 to eat you. 
 But is there any reason why they shouldn't eat you, 
 little worm? 
 
 Do you know you are comical, little worm? 
 How you double yourself up and wave your head, 
 And then stretch-out and double-up again, 
 All after a little food! 
 
 Do you know you have a long, strange name, little 
 
 worm? 
 I will not tell you what it is. 
 That is for men of learning. 
 
 You — and God — do not care about such things. 
 You would wave about and double-up just as much, 
 
 and be just as futile, with it as without it. 
 Why do you crawl about on the top of that post, 
 
 little worm? 
 It should have been a tree, eh? with green leaves 
 
 for eating. 
 But it isn't, and you have crawled about it all day, 
 looking for a new brown branch, or a green leaf. 
 Do you know anything about tears, little worm? 
 
 20 
 
A BALLAD OF GODS 
 
 COME, let us make us a god! 
 The old gods are dead. 
 The new gods are weak and pale 
 Like children fed on pastry. 
 
 Out upon these little gods! — 
 
 Passion? 
 
 Show me the god who can urge a man to shed so 
 
 much as a thimble-full of blood, 
 I will bow down to him like a helot. 
 Love? 
 What god among all these gods can tear a woman 
 
 from her mate? 
 Terror? 
 
 There's not a god in the sickly, typewritten category- 
 Can keep one small boy away from the movies. 
 Out upon these little gods! 
 They were great enough in their day, 
 These dead and dying gods. 
 
 Amenalk, Merodach, Vishnu, Brahmin, Osiris — 
 Ah! but they were splendid gods in their day. 
 
 Osiris, dread judge of the dead; 
 
 How the old Eg3^ptian quivered at his name! 
 
 21 
 
Jehovah the vengeful, god of the Jews; 
 
 A mighty deity. 
 
 For him cities and cities burned, 
 
 And for every fallen city a thousand murdered 
 
 women, 
 A thousand strong young slaves — 
 Jehovah not yet quite dead, 
 
 For whom tobacco in dirty pipes burns as incense, 
 Whose call for blood and vengeance is answered 
 By the rythmic swaying of unkempt backs in shoddy 
 
 coats. 
 
 Dionysos, of the strange wild orgies? 
 Dead, but left rotting above ground — 
 Beer, without even hops, for the triumphant urge 
 
 of wine. 
 Harridans, leering and painted and corked, 
 Begging for a dollar and a bad quarter of an hour, 
 Hags with loose knees and seven ounces of brain. 
 Or fat, flabby trollops with whiskey tears, 
 These — 
 
 For the slim snow-breasted virgins 
 Daring to struggle and daring to yield, 
 In the tense wild orgies 
 When Dionysos was young. 
 
 22 
 
Odin, the virile, 
 
 God of the northern forests; 
 
 Black-draped bearded druids with gleaming knives, 
 
 Shag headed, wizard-eyed, under the sinister stars, 
 
 Chanting to the sacred, gloomy oak; 
 
 Silence in the silvan temple, 
 
 A white form amid the black, 
 
 A sweet, terrible cry — 
 
 Odin, the virile, is appeased. 
 
 But now — 
 
 The druid priests have grown up into thistles. 
 
 The sacred oak is planking 
 
 In a bridge over a sewage-river. 
 
 And Odin is four little black letters in a book. 
 
 Cold, cold, cold — 
 
 And all the red religious frenzy 
 
 Frozen into ethics, economics, whatnots. 
 
 The new gods are weak and pale, 
 Like children fed on pastry; 
 The old gods are dead. 
 Come, let us make us a god! 
 
 Come, let us build us a god beyond all the gods 
 of the earth, 
 
 23 
 
Huge — 
 
 Broad as the east and the west of the universe, 
 
 Tall as the meeting of parallel lines, 
 
 With eyes as deep and sad as infinity, 
 
 With hair like the trailing locks of innumerable 
 
 comets spun on the wheel of eternity, 
 With sinews tempered in the fires of numberless 
 
 suns, 
 With Hertzian waves, for nerves between star and 
 
 star. 
 And radium brain. 
 
 And then, perchance, as the aeons crumble the earth, 
 The God, that man can neither build nor dream. 
 Will turn a little toward our puny race, 
 And smile. 
 
 24 
 
WE WHO CAN DREAM NO ANGELS 
 
 WE who can dream no angels sweet and white, 
 Living forever in a strange heavenly peace, 
 What shall we hold in our hearts, when the little 
 
 light 
 Of our little dark souls shall flutter a moment, and 
 
 cease? 
 
 We, who must bury our own beloved dead, 
 And dare not hope to see them again for ever. 
 How shall we lighten our hearts, when they fall 
 
 like lead 
 In our own love's leaden coffin to rise up never? 
 
 Come, let us listen, we of the little dreams, 
 
 To the trumpet-voice of the wind on the wooded 
 
 hills, 
 To the whispering voice of the wind where it woos 
 
 the streams, 
 To the thundering roar of the tempest that blinds 
 
 and kills! 
 
 Come, let us look again on the red of the rose! 
 Let us see without terror the mighty eyes of the sky! 
 Let us watch the sun when he scatters the winter's 
 
 snows, 
 And pity the moon who tries so hard to die! 
 
 25 
 
We, who can dream no angels — we will know 
 
 How proud a thing it is to be a rose; 
 
 How grand and awful a gift it is to go 
 
 A whispering prophet, where the free wind goes. 
 
 We, who can dream no angels — though we feel 
 
 The burdened littleness of sentient things, 
 
 The unreality of what seems real. 
 
 The lagging of tired feet and the drooping of wings, 
 
 Yet, perhaps, as we pity the dying moon, 
 
 Our souls shall loose their fetters and know their 
 
 kin; 
 Shall laugh — shall be one with the soul of the dying 
 
 moon, 
 And welcome the wraith of the wind, and bid him 
 
 come in. 
 
 Maybe the soul of our love that we buried deep 
 Shall be one with ours, and be parted from us never; 
 And we shall know the secret the still winds keep — 
 Our soul and the soul of the world at one forever. 
 
 26 
 
FOR A BUNNY 
 
 YOU had a good start, little cottontail, 
 And would have made it, except for a single 
 
 shot 
 That broke the bone in that hind leg of yours. 
 Then I came running, throwing my gun aside. 
 You hardly moved, and didn't even squeal, 
 But only looked at me with your round eyes— 
 A little fearful, but surely more of hope 
 Than fear was in them. Well! you had been hurt. 
 And here was a big wise-looking chap who smiled— 
 So very big and wise that he might help. 
 And so you hoped, and with your eyes you prayed. 
 
 You were still praying with your great brown eyes. 
 
 When I, the big wise fellow, finished you 
 
 With one quick stroke. 
 
 Of course you couldn't see— 
 
 Nor pray— but after that my smile was just 
 As cheerful as ever and happy over it all. 
 
 I prayed one day too, little cottontail. 
 To a big wise fellow I couldn't see so well, 
 But who was smiling and seemed big enough 
 To do most anything a person asked; 
 
 27 
 
and just as I was praying and hoping best, 
 And just as I was praying and hoping best, 
 There came a sudden blow that I could not see: 
 The prayer was broken and the hope was dead. 
 
 The big wise-looking fellow was still there, 
 And still was smiling — through the sun, you know; 
 I think he was even singing, through the birds, 
 And making merry by the merry streams. 
 
 Well, you are out of it, little cottontail, 
 And wiser now than I. 
 
 And I believe, 
 It very likely you are part of him. 
 The big wise fellow I was speaking of; 
 And you are smiling with the smiling sun, 
 You know that I'll be coming shortly, too. 
 And you'll be meeting me right cheerily. 
 And mixing with me without hope or fear. 
 Then we shall laugh together through the sun, 
 And sing together through the singing birds, 
 And dance together by the dancing streams. 
 And, being part of the great wise fellow then. 
 We'll understand this smiling at a prayer. 
 
 28 
 
AN ANCIENT TERROR 
 
 WHY does my dog howl 
 When the church bells ring? 
 Is there an , ancient terror 
 Feeding on his blood? 
 
 For sometimes when he howls, 
 
 I see a thing which straightens my hair, 
 
 And freezes my blood, and palsies my flesh. 
 
 I see a break, a windfall, in a great wood- 
 Snow lying deep and snow driven before the wmd; 
 A shaken hut against an oak, 
 With a fire burning, burning, 
 
 Before it. 
 
 I see a creature, like a man. 
 
 With great shoulders and protruding jaw. 
 
 Gripping a club in his hands. 
 
 Standing by the f^re; 
 
 And at either side two smaller figures 
 
 Armed too with clubs. 
 
 Out from the fire, 
 
 Fringing the edge of the windfall. 
 
 Row upon row in widening circles of gleaming disks. 
 
 In twos, in twos, and twos 
 
 Eyes, lurid, in dark heads. 
 
 Glaring against the driving snow. 
 
 29 
 
The fire burns low. 
 
 There is no more wood, except beyond those gleam- 
 ing disks. 
 
 Here and there a pair of eyes 
 
 Moves inward, slowly, from the rest. 
 
 The circle narrows. 
 
 Half the windfall fills with eyes — 
 
 In twos, in twos — 
 
 A dozen feet from the dying fire the line holds. 
 
 The flap of the hut flutters 
 
 And a tiny form slips through; 
 
 A shriek from the hut 
 
 And a lithe tall creature leaps through the mouth 
 
 After the tiny form — 
 
 Then 
 
 The snapping of a myriad jaws, 
 
 The leaping of a myriad shaggy things 
 
 Like a wave of hot flesh and blood, 
 
 With disks of fire for foam — 
 
 And snarls and snapping and shrieks and the crack- 
 ing of bones. 
 
 Flash, now, on the instant 
 Out of the night sky, 
 Blinding, terrifying, enduring — 
 Silence, silence, in the terrible light; 
 Jaws that are closed on flesh droop low, 
 
 30 
 
Tongues that were lapping blood hang dead, 
 
 Eyes that gleamed are fixed and dull. 
 
 And slow, from beyond the blinding glare, 
 
 Comes the tolling of strange bells. 
 
 One by one, reluctant, dazed, 
 
 The lean forms slink away 
 
 Out of the glare, into the sheltering wood. 
 
 And here and there one stops and howls to heaven. 
 
 31 
 
PRAYER 
 
 HOME I wandered through the moonlight 
 From my little love's abode; 
 Drooped a shadow from an elm-tree, 
 
 Drooped a shadow on the road; 
 And the shadow caught my fancy 
 As right thoughtfully I strode. 
 
 Caught a deeper, leaden fancy 
 
 In some chamber of my soul. 
 And I followed where it led me, 
 
 To a strangely solemn goal — 
 To a sepulture of marble 
 
 Bearing forth an ebon scroll; 
 
 For the shadow in the moonlight 
 
 Seemed the sweet form of a maid, 
 
 Lying like a wraith in slumber 
 In some mystic, sacred shade. 
 
 Vague and far my love's face floated — 
 And I knelt me down and prayed. 
 
 32 
 
SATISFACTION 
 
 HOW could any god be happy 
 With only one hell? 
 Why even a dog has different teeth 
 To crush this flea, or that flea. 
 
 33 
 
RECIPROCITY 
 
 ^O you mind, brother, 
 That I laugh 
 At the little god 
 You have made you? 
 I too have a little pretentious god; 
 And you may laugh at it. 
 
 34 
 
TO THE NAZARENE 
 
 BORN of a hardy love 
 Stronger than laws of men, 
 Born as the outcasts are 
 World-over, in hovel or den, 
 Pariah-like you wandered, 
 Genius-like you dared; 
 Soul like a sword of fire 
 Searing a path, you fared. 
 
 Yet you were always humble, 
 Kin to king and clod; 
 Dreamed but to be a teacher; 
 Lo! we made you a god — 
 
 Made you a god and crowned you, 
 Gave you a sceptre and throne, 
 Seated you high in the heavens, 
 Sinister, subtle, lone- 
 Made you the great law-giver, 
 Wrote you the laws to give, 
 Wrote them in flaming crimson: 
 Death, that they might live! 
 
 Yet you were always humble. 
 Kin to king and clod; 
 Dreamed but to be a teacher: 
 Lo! we made you a god. 
 
 35 
 
Made you a god, and placed you 
 High in the hidden air; 
 Gave you a strange handmaiden, 
 Lecherous, treacherous, fair — 
 Ah! she is fair and sightly, 
 Uberous — witness her brood! — 
 Fair and sightly and splendid, 
 Painted and jeweled and lewd. 
 
 Yet you were always humble, 
 Kin to king and clod; 
 Dreamed but to be a teacher: 
 Lo! we made you a god. 
 
 How, in the throes eternal. 
 Death is as sure as birth! 
 Gods and godhoods totter — 
 Man-made, man-slain — to earth. 
 Now, re-awakened, renewed, 
 We, that built you a throne, 
 Shatter the pillars beneath you, 
 Welcome you back to your own! 
 
 Free of your lewd handmaiden, 
 Shorn of the throne you hate, 
 Jesus of Nazareth — teach us! 
 Humbled at last, we wait. 
 
 26 
 
TO A CHRISTIAN 
 
 WHAT sort of god have you bound hand and 
 foot, 
 And chained with chains in those four gloomy walls? 
 I have forgotten. You told me long ago 
 Some terrible wild tales of this chained god, 
 And some sweet tales of his apostate son. 
 I have forgotten. Yet it seems quite sure 
 You never could have bound the apostate son, 
 Of whom you told me such strange smiling tales — 
 And weeping tales — nor could you chain him fast 
 In those four walls in all the 3'^ears to come. 
 It seems quite certain you never bound the son. 
 
 — And yet you have a god there when you pray- 
 
 He must be old and bitter now with hate, 
 
 With hate of all things new and young and fair, 
 
 With hate of all things strong and free — this god 
 
 Whom you have chained within four sullen walls. 
 
 How he would tear your temples asunder, and break 
 
 Your futile chains, and scatter with lightning sword 
 
 And terrible enemies your phalanxes 
 
 Of precedence and dogma, were he young 
 
 And virile as of old, before decay 
 
 Brought him to dread surrender and your chains. 
 
 — He must be old and bitter now with hate. 
 
 37 
 
Come, you are young, and have the world to win. 
 Come, loose your old god from his clinging chains, 
 And burn the gaol and let him free to choose. 
 
 Mayhap he will go forth with you and me, 
 Limping and falling where we walk and run. 
 But seeking, too, the god who grows not old. 
 
 1 
 
 We three — what odd mismating — shall go forth 
 And find the winds — and find the voice of God; 
 And know the hills — and know the thoughts of God; 
 And see the flowers — and see the eyes of God; 
 And breathe the spring — and know the heart of God. 
 
 38 
 
THE DEAD MAN 
 
 I AM not so dead as you wish, Henry, the king, 
 I am not so dead as you think, Gallo, the knifer. 
 I am not so dead as you dream, Mary, my love. 
 
 For, Henry, the king, my whisperings live 
 
 And grow — and grow — and grow; 
 
 Ten thousand men are whispering now for me. 
 
 Their whispering shall become 
 
 A murmuring, a muttering, a rumble, a roar, 
 
 Deafening, deadening. 
 
 You shall think of me, Henry, the king, when they 
 
 lead you down from the throne. 
 And that last minute, before the knife falls. 
 That minute shall be mine. 
 
 You, Gallo, the knifer — 
 
 Drunken o' nights with that slit-eyed woman, 
 Deeming me dead and handily shoved into hell. 
 What, when the bed reels. 
 And the walls labor and bring forth snakes — 
 Incest of whiskey and gin — 
 What will you know of me in hell, 
 When you see my face at the window? 
 Even when I turn away, there will be that knife-hole 
 in my back, 
 
 39 
 
Red as the tongues of snakes. 
 
 Drink deep with your slit-eyed wench, 
 
 Gallo, the knifer! 
 
 Mary, my love — 
 
 That one night, there in the orchard, was all, I 
 
 know — 
 Was all for us; but there will be om, we know. 
 And I, through him, will look in your eyes again; 
 And you, through him, will kiss me again to sleep — 
 And soothe him with songs that only the orchard 
 
 knows — 
 And pillow his head as mine at your mother-breast, 
 Mary, my love. 
 
 40 
 
TO THE HELL-AND-HEAVEN BUILDERS 
 
 HO! little souls, 
 That have not pain enough, 
 That have not room enough for pain. 
 But you must dream you out another world, 
 And fill it up with torments, as a box is filled with 
 
 little bitter pills, 
 And call it, Hell- 
 God pity you! 
 For you can never know 
 The splendid rending anguish of the soul, 
 That dares to say, "No more!"— 
 God pity you! 
 And let you have your little packet-hell. 
 
 Ho! little souls, 
 That have not joy enough, 
 That have not room enough for joy. 
 But you must dream you out another world, 
 Packt full of pleasures, as a box is packt with sweets. 
 And call it heaven — 
 God pity you! 
 For you can never feel 
 The high triumphant glory of the soul- 
 Daring the lonely hazard. 
 When it meets 
 
 41 
 
Its own strange mate upon its own dim star 
 
 Betwixt Orion and the Pleiades — 
 
 God pity you, 
 
 And let you have your little candy-heaven! 
 
 I 
 
 GODLINESS 
 
 KNOW a man who says 
 That he gets godliness out of a book. 
 
 He told me this as we sought arbutus 
 
 On the April hills — 
 
 Little color-poems of God 
 
 Lilted to us from the ground, 
 
 Lyric blues and whites and pinks. 
 
 We climbed great rocks. 
 
 Eternally chanting their grey elegies, 
 
 And all about, the cadenced hills 
 
 Were proud 
 
 With the stately green epic of the Almighty. 
 
 And then we walked home under the stars, 
 While he kept telling me about his book, 
 And the godliness in it. 
 
 42 
 
SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 I HAVE come out here into the woods, 
 Because there are hob-nails in my shoes 
 And because the people I saw in the town back 
 
 there were so spick and span — 
 Even the rosy little tot with his wide, white collar, 
 And because there are so many churches in the town. 
 
 I have come out here into the woods. 
 
 The great oak is not spic and span, 
 And the little oak does not wear a wide, white 
 And the little oak does not wear a wide, white collar; 
 And none of us. 
 
 Not the stone, 
 
 Nor the wood-mouse, 
 
 Nor I, 
 Wrangles over the meaning of printer's ink in heavy 
 
 books. 
 
 43 
 
 > > 
 
WE'VE GONE AND DONE IT 
 
 THE preacher prays, directing the Almighty 
 To bless his congregation and certain others. 
 And every little minister one hears 
 Is very definite concerning God, 
 With sound and sensible knowledge about what 
 God likes, and dislikes laity to do. 
 
 And all the little solemn kings and queens 
 
 Take turns in finding chores for God to do; 
 
 And every beggar begging by the road 
 
 Has a, "God damn you!" or, "God bless you. sirl" 
 
 According to the moment's mood. You know 
 
 How every chiming poet sings of God, 
 
 In every little rhyme he tries to write, 
 
 And mixes God with cities and with maids. 
 
 If God has given Himself a sense of humor, 
 
 He will be very sorry when the earth 
 
 Flies off on a tangent, and burns this funny race. 
 
 And now we've gone and done it, too, poor fools! 
 
 44 
 
ARGUMENT 
 
 THIS all-encompassing, 
 All-knowing God, 
 Immanent, omnipotent — 
 Who was in Christ! 
 How can you Christians make Him out so small? 
 
 He spoke to you through Christ, 
 You say; 
 
 He speaks to all through Christ, 
 You say. 
 
 Only through Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
 And thus you compass the Almighty 
 Within the flesh and bone 
 Of one good man. 
 
 You listen always, always 
 
 To God, 
 
 Preaching through the Nazarene. 
 
 Do you think then the Almighty is a preacher? 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 What do you hear? 
 
 God's mighty organ. 
 
 The Niagara, 
 
 Swelling with hymns to heaven. 
 
 45 
 
Listen I 
 
 Violet and goldenrod, 
 Wild rose and thyme 
 Singing, Singing, 
 With the voice of God. 
 
 Tanned young men go forth to war, 
 
 Eager, laughing, eager, 
 
 Offering the great offering. 
 
 — Are you still looking for God in a book? 
 
 Have you seen a young girl dancing — 
 April, sing herself to May? 
 
 — The Lord created, you say: 
 Let us praise the Lord! 
 
 Do you think the Lord created 
 
 A wild rose by a stream, 
 
 And then went back to heaven, and sat in a chair? 
 
 Do you think the Lord created 
 The girl with the dancing feet, 
 And then withdrew into ether? 
 
 Do you think God made. 
 
 With a wave of His hand, 
 
 The wonder-glories of May, 
 
 And then returned to preaching — preaching? 
 
 There is no beautiful thing 
 But lives and is, 
 Because of God within it. 
 
 46 
 
WHEN THE NIGHT IS VERY LONG 
 
 E still!" you say, "and let them have their lie, 
 Their wonderful strange lie of some sweet life 
 They will awake to when their victory 
 Grows glorious over death. Be still!" you say. 
 "See, those who hold this lie above all things 
 Are but the old, the broken, near to death; 
 And the despairing young, who have lost all 
 That love could give them, for a little while." 
 
 You say, "The old are harmless, let them dream! 
 Their nerves are flaccid, and their eyes are dim; 
 They have no present — only a past and hope, 
 Only a little strength — ^just strength enough 
 To quiet reason, and let a frail heart hope 
 A beautiful lying hope." You say, "The young, 
 The few despairing young who are dead at heart. 
 The young wild mother who has lost a child, 
 And the young husband who has lost a mate 
 Must break and crumple, and presently go mad 
 Without their hope, their beautiful lying hope. 
 
 "Be still" you say, "and let them have their dream!" 
 And I, who am young, I have no word to say. 
 For even, when the night is very long. 
 Or heaven itself is black, though the sun shines — 
 For even I, who talked so bravely here, 
 And seemed quite proud to go my way alone 
 Into the grave that leads to nothingness, 
 Would give my youth and all its splendid dreams 
 To have myself that lying hope of theirs. 
 
 47 
 
THE NEJV GOLGOTHA 
 
 The good Lord Jesus, for all men, 
 
 Hung long upon the tree; 
 
 And nonu the great red tree is raised 
 
 High for all men to see, 
 
 And France, beloved France, is nailed 
 
 For right and liberty. 
 
 For love of men long years ago 
 
 The Blessed Savior died; 
 
 And noiv for right and liberty 
 
 {Tivo godheads side by side) 
 
 Our France, our oivn fair, human France, 
 
 Is daily crucified. 
 
 The Good Lord died for humankind. 
 
 For beggars as for kings; 
 
 And noiv all hail to France, all hail! 
 
 In riven flesh she brings 
 
 Her very self in sacrifice 
 
 For two most godly things. 
 
 For right, the very heart of God, 
 For liberty, His son, 
 Our France novu pays the heavy debt. 
 Until God's ivill is done; 
 Her sons, on grim Golgotha, fall 
 Like blood-drops, one by one. 
 January, 1918. 
 
 48 
 
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