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THE FLYING PARLIAMENT 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
The 
 
 Flying Parliament 
 
 and 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 By 
 
 EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 1918 
 

 COPYRIOHTBD 1918 BY 
 JAMES T. WHITE a CO 
 
 ©CLA.ll 151)0 
 
I.. 
 
 s 
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 CAROLINE LEXOW BABCOCK 
 
 1914 — 1918 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Flying Parliament 
 the sacred ships 12 
 
 THE FLYING PARLIAMENT 13 
 
 "gone west" 63 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 THE happy people 7^ 
 
 from tree cloister 72 
 
 from a window 73 
 
 birthright 74 
 
 to a lonely star 75 
 
 THE OLD order CHANGETH 75 
 
 the tramp 78 
 
 in the strange country 80 
 
 RAIN pictures 8' 
 
 War Poems 
 
 "we must make the world safe for democracy, 1917". 87 
 
 the MEANING ^^ 
 
 the marching faith 89 
 
CONTENTS— Continued 
 
 HOME COMING 91 
 
 FOR OUR MEN 93 
 
 WORLD FLOWER 94 
 
 EPOCH, 1914 95 
 
 TO AMERICANS 97 
 
 PENMARCH — BRITTANY 98 
 
 TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER GOING INTO ACTION lOO 
 
 RESURGENCE — TO C. L. B lOI 
 
 GARDEN ADVENTURES lOI 
 
 CAMOUFLAGE IO7 
 
 HOME-SICK 108 
 
 THE INTERPRETER IO9 
 
 KLEPHTIC m 
 
 AT THE FEAST OF LIFE 1 14 
 
 DEATH WITHIN DEATH 1 1 5 
 
 AT THE FLOWER-SHOW 1 1 6 
 
 TALISMANS I18 
 
 SUBLIMINAL 1 19 
 
CONTENTS— Continued 
 
 THE WALLED CITY I20 
 
 ON LILY STREET, NANTUCKET 122 
 
 THE "blind" road, NANTUCKET 124 
 
 THE END OF THE SEASON — NANTUCKET 125 
 
 MOVING MILESTONES — NANTUCKET 126 
 
 SOURCE 127 
 
THE FLYING PARLIAMENT 
 
THE SACRED SHIPS 
 
 Out past the Highlands' smoke and Autumn gold, 
 
 The great gray ships on secret orders steam; 
 
 Battalioned boys their daiun-lit land behold 
 
 Drifting astern, like toivers in a dream; 
 
 They ivatch the havened harbor lights that gleam 
 
 Speechless fareiuell, too tender to be told — 
 
 Until nvithin their breasts austere and bold, 
 
 The former days remote and alien seem, 
 
 And they, the fathers of a Day supreme. 
 
 Thus, visioning their service — to a man — 
 
 They grim in their stern blitheness, sail to fVar. 
 
 Yea, <while ive sleep, in one night's star-lit span — 
 
 Youth leaves our shores — to face the Minotaur. 
 
THE FLYING PARLIAMENT 
 
 Scene. Venice, November, 1917. The piazza of San Marco. 
 
 A chill air emphasizes the weather stains on arcade 
 and collonade. Now and then the pale sunlight glitters 
 faintly on a bit of mosaic, but the lacy fretwork of St. 
 Marks and the Palazzo Guistizia are nearly covered by 
 sandbags and scaffoldings. The statues are all removed 
 from their pedestals. The four famous bronze horses 
 are once more removed ; also the giants on the famous 
 clock tower. The winged lion of St. Mark and the little 
 St. Theodore and his crocodile have been carried to 
 places of safety. From the bronze fiagstaffs in the 
 Piazza of St. Marks the Italian flags are flying. From 
 afar off there comes the slow booming of guns. Sud- 
 denly the piazza is a whirl with pigeons. The guns 
 sound like huge bass chords; the pigeon wings beat a 
 curious suggestion of delicate pastoral themes. The 
 canals are deserted except for one gondola slowly ap- 
 proaching a bridge. An American war correspondent 
 wields the great oar unaccustomedly. The American 
 steps out at a bridge; he makes fast the gondola; he 
 walks slowly into the deserted piazza. Near the bronze 
 b^se of the flagstaffs is a single child standing among 
 the whirling pigeons. The child has a small bit of black 
 bread in his hand ; now and then he breaks off a tiny 
 bit of the bread and throws it to the birds who come 
 eagerly to him. 
 
 13 
 
Child looking at pigeons circling in the sky speaks as 
 though to them: 
 
 Fly— Fly! Where? 
 
 In the unlibertied air! 
 
 IVings of gray instinct, 
 
 All opal tinct, 
 
 Pulses of pleasure, 
 
 Feathery measure — 
 
 Wings of delicate vibrant life, 
 
 Cutting blue air ivith halcyon knife; 
 
 Sky-streivn garlands of pleasant days. 
 
 No more your turret and toiver ivays! 
 
 Noivhere — noivhere 
 
 Do hearers your siveet counsels share! 
 
 Noivhere — no<where 
 
 Is your place in the militant air! 
 
 The American advances slowly; he is clad in khaki, 
 and carries field glasses; his broad brimmed hat is worn 
 down low over his eyes which, burned out and weary, 
 are fixed on the Duomo of St. Marks. 
 
 As he notices the Italian flags, his lips close firmly 
 together, and he looks down at the little American flag 
 set in his button-hole. He stares around the deserted 
 piazza and shivers. Taking out his notebook he sits 
 down on the steps of the Duomo and commences writing: 
 
 (American, writing) 
 Here in the Piazza 
 
 14 
 
Where the colonnades 
 
 Dripped with globules 
 
 Of colored beads, 
 
 Where delicate shapes 
 
 Of Venetian glass 
 
 Expanded like flowers 
 
 In cavelike booths ; 
 
 Here where the band played strains, 
 
 Wild and rich and forlorn, 
 
 Till the very stars dropped down, 
 
 Like gold tears on the night; 
 
 And the moon, like an orbed lyre, 
 
 Tried to echo the strain 
 
 Through strings of fine-drawn cloud. 
 
 Here where the musing crowds 
 
 Sat in the coffee stalls 
 
 Of Florian's and drank 
 
 Tiny glasses of green 
 
 Or golden yellow Chartreuse; 
 
 In a sweet dazed waking dream — 
 
 Here is emptiness now, 
 
 Emptiness like a curse. 
 
 Emptiness like a house 
 
 With the light and life all gone ; 
 
 All the loving turned to dread, 
 
 The children statues of Fear, 
 
 The windows closed and stark, 
 
 And the pictures turned to the wall, 
 
 15 
 
The people are fled away 
 To Padua and the plains, 
 Because the Prussian comes. 
 All the men are on the lagoons, 
 With Latin passion and pride 
 Fighting the Prussians back; 
 But here in this empty place. 
 Thronged once by a brilliant world. 
 Stands a little Venetian child 
 Feeding the hungry doves. 
 
 Child, moving over near the American, curiously 
 watches him at his writing. At last the little one sits 
 soberly down beside the war correspondent, who smiles 
 at him but goes on rapidly scribbling his notes: 
 
 While up from the Lido's calm. 
 
 Where the yellow sails once sank 
 
 Into gold dusted sky; 
 
 Where the great green waves crashed on 
 
 The lilac shadowed sands. 
 
 Grey tides move like a dirge. 
 
 Young waters that once lapped 
 
 The dream-lanes of canals. 
 
 Where marble faces smiled 
 
 In shadows green as moss. 
 
 Now are wrinkled and old; ^ 
 
 The morning-tinted shores 
 
 Are now brittle and old ; 
 
 16 
 
And here, where on festa days 
 
 The banners clasped the breeze, 
 
 And the tapestries rolled down 
 
 Over the galleries. 
 
 And the air-ships, like great beads, 
 
 Buoyed them on the sun 
 
 Floating over the roofs. 
 
 Those days, fanning with sails 
 
 And fairy trails of boats. 
 
 And somnolent dip of oars — 
 
 Those nights, fruited with lights 
 
 Spattered with gleam and gold — 
 
 All are ended and gone, 
 
 Blasted before the guns. 
 
 Venetian people are gone, 
 
 Fled to Bologna's plains, 
 
 Away from Piave's floods 
 
 To Padua's pallid walls. 
 
 The decadent boom of guns — 
 
 Sullen, brutish guns — 
 
 Tired, moody guns — 
 
 Sick, disillusioned guns — 
 
 Is all that comes to the ear. 
 
 The child, sitting placidly near the war correspondent, 
 keeps on throwing the tiny crumbs of bread to the pig- 
 eons; the American looks at him absently, and then bends 
 again to his writing: 
 
 17 
 
Glutted are all the guns, 
 
 Glutted with fiendish drink 
 
 Of hot young human blood ; 
 
 Brutal ennuyeux! Fat 
 
 With soft delicious food 
 
 Brought them from every land. 
 
 Now the very guns are shamed ; 
 
 The hideous tanks are shamed ; 
 
 The fields and mountains are shamed; 
 
 The Zeppelins are shamed ; 
 
 The submarines are shamed ; 
 
 Men's faces are set and stern 
 
 With an solemn awful shame. 
 
 The world turns from its trough, 
 
 And knows its swinishness; 
 
 The guns are glutted now. 
 
 Yet, if the flood be passed 
 
 On Piave's fertile plains, 
 
 Venice shall come to their maw ; 
 
 All the delicate high-bred bones 
 
 Of the Bride of the Seas will come 
 
 To be crunched by the wild-boar guns 
 
 Venice the fragile, grey 
 
 Queen of the lamped lagoons — 
 
 Of slender lily tower — 
 
 Of rich dustcovered bronze — 
 
 Of history-crusted stone — 
 
 Of luminous Christs and saints 
 
 18 
 
And Gods of golden lands — 
 
 Of dreaming palace and port — 
 
 Of winged winy glass 
 
 And vine-hung water-gate — 
 
 Venice must go to the guns. 
 
 The war correspondent closes his book; getting 
 wearily to his feet he walks around the corner of the 
 Palazzo Giutsizia and gazes out on the Grand Canal 
 toward the lagoons. He turns and looks sorrowfully 
 toward the Bridge of Sighs, to the restored Campanile 
 and the Procurate Nuova. The grey pigeons whirl 
 around him; the child follows him. 
 
 Child looking earnestly at the American, points to the 
 doves : 
 
 {Child, singing:) 
 
 There go the doves, the floivers of the luater — 
 
 Leaves of the steeples and seed of the sea; 
 
 They knoav never our commerce nor barter. 
 
 Yet the doves are no longer free. 
 
 All of their flight among starry steeples 
 
 Fanning of wings over militant peoples, 
 
 Brings us no harmony. 
 
 Yet the voork of the pigeons is not done. 
 
 For the ivork of ivings is never done. 
 
 American looking down at the child wonderingly: 
 The work of wings is never done. 
 That, me-thinks, is a wise small song. 
 
 / 
 19 
 
 Who gave it you to sing? 
 
The child stands gazing up at the American; he keeps 
 mysterious dark eyes fixed upon him answering solemnly: 
 
 The Woodcarver, — he sings 
 A song of many lines 
 And all about the doves. 
 "Pigeons," he sings, "are wise 
 They know their way so well. 
 For they mark it out by stars 
 And spiral paths of air; 
 They know their way so well, 
 And their way is always home 
 To quietness and peace — 
 
 The child, keeping his eyes gravely fastened on the 
 war correspondent, chants with a wierd insistence: 
 
 The Woodcarver, he knoivs 
 
 The meaning of everything ; 
 
 What makes the floivers groiv, 
 
 What makes the bright stars fall, 
 
 What makes the echoes stay 
 
 After the priests' intoning. 
 
 And boom around the ivalls 
 
 Of our cathedral there. 
 
 He says to keep on 'watching 
 
 The doves with soaring wings, 
 
 The peaceful, happy doves. 
 
 For they have a message for men — 
 
 Feverish, stupid men 
 
 20 
 
Who are caught in a tangling net 
 Of their oivn imaginings. 
 
 The American looks puzzled, he puts his hand on the 
 child's head and searches the large mournful eyes; he 
 mutters something under his breath, and shakes his head 
 sadly. 
 
 American caressing the child's hair: 
 
 Your city is lonely, Child. 
 
 Are you the only thing 
 
 That lives — comes out to the sun? 
 
 Do the Venetians hide 
 
 In cellars and in tombs — 
 
 They who were made of sun? 
 
 The palaces are closed, 
 
 The gondolas are gone. 
 
 But your people — all the play 
 
 Of their merry liquid eyes, 
 
 The white of their perfect teeth, 
 
 The olive glow of their skins, 
 
 And their saucy ragged ways; 
 
 The dark faced coral women. 
 
 The laughing lacemakers, 
 
 The choruses clamoring 
 
 Under the bobbing lanterns 
 
 At night on the canals — 
 
 Are they sleeping a happy sleep? 
 
 A long siesta-hour? 
 
 21 
 
(Ah! that seista-hour, 
 It has grown very long 
 For many Italian youths.) 
 Where have the people gone? 
 
 The child, slipping from under the war correspondent's 
 hand, looks away from him up to the pigeons that stream 
 in circles around them, saying simply: 
 
 There is no one left here now 
 But the Woodcarver and me. 
 The Woodcarver makes saints 
 And angels young and sweet; 
 They poise all over his shop, 
 They smile at us from the walls, 
 We sit with the angels there 
 And eat the bitter bread 
 The Woodcarver has saved ; 
 Though the guns go snarling on, 
 We are not much afraid ; 
 We stay to guard the doves. 
 The Woodcarver has said 
 They watch over Venice, 
 So we watch over them. 
 
 American to himself: 
 
 A child and an old Italian 
 Who carves his dreams in wood 
 And "is not much afraid," 
 
 22 
 
All that is left in Venice, 
 
 To stay and guard the doves. 
 
 The child regarding the war correspondent curiously 
 
 Stranger, why do you come? 
 
 Venice is ugly now ; 
 
 The strangers come no more — 
 
 Only the officers come 
 
 With charts and clanging boots; 
 
 Their talk is swift and stern. 
 
 Their eyes are burned like yours, 
 
 And no-one ever smiles. 
 
 Signori used to come; 
 
 My father rowed them around ; 
 
 They laughed and sang and threw 
 
 Money in the canal, 
 
 As the Doges once threw rings. 
 
 The kind merry strangers! 
 
 They loved the bobbing lanterns. 
 
 The songs on the water-ways, 
 
 And the black gondolas swaying. . . . 
 
 They were Americans 
 
 And English ; yes, and French — 
 
 But always Americans, 
 
 Always feeding the doves, 
 
 Always caressing the doves. 
 
 Always protecting the doves! 
 
 23 
 
War correspondent sombrely: 
 
 Yes — we used to feed the doves; 
 Now we are feeding guns. 
 
 The child, his eyes fixed upon the birds, breaks again 
 into song: 
 
 All on the sunset evening, 
 
 In the cortile's peace, 
 
 The soft grey doves came streaming 
 
 In ecstasied release; 
 
 Doves on my mother's head 
 
 As she ivalked abroad nvith her laces, 
 
 Doves near the baby's bed, 
 
 Doves in the ivindonv places, 
 
 Doves fanning the cornices there. 
 
 Doves flooding, rippling the square. 
 
 Cooing and preening and circling luhere 
 
 The fountain sprayed on its Graces — 
 
 Purple breasted graylings that fly 
 
 Into the blue tranquillity. 
 
 Nov; it seems they have no sky. 
 
 Bombs and smoke and horrors hover . . . 
 
 The day of nvings and soaring is over. 
 
 The American, half smiling at the child's fantastic 
 quality — half angry at his pathos: 
 
 Why! Look you, the peace of a dove 
 Were a witless, silly thing! 
 
 24 
 
Your doves there have their quarrels. 
 Notice that down-charged wing! 
 Hear that fretting and quarreling cooing 
 Trouble among the pigeons brewing! 
 
 The war correspondent laughs at his own impatience, 
 then takes the child's hand, stroking it tenderly and 
 saying: 
 
 Now the peace of a dove 
 
 Is sent into the world 
 
 On stronger enduring wings — 
 
 The peace of a mighty world. 
 
 Rises on sturdier wings. 
 
 The doves must rest awhile ; 
 
 The sky is filling now 
 
 With wings of a mightier make. 
 
 What of the flying planes, 
 
 The noble charging planes, 
 
 The squadrons of flying planes, 
 
 Sweeping the fields of sky, 
 
 Hovering over the earth? 
 
 That is the new Parliament. 
 
 The winged Parliament, 
 
 The true Parliament, 
 
 Which comes to bring us peace. 
 
 Watch in the vault of heaven 
 
 Where soaring birdmen fly — 
 
 On a splendid errantry. 
 
 The Parliament of Peace! 
 
 25 
 
The child smiles doubtfully; but the tenderness in the 
 war correspondent's voice gains his confidence; he slips 
 his hand into the stranger's, saying almost gayly: 
 
 You talk like the Woodcarver, 
 
 A wonderful talk of wings. 
 
 Oh! come and see the Woodcarver, 
 
 And hear his wonderful things, 
 
 The way he reads the message 
 
 This dreadful war-time brings. 
 
 The two cross the deserted piazza toward the calles 
 where there are many little shops and booths now all 
 boarded up ; one, however, remains open. It is a small, 
 dark, dingy cave, with small wooden angels, beautifully 
 carved, festooned over the doorway. As one peers into 
 the dimness of the interior, one has the sense of the 
 fluttering of delicate carved wings. The Woodcarver 
 comes to the door; he has in one hand his chisel, in the 
 other a shapeless block of olive wood. The Woodcarver 
 is old and bowed, but as he lifts his cavernous, dark 
 eyes he smiles, and his whole face is irradiated with a 
 look of the genius of simplicity. 
 
 Woodcarver to the war correspondent: 
 
 Bon Giorno. Ah, Signore ! 
 Wecome forestiere! 
 Strangers are good to see. 
 It is like those other days, 
 
 26 
 
When they drifted over the square 
 Like scattered, unstrung beads, 
 Or corn flung to the doves — 
 Or stood in the twilight churches, 
 Staring through the incense. 
 Hearing the organ roll, 
 And priests voice imploring 
 The Virgin's intercession. 
 
 American, placing his hand on the old man's arm; 
 
 'Tis good to find someone here, 
 Only officials greet me 
 Along the shivering streets. 
 Where are the people of Venice? 
 The lazy and happy and motley? 
 The vendors and hawkers and idlers? 
 The shop keepers and glass blowers? 
 The courtly bankers and merchants? 
 Ah! it is lonely in Venice. 
 
 Woodcarver, his cracked voice faltering: 
 
 All fled to ancient Padua, 
 To the Good St. Anthony. 
 And we — we only stay 
 To watch the doves — and pray. 
 
 American, looking wistfully about him: 
 27 
 
And when the doves fly off — 
 Rather than meet Teutons, 
 In their compelling drive? 
 
 Woodcarver fiercely: 
 
 The doves will never leave; 
 St. Mark has willed it so. 
 'Tis they who must not leave; 
 If they leave Venice will fall. 
 'Tis for that I stay behind, 
 I and the little child, 
 To feed and sooth the doves. 
 And you — how come you here? 
 You must have been in the field — 
 
 Glancing up eagerly at the war corrspondent: 
 
 Tell us — how fare our armies? 
 
 American solemnly and reluctantly: 
 
 Cadorna has retreated 
 Before the Teutonic drive. 
 They have unloosed the Piave ; 
 The Germans cannot cross, 
 But the sacrifice was dear. 
 They have unloosed the Piave 
 To keep the Prussian back. 
 Cadorna has been routed ; 
 ' Italians have retreated. 
 
 28 
 
The Woodcarver stand there, looks at the war cor- 
 respondent for a dazed moment, then jumps suddenly at 
 him snarling into his very face: 
 
 Retreat — that is a lie ! 
 
 The old man looks wildly about him, grasping at the 
 American's shoulder, and slightly shaking him, sobbing 
 querelously: 
 
 What a silly childish tale 
 
 To tell a Venetian ear! 
 
 The Colleoni armed. 
 
 Astride his savage horse 
 
 In the Campello there — 
 
 A Mercenary, yet. 
 
 Filled with Italian pride. 
 
 Would fling you back on your words — 
 
 Your coward, lying words. 
 
 For Italy, retreat? 
 
 For Latin blood — retreat? 
 
 Was any retreat for France? 
 
 For Belgium any retreat? 
 
 Another stand perhaps, 
 
 Another flash of the eyes. 
 
 Another gritting of teeth, 
 
 Another steeling of heart. 
 
 Another bracing of flesh. 
 
 Another surge of the blood. 
 
 Another smell of the fray, 
 
 29 
 
Then hell tb the weltering hog 
 
 That plunges forth on our land, 
 
 Gnashing his filthy tusks! 
 
 Gas and fire and cold, 
 
 Water and steel and smoke, 
 
 Roaring fires of hell, 
 
 Vermin, disease and wounds 
 
 Against them — Latin blood! 
 
 Oh! that I had wells of it, 
 
 I, a bloodless man, 
 
 Faltering — old, and weak, 
 
 But I mind me how once it burned — 
 
 Fire, blazing and quick — 
 
 Floods, scarlet and hot — 
 
 Flowers, passionate sweet — 
 
 Spirit, dauntless and bold — 
 
 Instinct, sure and keen — 
 
 Supremest Latin blood ! 
 
 The old man paused, breathless and trembling; his 
 hand drops weakly from the war correspondent's shoul- 
 der; he draws himself up, saying with gentle dignity: 
 
 I lose my manners. Sir; 
 But you will see the truth. 
 Our life lies in the folds 
 Of the sweeping allied flags. 
 We are made of Latin blood, 
 Blood on whose rising tide 
 
 30 
 
Rides the ark of ideals, 
 Instincts of Liberty — 
 Freedom's flowering stars. 
 Yea — I have Latin blood ; 
 For me there is no retreat. 
 
 The American, silent and touched, looks quietly at him; 
 there is sympathy and understanding in his face, yet he 
 remains coolly reflective. The old Woodcarver staggers 
 to his stool, and begins fiercely cutting at the shapeless 
 block of wood. All about the small cavelike shop the 
 sun strikes the smooth glistening bodies of wooden angels, 
 the golden brown nakedness of little cherubs. 
 
 The American also sitting down rolls and lights a 
 cigarette, the child collecting shavings and bits of wood 
 from the floor, sits in the doorway sorting them and 
 arranging them in patterns. 
 
 The American quietly inhaling his cigarette: 
 
 Your city is very drear. 
 
 The houses closed and blind ; 
 
 The opal waters grown dun 
 
 With the muddied silt that comes 
 
 From the Piave's plains. 
 
 You carve while the cannon booms ; 
 
 Under your knife there grows 
 
 A figure, supple-soft. 
 
 Springing from uncouth wood. 
 
 And you give it branching wings, 
 
 31 
 
And fashion its gentle face 
 
 As though there were angels still. . . . 
 
 You go on making angels. 
 
 Do the angels know, think you, 
 
 Of all the passion and hate. 
 
 And waste and cursing and lies. 
 
 And pride and fierce world-strife. 
 
 Back of the making of wars? 
 
 These angels, do they preen 
 
 Their wings over it all. 
 
 And smile upon us men? 
 
 The old Woodcarver for a moment drops his head; 
 he passes his hand across anguished eyes; then he points 
 to the child sitting in the doorstep, and puts his finger 
 on his lip. 
 
 Woodcarver, fiercely: 
 
 Hush! It is to calm 
 
 His timid, childish thought. 
 
 The poor Bambino believes 
 
 These angels will keep him safe. 
 
 It is to keep serene 
 
 The thoughts 'neath his innocent curls, 
 
 That I go on carving angels. 
 
 American, bitterly: 
 
 Yes — only I have been 
 Down in Servia, 
 
 32 
 
On Armenian plains. 
 In blasted fields of France, 
 In England's wooded ways. 
 Seeing many little forms, 
 The angels forgot to save. 
 
 The Woodcarver stops carving; he drops his head into 
 his hand ; the American bites his lips, and curses himself. 
 With sombre eyes he stares at the floor. Suddenly he 
 notices a bit of wood lying in the shavings at his feet. 
 It is a half-carved cross. The war correspondent, pick- 
 ing it up holds it loosely in his hand, ruminating. At last 
 he puts it very gently on the table near the Woodcarver's 
 listless arm, and turns to the door, staring out to the 
 grey vistas of the empty calles. As he smokes in silence 
 the far-off guns boom steadily, and the whirl of grey 
 pigeons comes once more past the little shop into the 
 piazza. 
 
 The child, looking up at them, chants dreamily: 
 
 Laws of humanity hold them 
 
 Safe for the sunlit feeding, 
 
 Protected altvays, and heeding 
 
 Laivs of the place that enrolled them; 
 
 Spiral their flights, midst the steeples 
 
 Pinnacles and Campanile; 
 
 Silver fanfare of ivings. 
 
 Soothing the thoughts of the peoples. 
 
 They spell Humanity, Love, 
 
Tenderness, Peace — But the air 
 
 Is rent ivith ivild thunder — Despair . . . 
 tVhere is the end of it? tVhere? 
 
 The Woodcarver, lifting his face from his hands, looks 
 anxiously at the child ; he passes his rough hand swiftly 
 over his eyes and smiles. Rising he pats the little 
 shoulder of the child sitting in the doorway, saying 
 laughingly: 
 
 Why their's is a small Parliament. 
 
 Peace to their soaring counsels! 
 
 Weaving strange laws, 
 
 Making a Cause 
 
 For the new born nations. 
 
 Note how they fly, 
 
 Tieing the sky. 
 
 Looping the heavens, 
 
 Wreathing the square, 
 
 Binding blue air 
 
 Into golden-garlanded sheaves! 
 
 There are the glad manoeuvres, 
 
 The shiftings and the shaping. 
 
 The mist and the cloud-escaping. 
 
 Higher they fly and higher. 
 
 Looping their winged desire. 
 
 While we stand down here gaping. 
 
 The Woodcarver stands by the child, tapping his shoul- 
 34 
 
der gently, and with the other hand pointing out the 
 difference in pigeon flight. 
 
 Woodcarver explaining whimsically: 
 
 There are the Ones, the Twos and the Threes, 
 The ablest, sagest counsellors, these. . . . 
 The Threes soar higher than most. 
 The Twos have a most responsible post. 
 And the Ones — Oh! the separate lonely Ones — 
 Dreamers and Hopers and Prayers, the Ones! 
 Stretching their wings over the world, 
 Wavering over Humanity, hurled 
 Man against man, gun against gun. 
 Waiting until the madness be done. . . . 
 Further and Further away from dust. 
 Higher and Higher and Higher and Higher, 
 Every separate, keen-eyed flier, 
 Their's is the flight of trust! 
 
 The Woodcarver turns shamefacedly back to the 
 American, who smiles understanding his little diversion. 
 
 American — You speak quaintly, in childish parlance; 
 but I like the fancy. What was your drollery about those 
 who fly singly? 
 
 The Woodcarver, his dark eyes lighting with imagina- 
 tion, stands before the stranger arms akimbo, explaining, — 
 
 Woodcarver shyly: 
 
 Why! Look you! I am a man 
 Without kith nor kin ; 
 
 35 
 
No wife, nor any child 
 But this adopted one, 
 Whose parents fled away, 
 And left him homeless here. 
 And it seems to me that I dwell 
 Closer to mine own heart, 
 Where many counsels come. 
 Than if a woman plunged 
 Her fingers in my brain. 
 And mixed my reason up. 
 
 The war correspondent laughs heartily at this, but the 
 Woodcarver is quite serious. The old man stands slightly 
 bent in the centre of the little place, regarding the 
 stranger intently, and says slowly and gravely: 
 
 The lonely people know 
 Much that is shut away 
 From those that go in crowds. 
 Companioned all the time. 
 And look you — when the m.ass 
 Of human beings act, 
 'Tis on the thought of those 
 Who sit high up, alone, 
 Studying the Stars; 
 Or sit low down, alone. 
 Studying the Sands; 
 Or middle way, alone 
 Studying the Times. 
 
 Z6 
 
The American, drawing on the last bit of his cigarette, 
 looks through the light cloud of smoke, and nods smiling. 
 The Woodcarver: 
 
 And the pigeons all alone, 
 Circling the dreamy domes 
 Of the Salute, there. . . . 
 Why ! look you ! They fly so high, 
 That earth-eyes cannot see; 
 They lose all sight of lands; 
 They feel the boundless air — 
 Air of the universe ; 
 And the little plans of men, 
 And the little lands of men, 
 Like stupid little maps, 
 Like little colored charts, 
 Spread out under their wings 
 So little and so brief. . . . 
 Each nation for itself. 
 Each mortal for himself. 
 All working diflPerent ways, 
 Striving against each other, 
 Pulling away from each other, 
 Until some great Snarl comes, 
 And all are choked to death 
 By the tangle in their hands, 
 And the tangle in their minds. 
 
 The birds feel boundless air — 
 
 37 
 
Air of the Universe, 
 
 Air of unbounded Life, 
 
 Freedom and liberty; 
 
 They see the first faint dawn 
 
 Of a Boundless Peoples' soul, 
 
 Freed for a mighty world — 
 
 World-Race, World-Life, World-God. 
 
 And on the sun-pathed clouds, 
 
 That toss like high white seas, 
 
 The dauntless birds fly out, 
 
 Out to a rimless Space, 
 
 Out to the path of Worlds, 
 
 And the solemn ways of stars. 
 
 Where they glimpse God himself; 
 
 And like a precious message. 
 
 Heaven-indicated sign 
 
 Under their small sweet wings, 
 
 They hold our dream for us. 
 
 Then we take to the air. . . . 
 Battalioned aeroplanes. 
 Squadrons of flying men, 
 Winged holy priests. 
 Winged lawyers and doctors, 
 Winged men and women. 
 Flying up from the earth 
 Into pure unmeasured air, 
 Where not a house can pry 
 
 38 
 
With narrow stupid eyes, 
 And cramping stifling roof; 
 Where not a printed word 
 Sprays poison of old thought 
 Over the sky-cleansed Mind. 
 Where the clean squadrons fly, 
 Like soaring splendid birds, 
 Comes knowledge and buoyancy. 
 There is the liberty, 
 The freedom and the power. 
 Prescience and omniscience, 
 The Vision and the gift 
 And the prophecy of birds. 
 
 The American, tossing away the stub of cigarette, 
 reflectively surveys the speaker. 
 American : 
 
 Strange how he talks. 
 
 This old Venetian man, 
 
 This Carver of Wood-angels, 
 
 Seeing the glorious planes 
 
 Charging over the world! 
 
 A child-like, passionate theme. 
 
 Strange how the Carver talks! — 
 
 So talked the flying men, 
 
 Victor Chapman himself. 
 
 Dark as a gypsy prince, 
 
 With mind so just and stern, 
 
 39 
 
Exact and science-full ; 
 
 Chapman, adventurer, 
 
 Into the enemy lines, 
 
 Gallant plane-fighter, 
 
 Bronze plume-spreader, 
 
 Wild wing-worker — 
 
 Once said a thing like that. 
 
 Pegoud, though such a man 
 
 Through all his fighting fame, 
 
 And such a soldier, too. 
 
 With duty in his eyes, 
 
 France alight in his face, 
 
 His body like a tool. 
 
 The spirit used and kept 
 
 Light and sharp as steel 
 
 To be used for the piercing of air. 
 
 Like lance darting at fate — 
 
 In one of his laughing moods 
 
 Pegoud said things like that. . . . 
 
 Like eagles in their hoods. 
 
 Poised on their swooping planes, 
 
 The aviators know 
 
 Things not far off from that. 
 
 The solemn flying men, 
 
 The spear-eyed avions. 
 
 Whose radiant, soaring wings 
 
 Gild the blue summer air. 
 
 Who take the surf of clouds, 
 
 40 
 
And thread the net of stars, 
 
 Emerging into Space, 
 
 Keen for new reckonings — 
 
 New delicate balancings, 
 
 Keen for new sciences 
 
 And new far beckonings. 
 
 They break all barriers, 
 
 Sweep all boundaries, 
 
 Surmount all mountains. 
 
 And soaring over seas 
 
 That have for countless years 
 
 Ensnared the minds of men 
 
 To barter and piracy — 
 
 They give the new air-path 
 
 To Peace and the interchange 
 
 Of mutual benefits. 
 
 Chapman, Pegoud, Gunymener — 
 
 They all said things like that. 
 
 They were too busy killing, 
 
 To make the thing come true; 
 
 (And others were busy killing 
 
 Chapman and Pegoud,) 
 
 So their soarings ended soon, 
 
 They folded their wings and slept. . . 
 
 But from their Grand Parliament, 
 
 Their high and scatheless Parliament, 
 
 Their steep-ascending Parliament, 
 
 Senate of silver wings, 
 
 41 
 
Pageant of balanced Thought, 
 
 Aerial conference, 
 
 Congress of flying men, 
 
 And forward flying minds — 
 
 Come many, many thoughts 
 
 And many many dreams 
 
 And thrilling glorious hopes. . . . 
 
 Thus, all that battle now. 
 
 All that struggle now, 
 
 And all that are dying now, 
 
 All that are starving now. 
 
 Do so smiling and strong, 
 
 Do so happy and sure, 
 
 Knowing that this age stands 
 
 On supremest level of all — 
 
 Highest peak of man's mind. 
 
 That dares his nature down. 
 
 Fastens his blood in leash. 
 
 Refines his passion, until 
 
 It calms under his hand. 
 
 And goes to ivar ivith War. 
 
 There is a sudden tremendous sound of guns. The 
 child flings himself on the floor in fear; he crosses him- 
 self and lies there looking pitifully up to the walls where 
 the wooden angels poise. The Woodcarver stops his 
 work, and regards the child with a drawn white face. 
 
 Woodcarver, shuddering: 
 
 42 
 
Christos! — A bitter sea, 
 That booming sea of guns. 
 Yet men dare to swim through 
 The Surf of mittrailleuse, 
 The solemn tides of blood, 
 The still, white foam of fear, 
 The cold blank sands of death. . 
 Yea, men dive into it. 
 Men swim into it, 
 Forging beyond its depths 
 To Something seen ahead, 
 Until their feet touch shore. 
 Oh! that the shore they touch 
 Would be the coasts of Peace! 
 
 American bitterly: 
 
 Still the guns boom and boom 
 Over the minds of men. 
 Drowning the wills of men. 
 The thinking powers of men. 
 So they boomed in the days 
 When the Fallieri fought, 
 When Colleoni took 
 The desperate cities' pay. 
 When the Hohenstauffen clutched 
 Italy's throbbing heart. 
 When wily Metternich 
 Closed up the mouths of men 
 
 43 
 
And universities. 
 
 The black glutted guns 
 
 Boomed for Garibaldi, 
 
 And for Gambetta's cause. 
 
 For that Napoleon, 
 
 Who dickered in big wars — 
 
 With the great solemn head 
 
 And little pompous frame 
 
 And cold and martial eye 
 
 And strange abnormal dream. 
 
 The whole world loathed the sound 
 
 Of the sea of Mittrailleuse, 
 
 The roaring cannon-waves. 
 
 Yet on the swimmers came, 
 
 And dove through the frightful Surf, 
 
 Until whole millions lay 
 
 Like dead fish in that sea. 
 
 That broke in barren waves 
 
 Upon posterity. 
 
 So shall the millions die 
 
 In this chartless blasting Sea, 
 
 Till someone finds its Source — 
 
 The Power in Berlin, 
 
 And binds his pilfering hands. 
 
 And heals his crazy brain, 
 
 And ends his Mania. . . . 
 
 Till someone leads the world 
 
 44 
 
In a new solemn Vow 
 And endless chanting hymn, 
 A vow such as this — 
 
 A vow that every race 
 
 And every blood shall sign 
 
 And seal with the memory 
 
 Of children who have died, 
 
 Of torment and of fright; 
 
 Of Women who have died, 
 
 Bearing the children of rape; 
 
 Of Men who gave their lives, 
 
 Fighting the filthy wars, 
 
 Of commerce and of greed ; 
 
 Under so high a word, 
 
 So clean and pure a word 
 
 As Patriotic faith! 
 
 A vow that shall be sealed 
 
 By the whole world, rising 
 
 Requiring this one Thing, 
 
 Saying — "And with Him go 
 
 The marshalled powers of killing. 
 
 With him go out the Guns, 
 
 With us come in the Wings ; 
 
 Bearing us on our Thought 
 
 The kingdoms of our Mind 
 
 And wisdoms of our Soul! 
 
 45 
 
As the American finished, the Woodcarver looks 
 shrewdly up from his work: 
 
 Is that how America talks? 
 
 How is it in your land? 
 
 Your people bright and gay 
 
 And full of sprightliness. 
 
 The keenness of their face, 
 
 The quickness of their mind. 
 
 And their slowness to all passion. . . . 
 
 Their big ambitions, and 
 
 Their proud impulsiveness. . . . 
 
 America, fine and free, 
 
 What does she think of guns 
 
 And working out a thought 
 
 With a massed artillery? 
 
 The American, lighting another cigarette ruminatingly 
 regards it, and the old Italian smiling shakes his head 
 and poises a half shaped figure of Christ in his hand, 
 saying: 
 
 Nay, Nay! She does not know 
 Your land of tapering towers 
 And groves of shining lights. 
 The women light of foot, 
 Men white-haired but young-faced. 
 Your land knows not the guns, 
 Your land sends ships and men 
 Fuel, clothes, machines 
 
 46 
 
And gold, and curing 
 
 Of medicines, and stuffs; 
 
 Every device of strength, 
 
 All scientic ways. 
 
 To heal and mend and save. 
 
 Yet your land does not know 
 
 The devastating hell 
 
 Of war, and war for War — 
 
 The hells that took the bloom 
 
 From off the women's faces. 
 
 And blasted children's minds 
 
 In every other land. 
 
 Your country does not know 
 
 Pray heaven she shall not know! 
 
 With a groan, the Woodcarver once more takes up 
 the Christ, he runs his skilful sensitive fingers and supple 
 wrist along the thin side of the young crucified figure. 
 The American lost in thought staring at him. At last 
 the latter as if speaking to himself thinks aloud, says 
 softly : 
 
 "Our land sends ship and men, 
 The youth of the country's loins, 
 The precious toll of her towns. 
 The noble gift of her hills; 
 Men who were born to peace. 
 Who curse vile trickeries 
 Of hateful modern war; 
 
 47 
 
Who trusted with smiling face, 
 
 A certain honesty, 
 
 And could not fathom hate, 
 
 And could not relish greed. 
 
 Ship after ship has sailed 
 
 To carry them to their graves, 
 
 The smiling sacrifice 
 
 Of this despairing age." 
 
 The Woodcarver looks up, in a kind of awe, as the 
 American relates: 
 
 They sail out on the night, 
 
 The young unhardened boys, 
 
 Whispering goodbye 
 
 To headlands and to Home, 
 
 To sweetheart and to wife, 
 
 With lips of passionate youth — 
 
 Set to a priestly task 
 
 Of waging ivar on War. 
 
 On stranger foreign soil 
 
 They laugh in sordid tents. 
 
 Go down into the trench. 
 
 Or Sail the gallant air. 
 
 Making their ivar on War. 
 
 Yea, the world might once have said 
 
 That we were long in peace. 
 
 No longer can it say 
 
 America knows not war. 
 
 48 
 
The American, after brooding upon the idea, takes up 
 his argument more earnestly, continuing: 
 
 America does not know? 
 
 I think we know too well, 
 
 I think we know at last. 
 
 Not with the passion that bursts 
 
 From the brave tormented heart 
 
 At sight of French fields torn 
 
 And orchards murdered down; 
 
 Not with the doomed despair 
 
 Of Servia, race-extinct. 
 
 Watching the women and girls. 
 
 Packed like frightened beasts 
 
 Herded, in slavish fear 
 
 Of many shames and deaths. 
 
 Looking back to the hills 
 
 Where the bodies of murdered men 
 
 Spell the End of the Race. 
 
 Not with the frightful sense 
 
 Of tangled pride and lies. 
 
 And great undisciplines 
 
 Of Russia's wolving hordes. 
 
 Not with that English heart 
 
 That bears its burden dumb, 
 
 And puts its sorrow by, 
 
 And keeps its firm face fixed 
 
 Toward its solemn duty, dumb 
 
 49 
 
Against outside attacks, 
 
 Dumb under awful grief, 
 
 Dumb under bitter trial. 
 
 But with a knowledge strong 
 
 Of the Faith that comes with death 
 
 And with the Duty born 
 
 Of a perfect fearlessness. . . . 
 
 Not with passions like these 
 
 America goes to the Test, 
 
 But with new Law in her eyes 
 
 And a new Dream in her heart — 
 
 Dying into her birth. 
 
 The Woodcarver drops his work. He folds his arms 
 among the shavings on the table, and leans his head 
 on them staring at the war correspondent, who sits 
 shoulder dropped, knees wide apart, smoking thought- 
 fully, continuing: 
 
 America knows not War, 
 
 As a lasting principle. 
 
 But knows that War must be. 
 
 Till the Germ of War be killed. 
 
 Now that the way is seen, 
 
 America comes forth, 
 
 Makes that her battle-cry. 
 
 We care for that, as we care 
 
 For honesty in the eyes 
 
 Of the children of our race, 
 
 50 
 
For fairness, squareness, right; 
 
 The way we care for a road, 
 
 That loops up through the hills 
 
 Of our Rocky Mountain peaks, 
 
 For a finely poised machine, 
 
 For a finely written tale, 
 
 For a deed done with despatch 
 
 And sureness and brevit}'. 
 
 We care for it, as we care 
 
 For a plunge in a mountain lake, 
 
 The smell of the woodland trail. 
 
 The secret of purple tides, 
 
 The science of charted stars. 
 
 My country has a dream, 
 
 The dream of equal rights, 
 
 The dream of a greater self. 
 
 Merging of Bignesses, 
 
 Of Progress, Land and Men. 
 
 The conquest of all fear 
 
 For ourselves and for other men. 
 
 My country cares for Peace; 
 
 My country dies for Peace. 
 
 But we care like the surgeon, who 
 
 Hand steady and eyes set stern. 
 
 Cuts without thought of shame 
 
 Or pity or silly fears. 
 
 Till the gangrene is excised; 
 
 Cuts the dead flesh away 
 
 51 
 
And sees new healing powers 
 New vigors and new healths. 
 My country comes to yours, 
 To all the ailing lands, 
 And stands with face strong set. 
 Jaws firm, eyes straight ahead, 
 To do this surgery. 
 And keep itself more clean 
 To operate success. 
 And know no poisoning. 
 And, as the surgeon holds 
 His body and muscles hard, 
 His hands firm and true. 
 As a mother's with a child, 
 And his eyes clear and kind — 
 So must we keep ourselves 
 Strong for our mighty work; 
 No poison of Greed and Self, 
 No poisons of class and caste. 
 But our hands tender and strong. 
 Our eyes tender and cool, 
 Our words humble and true. 
 Our hearts — God help us! — pure. 
 
 As the American finishes, the child rushes, in wild 
 excitement, crying: 
 
 "Master — O Master, there is a soldier come down from 
 the front — one of the Bersagliere — from the floods of the 
 
 52 
 
Piave. He found a boat, and, with his one poor hand, 
 he has rowed it down the lagoons. The boat is full of 
 blood. His side — his eyes are bleeding — O Master — 
 Master!" There is a startled whir of the pigeons flying 
 past, as a man's steps are heard dragging themselves 
 over the stone pavement of the Calla. The child stands 
 petrified at sight of the wounded soldier, covered with 
 mud and blood, yet still wearing the draggled beaver hat 
 with coque feathers, the long yellow gaiters and torn 
 blue coat. He staggers in, makes the sign of the cross 
 to the winged figures all about him, and sinks coughing 
 on a bench. His head drops forward. The old Wood- 
 carver falls on his knees before him, takes off his hat, 
 and peers into his face. The American bends over him, 
 takes a flask from his hip pocket, and pouring some of 
 the contents on his handkerchief, puts it between the 
 man's shaking lips. 
 
 Woodcarver with horror: 
 
 "Holy Virgin, protect us! 
 
 'Tis Pietro! the Gondolier, 
 
 Whose song was merriest 
 
 On all the moving canals; 
 
 Whose cry soared over the housetops 
 
 And dreaming palaces 
 
 Like a chain of golden moons. 
 
 He was a supple figure, 
 
 Leaning upon his oar, 
 
 53 
 
With his scarlet sash and his cap, 
 And the saucy biack on his lip, 
 A merry scalawag. 
 Virgin ! but he has grown 
 Older than any world ; 
 Older than anything 
 Dug out of a month's old grave, 
 And set to live again. 
 
 The Bersagliere sits panting, his eyes roll around the 
 shop vacantly and wildly. Suddenly his glance falls on 
 the half finished wooden Christ lying on the table. He 
 struggles up, clutches it, and presses it to his lips. His 
 hands close over it, his bleeding face breaks into pitiful 
 sobs, and he moans like an animal. 
 
 The American, turning his head away, bites his lips 
 muttering: 
 
 "Their Christ— Their Christ. 
 They will all die for him; 
 But Ah! it takes anguish. 
 Anguish of many kinds. 
 To make us humble enough 
 To make us wise enough 
 To try to live for him." 
 
 The war correspondent leaves the flask in the hands 
 of the Woodcarver, who hangs over his friend like a 
 woman, taking oflf the hat, smoothing the battered coque 
 feathers, stroking the hair back from the bleeding brow. 
 
 54 
 
He pours water out of a flask, and bathes the grey 
 shaking face ; he finally draws a very small fragment 
 of his black bread from his breast, and, with a strange 
 passionate gesture of renunciation, offers it to the soldier, 
 who wolfishly snatches, and quickly devours it. He 
 groans with his eyes closed, then looks appealing up at 
 the Christ in the Woodcarver's hand, and crosses him- 
 se\L 
 
 The Woodcarver in a low tone to the American: 
 
 It is like the Sacrament. 
 
 The American: It is like It is like The war 
 
 correspondent breaks off suddenly; he flings himself to 
 the door clenching his hand. The child runs to him, 
 beckoning and pointing to sky. 
 
 Overhead, far above the buildings, flies a squadron of 
 airplanes. They are bronze, gold and silver in the sun- 
 light. The correspondent looking at them with his field 
 glasses, can distinguish them as Austrian planes. They 
 drop no bombs. As they pass the war correspondent 
 looks back over his shoulder at the Woodcarver — 
 
 War correspondent: 
 
 They drop no bombs on Venice, 
 Do they treasure beauty still? 
 So that they are loath to crush? 
 
 The Woodcarver: 
 
 They fly superbly and strong. 
 
 55 
 
The American: 
 
 'Tis a short, glancing, fatal life, yet imperial as a 
 God's. 
 
 The Bersagliere, savagely: 
 
 "Well? Do they attack? Hell to their insolence! 
 
 The child: 
 
 Oh! but see our pigeons fly with them! 
 
 The American : 
 
 Like the shadows of their souls. 
 
 The Woodcarver, somberly with mystic emphasis: 
 
 The planes are companied always 
 
 By the souls of the young dead fliers, 
 
 The air-men who have died. 
 
 Not knowing victory. 
 
 Who cannot rest in graves, 
 
 But still ride on the air. 
 
 Asking, How will it end? 
 
 The Woodcarver is still staring up into the sky. The 
 child steals up to him, and slips his hand in his. 
 Woodcarver in a sort of chant to the child: 
 
 Yea, in the fair blue air. 
 In the silken glass-blown air. 
 Full of its flowery forms. 
 Or un-embodied souls, 
 
 56 
 
These disembodied fly — 
 Asking, Honv ivill it endf 
 Myriad wonders soar, 
 Fly with our flying hordes, 
 The flying hordes of our foe, 
 Asking, Hoiv ivill it end? 
 Youth with a smile on its lips, 
 Youth with untired powers, 
 Youth with its gallant need 
 Of dying for a belief. 
 Now Youth flies forward, 
 Softly on lucid air. 
 Lifting our earth-faces. 
 Guiding our feet that walk 
 In the old stubborn ways, 
 Calling us to the air. 
 Asking, How does it end? 
 
 What is the gain, asks Youth, 
 That we died and never grudged 
 Our generous young death. 
 Unless you learn the Word, 
 And learn that Nothing is, 
 Nothing can ever be, 
 Until men turn them to 
 Their labors for a thing 
 That shall be greater far 
 Than any gain of war? 
 
 57 
 
Dead youth with untired powers — 
 Defeated of its life, 
 And life it could have given — 
 Hangs on surrounding air, 
 And tries to speak the Word, 
 The new, all-languaged Word 
 By which shall come release 
 From the Torture of the World, 
 The Battle cry of . . . Peace! 
 
 They all cluster around the doorway watching the 
 marvelous evolutions of the airplanes. The pigeons soar 
 under them, and the child for the first time smiles — 
 
 The child, quaintly: 
 
 The birds taught them to fly. 
 
 Will the sweet birds teach them peace? 
 
 American smiling, rumpling the child's hair tenderly: 
 
 The scientists say, little one, 
 That a bird develops far 
 Beyond man's imperfection. 
 Who knows what we can learn, 
 Now that we, too, have wings? 
 
 He turns to the Woodcarver pointing to the pigeons: 
 
 I mind me of one spring morning. 
 When first I saw them whirl 
 In their Winged Parliament; 
 
 58 
 
'Twas May, and Venice was bridal. 
 
 Bridal she always was, 
 
 The fragile, aged city 
 
 That keeps beauty within 
 
 Her shadowy tragic heart. 
 
 'Twas May and Venice was bridal. 
 
 Golden light on the housetops. 
 
 Limpid green on the water; 
 
 Palaces gleamed and thrilled. 
 
 Pallidly swimming and breaking 
 
 Into a lovely destruction, 
 
 At every passing of oars 
 
 Along their circling mirror. 
 
 The American, a look of ineffable regret on his fac<' 
 recapitulates the beauty of Venice: 
 
 Ripples on white steps breaking, 
 
 Wistaria over the doorways, 
 
 A bright bird high in a window, 
 
 Carved heads on colonnades, 
 
 Musing statues smiling 
 
 Through the tangles of a vine. 
 
 In a hundred broken trances, 
 
 A thousand flickering candles, 
 
 In glooms of the sanctuary 
 
 And burst of the priests strong song. 
 
 In processions of Corpus Christi ; 
 
 A thousand broken reflections, 
 
 59 
 
Sweet cries of melon vendors, 
 
 Swish of oars and of barges; 
 
 A scented warmth with the plashing 
 
 Of sinuous gondolas, 
 
 Black and gold on the color, 
 
 Fastened at the traghetti 
 
 Lolling on freshening tides, 
 
 White was the Delia Salute, 
 
 Bubbling with many towers. 
 
 On the fluttering Guidecca, 
 
 Bright with its tatters and patches, 
 
 The solemn Redentore. 
 
 On the ancient hooded Rialto 
 
 Merchants clamoring still ; 
 
 On the shifting Schiavoni, 
 
 Fluttering tourists and children, 
 
 Eager, impressed and caught 
 
 In enchantment older than love. 
 
 Venice the aged queen, 
 
 Took them upon her knees, 
 
 And showed them her fabulous book 
 
 Of melting picture-dreams, 
 
 Of saints and gods and kings, 
 
 Of martyrs. Doges, and Popes, 
 
 Of painters and architects; 
 
 Told them her amorous tales 
 
 Of adventure and emprise. 
 
 Of sea-fogs covering deeds. 
 
 Strange and wicked and old, 
 
 60 
 
Of gallants in mufRing cloaJcs, 
 
 Of the lions' mouths in the square; 
 
 Told them her amorous tales, 
 
 Saying, "All ends in Beauty," 
 
 And sent them out from her courts — 
 
 Whispering, "All ends in Beauty." 
 
 Venice in delicate age. 
 
 Beauty in power and age, 
 
 Age like frost on the grass, 
 
 Age like the age of the tree, 
 
 Like a fountain that never dries — 
 
 Such was Venice that morn — 
 
 And the doves over it all! 
 
 The American suddenly turns, and shakes his fist in 
 the direction of the booming of the guns. He faces the 
 other two men demanding tensely: 
 
 Rheims had beauty like that. 
 
 France had beauty like that. 
 
 Belgium had beauty like that. 
 
 What is the doom of the world? 
 
 What must our science teach? 
 
 What must religion work? 
 
 What is it men need to know. 
 
 Before beauty like this 
 
 Can be spared to the hungry world, 
 
 That needs to drink of the cup 
 
 Of Beauty for its life? 
 The Bersagliere joks up; the cut on his forehead 
 61 
 
bleeds less freely but he holds his ragged handkerchief 
 to it. As he speaks, he motions toward the unfinished 
 Christ lying on the table — his voice a gutteral whisper. 
 
 The Bersagliere: 
 
 Never the hungry world, 
 The desperate childish world, 
 The feeble stupid world. 
 Caught in its horrible webs, 
 Of stupid desires and needs. 
 Of pamperings and sloth. 
 Of pride and avarice. 
 Of class and snobbery; 
 Never the world can be saved 
 Until we look on this. 
 
 He reaches over, seizes the cross and embraces it, pas- 
 sionately continuing between moans: 
 
 In the trenches they say it, 
 
 In the hospitals know it. 
 
 Men have talked to each other, 
 
 Lying sobbing with pain 
 
 Under the misery 
 
 Of stabbing knives of cold. 
 
 Out under the stars, 
 
 Where the broken bodies lie 
 
 Of young men scattered stiff 
 
 In terrible postures of death; 
 
 Or sweet boys broken up 
 
 62 
 
In ghastly pieces of death. 
 The broken whispers sob: 
 The body and blood of Christ. 
 "The body and blood of Christ," 
 It has been broken again, 
 By all the simple people 
 The patient humble people; 
 A long communion table, 
 Stretching out through all lands. 
 The body and blood of Christ, 
 Given to us again 
 By these his ignorant men, 
 Who when they crashed to death 
 On mountain or on plain 
 Resigned their souls to Him. 
 
 The Bersagliere raises his arm to heaven as if regis- 
 tering a vow: 
 
 Nevermore will I take 
 
 The holy sacrament 
 
 But that my lips will say, 
 
 The bodies and blood of men 
 
 Never will I receive 
 
 The wafer on my lips 
 
 But after Christ's sweet name. 
 
 "Bodies and blood of men!" 
 
 Bitter will be the wine 
 
 Unless I murmur soft 
 
 "The bodies and blood of men 
 
 63 
 
Who die, that He might live." 
 
 Woodcarver regarding the stricken soldier. Ah! what 
 does this chaos mean? 
 
 The American bites his lips and clenches his hand. 
 Finally he turns to where the cross lies on the table, 
 takes it up reverently and curiously, and looks at it as 
 at some new thing. 
 
 The American, reverently: 
 
 It means, a new-raised cross; 
 The simple things Christ knew. 
 And a Christ that has not died. 
 It means a new found self. 
 And a Soul that trusts itself. 
 It means a Mind that sees 
 Beyond race boundaries. 
 Beyond all Separates 
 Of race or land or kin; 
 One People that shall rise 
 Throughout the nationed globe, 
 And speak one solemn word 
 With all their various tongues, 
 There shall be no more War! 
 One People shall demand, 
 For the children still to be. 
 That Self shall be consumed 
 In the Passion No more War. 
 One Science dedicate 
 To a solemn World-emprise, 
 Spreading immortal health 
 64 
 
Over the whole of life; 
 
 That engines be dedicate 
 
 To the good and help of the world ; 
 
 That crops be dedicate 
 
 To the strength and life of the world ; 
 
 That gold be dedicate 
 
 To the power and might of the world ; 
 
 That Mind be dedicate 
 
 To the reverent Law of the World. 
 
 They all regard him in wonder, until the Woodcarver 
 demands, — 
 
 And what of race-pride? 
 
 Bersagliere: 
 
 And what of commerce? 
 
 Child : 
 
 And what of home and hearth? 
 
 The American : 
 I know not. 
 I know only, 
 All else is lost and fails. 
 I know new forces shape 
 Illimitable life 
 Out of infinite Mind. 
 
 He looks at the Bersagliere, touching him gently on 
 the shoulder, saying softly: 
 
 'Tis a long communion table ; 
 We all kneel at that table. 
 65 
 
It stretches through many lands, 
 It is spread in many minds. 
 How do we go from that table? 
 The bodies and blood of men 
 Must not be given in vain. 
 
 The American, turning to the Woodcarver, looks at 
 him wistfully. He gestures to the winged figures all 
 about, and says gravely and reverently: 
 Go on making angels! 
 
 The American, turning to the child, puts his arm 
 around him, and together they stand at the door looking 
 up at the whirling doves. 
 
 American gently: 
 
 Know'st thou, little one, 
 
 They be pigeons, 
 
 Who bear all tidings 
 
 Under their wings? 
 
 Over the borders 
 
 Listen, One day. 
 
 Winged men shall cross 
 
 All the borders 
 
 With messages under their wings. 
 
 And the Parliaments shall meet 
 
 To try their mighty wings 
 
 Of fresh and buoyant thought, 
 
 And the minds of men shall rise 
 
 To the cleanness of the skies, 
 
 And the way shall be made clear, 
 
 66 
 
And your world be safe once more. 
 
 You shall see clouds of planes, 
 
 Soaring over your home 
 
 Bringing tidings of hope, 
 
 Dropping flowers on the graves 
 
 Of the everlasting Young, 
 
 Who died to further it. 
 
 Flocks of singing planes, 
 
 Voyaging over the air, 
 
 With singing men and women, 
 
 Chanting a paeon of peace. 
 
 So that your children's sons, 
 
 Their noble heritage. 
 
 Shall register and say 
 
 "The ivarless days came in 
 
 With the ivinged flying men, 
 
 And the flying Parliaments 
 
 Brought to us lasting Peace." 
 The American turns to the Woodcarver. He looks 
 long and fixedly at him. At last he smiles wistfully, 
 and points to the winged figures all about, saying soberly: 
 
 Go on making angels! 
 He makes a slight gesture of farewell, steps out of 
 the door and into the piazza San Marco. Standing there 
 he looks at the Italian flag, then at the small tricolor in 
 his own button-hole. Smiling reverently and tenderly 
 upon them, he stretches out his arms toward the sky, 
 and with a gesture of passionate hope and appeal, 
 salutes the Air. 
 
 67 
 
"GONE WEST" 
 
 WEST Wind blowing from the far clime, 
 What seeds are you sowing for the New Time? 
 "Pollen of souls that died 
 In a young smiling pride, 
 Scattered of chivalry and ivorld-dream sublime." 
 
 West Wind filling all the green trees, 
 
 What hope did they leave for us on our knees? 
 
 "Their happy, high Belief 
 
 To you they noiv bequeath — 
 Their vast, unconquered Sky bannered ivith breeze." 
 
 Bright Wind surging from the clean West, 
 
 What were they urging on their gay young quest? 
 
 "High Urge and keen. 
 
 That Life shall mean 
 Bold truths, faced ivith a bold broad breast." 
 West Wind blowing from their dim coasts, 
 Do they see weakness of all human boasts? 
 
 "Yes, but they know 
 
 That men still go 
 Forivard and Forward in strong steady hosts." 
 
 West Wind, West Wind, what will they do 
 
 If we should fail them — should prove us untrue? 
 
 Fail them? That cannot be. 
 
 For all Eternity 
 
 Faith in World-Liberty 
 Joins them to You! 
 
 68 
 
OTHER POEMS 
 
THE HAPPY PEOPLE 
 
 "And as I sat, over the pale blue hills came a noise 
 of revellers." — Endymion. 
 
 DOWN the spring slope sweep the Happy People 
 In a stream; 
 Pressing naked feet in rosy clover, 
 Flitting through the glades where songbirds hover, 
 Following brooks that run the meadows over; 
 (In my dream.) 
 
 Down the green lawns throng the Happy People, 
 
 Joy supreme 
 
 In their poised hands garlanded with flowers, 
 
 Joy of soft limbs fresh from sun and showers, 
 
 Joy of sweet lips tasting dewy hours; 
 
 (In my dream.) 
 
 Toward the mountains fare the Happy People, 
 
 And they seem 
 
 Waving me a promise bright and splendid, 
 
 Calling me to take the way they wended. 
 
 (But that way began — so has it ended 
 
 In my dream.) 
 
 71 
 
FROM TREE CLOISTER 
 
 OUT of the city I came, 
 Heart aflame, 
 Thoughts oblique, confused, amazed ; 
 My yester dreamings hurt and dazed 
 With the stifling buildings sweeping high 
 And the towers choking the dingy sky. 
 But I left it all to cross the dune, 
 Hand in hand with the crescent moon. 
 
 Out of the city I came, 
 
 Dreams of Fame 
 
 Dogged me up to my cottage walls, 
 
 Human passions and powers and thralls 
 
 Challenged the way I took 
 
 By the frozen meadow brook ; 
 
 But the hill-top pasture bars 
 
 Chapelled the winter stars. 
 
 And their votive candles burned 
 
 At the gate wherein I turned. 
 
 Out of the city I came. 
 Father of endless name. 
 Who burn there burn on thy sacred pyre- 
 Burn with the flame of the heart's desire 
 Toward flame of worthier things, 
 
 72 
 
Toward lifting of broader wings; 
 
 And their purple gift and their scarlet boon 
 
 I hang on my altars of winter noon. 
 
 I speak to the brook in its icy shrine, 
 
 Confess to the tall dark palmer pine, 
 
 And soft on the country air, 
 
 I breathe the cities' prayer. 
 
 FROM A WINDOW 
 
 THE ever-greens that line the road 
 Bow snowy heads upon the sight; 
 The netted horses draw the load 
 As it were light. 
 
 The living grief I would not see, 
 The hands in helpless quiet wrung; 
 But the white trappings say that she 
 Was fair and young. 
 
 The coaches blot the wintry scene 
 Passing where snow-blue shadows lurk. . . . 
 Youth, Life, Love, Death — what do they mean? 
 Back to my work ! 
 
 73 
 
BIRTHRIGHT 
 
 HOW have I lost them, the old powers of dream? 
 I used to float through life, as on expanse 
 Quivering with light, slow-moving in a trance 
 That bore me like a petal on its stream. 
 
 Now, mouth and eyes are filled with dust of life. 
 I, once a Seer, with my crystal globe, 
 Know now no sphere, no irridescent robe; 
 But bear me like a thief, with hand on knife. 
 
 How have I lost them, the old powers of dream? 
 I, who was so content with simple things — 
 With one bright Autumn leaf, wood murmurings, 
 The near-spun grass, or one star's far off gleam? 
 
 Now, I bear burdens with an ashen face. 
 
 I count my gains, I clamor at my loss ; 
 
 I too have joined the tawdry pitch and toss. 
 
 Who once walked tranced, with illusioned pace. 
 
 Since they are dead to me, dear dreaming powers — 
 Dead, with their grail and magic, visions, wings — 
 I shall distil the attar sorrow brings, 
 And lave them in the sweet of their own hours. 
 
 I shall their delicate bright figures lay 
 Embalmed in gold, in so profound a rock, 
 That no sharp-featured pain shall find a way 
 To touch, and no smug knowledge come to mock. 
 
 74 
 
TO A LONELY STAR 
 
 ONCE more we keep our tryst — I on the beach, 
 Brooding in milky tides of Autumn moon, 
 Watching the gold black water softly reach 
 And fill the hollows of grass silvered dune; 
 Till, far beyond the rim of a lagoon 
 I see Thee in thy calm ascension tread 
 A darkened way to thy cloud-cloistered rest; 
 Hanging thy maiden lantern in the West, 
 Where planet torches lie extinguished. 
 
 The world will never miss me when I go. 
 These gossip ripples in the sedges there 
 Will still be whispering of that Thing they know ; 
 The moon's new milk will bathe the young and fair, 
 Nourishing Youth and Passion with such care. 
 But Thou, O Abbess Star! keep trimmed thy light. 
 Taking thy warder-way across the moor. 
 Yea, many a woman by her cottage door 
 Will need thy comfort all the lonely night. 
 
 75 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 'T^HERE comes the time when he who gathers grapes 
 
 -■- Must find his vineyard in the city street, 
 Must press what wine he may from lobate shapes 
 And gobules clustered at his head and feet. 
 The press he treads will be the city night — 
 Bubble and bloom and burst of heady wine; 
 No fairer fresher grapes will meet his sight 
 Than pallid fruit of the electric vine ! 
 
 There comes the time when he who longs for song 
 Must turn to monsters dreaming in the dark, 
 That Science-incubated aeons long; 
 Will give to music new heresiarch! 
 But Harmonies of pride and lust and doubt 
 Will greet the ear, that for some human hymn 
 Longs bitterly, hearing the brassy shout 
 Of engine songs, massive, superb and grim. 
 
 In those stark days new Lancelots shall pass 
 Accoutered black, with the bi-colored plume. 
 New Siegfrieds, armored in their steel and brass, 
 Shall flash subseas in tunnelled ocean gloom. 
 Woman and Science, gaunt with bold new brow, 
 Shall say what shall be born, what thing shall cry 
 Pioneer on its lurching, airdashed prow. 
 Air-immigrant to habors of the sky. 
 
 n 
 
There comes the day when on the sea of stars 
 Unspoken ships shall lay unsounded course, 
 And looming shapes, outside uncharted bars, 
 Shall dumbly signal with some speechless force. 
 New worlds shall stare on other worlds that be, 
 Sailing close by them on that starry sea, 
 And know that all the Main that round them rolls 
 Swells to new moons, new seas, new tides, new poles. 
 
 There comes the time, O patient Human heart, 
 O Brave Pathetic — time when thou must see 
 The old, the dear, the simple things depart, 
 Who canst not love the strange new things to be. 
 Yet by this New, shall not thy vision grow 
 To some estate, some altitude of range. 
 Where it is given thee that thou shalt know 
 What Changeless 'tis, that underlies all change? 
 
 17 
 
THE TRAMP 
 
 THE ragged sun, the wind-filled sky, 
 The wet track and the empty car; 
 The night-hung woods, and, raised on high, 
 The lighted candle of a star. 
 
 So reads his heraldry, who prowls 
 On listless following of chance; 
 Who, sullenly appraising, scowls 
 On the rich dwelling's circumstance. 
 
 The cloud of smoke upon the hill, 
 The rag left on the highway's beat. 
 The light o'er a deserted sill — 
 These mark the passing of his feet. 
 
 No strenuous call of noontime bells 
 Vibrates through ether of his dreams; 
 For him no clock the hour tells; 
 For him no church's spire gleams. 
 
 Though from his thoughts undisciplined 
 To warehouse and to street averse, 
 He, in exchanges of his mind, 
 Diverts him with a lavish purse — 
 
 78 
 
Diverts him with his social schemes, 
 His plan against the existing plot; 
 And what he, of his justice, deems 
 Would — justice practised — be his lot. 
 
 Of whence he comes, of where he goes — 
 These things no human record keeps. 
 What black unwritten deed he does. 
 What pure fair hope within him sleeps. 
 
 What strange mysterious power he wields, 
 What undeveloped force to sway, 
 None guess who see him cross the fields. 
 Or plodding on his stealthy way. 
 
 Only dead fires attest his life. 
 Only dumb trees his brothers stand ; 
 He knows not home nor child, nor wife. 
 Nor friendly grasp of any hand. 
 
 Yet lays his scheme for daily food, 
 Yet keeps him keen for filching pence 
 For this . . . o'er pipe and fire to brood — 
 Spending imagined affluence! 
 
 79 
 
IN THE STRANGE COUNTRY 
 
 I SPEAK your language very glibly now, 
 Have all the countersigns and know the range 
 Of all your boundaries; the streets I know. . . . 
 And yet, your land is strange. 
 
 You ask me whence I came? I cannot tell. 
 My Race? Ah! God forbid that you should see 
 Others like me, — in this land where you dwell — 
 Not such as we. 
 
 "Do you have news?" you ask. My heart contracts. 
 Do I have news? . . . Yea, messages do come, 
 •As if I had made wistful, faithful pacts 
 With those . . . back home. . . . 
 
 This butterfly brought one, that errant vine 
 Conveys a Word ; the Sea, it would seem, knows. . 
 Sweet tidings that I cannot quite divine 
 The flowers disclose. 
 
 But since you ask me idly, let me say, 
 I know not whence I am, nor why I come ; 
 Yet I sit with you in your inn today 
 Devising speech — though dumb. 
 
 80 
 
RAIN PICTURES 
 
 First Picture 
 
 MONOCHORD 
 
 THE soft rain falls; the willow trees 
 Throw silver tangle on the breeze, 
 While Robin tunes his pipe and blows 
 His joyance down the orchard-close. 
 Amid the spraying crystal notes 
 One irridescent bubble floats — 
 Bubble of music, that careens 
 Adown the pasture's mottled greens. 
 How tell the rapture that he sings 
 To beatings of his happy wings? 
 Why praise the story that he tells, 
 The message that his bosom swells . . . 
 Ah! he is Robin, and he goes. 
 Singing the only song he knows. 
 
 The sweet saps rise; the maple trees 
 Drink deep and scatter crimson lees. 
 I wander up and down the stream. 
 Singing the music of my dream; 
 Its cadence vague, its plaintive strain 
 Attunes it to the Harp of Rain; 
 
 The muted branches softly play 
 An obligate to my lay; 
 
 81 
 
The drooping willows pluck the stream 
 With pensive touch that marks the theme, 
 And all the trilling water-tune 
 Accompanies my simple rune. 
 
 No heart have I to wake the green 
 With joyous lilting loud and keen. 
 I tune no pipe for jaunty snatch 
 Like Robin's loud ecstatic catch. 
 I sing the song of wistful things, 
 Dumb longings, blind imaginings. . . . 
 And yet, why blame me that I stray. 
 Crooning so poor a rondelay? 
 Ah! I am Human, and I go 
 Singing the only song I know. 
 
 Second Picture 
 
 My tree-calf books; my seven branched candle-stick; 
 The pine-knot's bursting heart, flame-plethoric; 
 My jug from old Fiesole ; the rain, 
 And the witch-vine that darkly taps the pane. 
 
 The witch-vine signals, and the rainy night 
 Enters my heart; puts out its wan rush light. 
 Like a chill blast of fore-writ doom and tears, 
 Extinguishing the meaning of my years. 
 
 Then come the spectral tapping on the pane, 
 Counting the unmarked graves of things as vain 
 
 82 
 
As that bright-bound, dumb company of books 
 And worthless treasure of my chamber nooks. 
 
 Let be, O witch-vine fingers ! I have grown 
 So kindly used to living all alone. 
 Let be, O furtive night! And I would fain 
 Be unremarked of thee, O brooding rain! 
 
 Be unreminded, when the tendril taps 
 
 Keep count of years — of the remorseless lapse 
 
 Of time , . . for I must tend my fire yet. 
 
 And hear the storm, and see the window wet. 
 
 Thinking of some strange hour of frozen peace, 
 When the reproach of wind and rain shall cease 
 Thinking what Guest sits by . . . when fires wane, 
 And the witch-vine lies withered on the pane. 
 
 Third Picture 
 
 Down the black mountain 
 The fairies come, I ween; 
 Tarrying hither. 
 Hurrying thither. 
 Grey-bright, 
 Phantom flight. 
 Winging by the glass. 
 Lo! spreads a green. 
 Leaf-lattice screen. 
 
 83 
 
In the stark valley 
 The fairies riches feign ; 
 They fling, they sprinkle 
 Tiny gems a-twinkle ; 
 Water gems, 
 Flower gems 
 Sparkle in the grass. 
 Lo ! in the lane, 
 Blood-root again. 
 
 On the dull houses 
 
 The fairies come to dance ; 
 
 They masque, they chatter, 
 
 Elfin goblets shatter, 
 
 "Health to Spring," 
 
 So they sing. 
 
 Laughing in the eaves. 
 
 Lo! like a lance, 
 
 See sunlight glance! 
 
 From a poor spirit 
 The fairies take the fears; 
 They soothe, they flatter, 
 They sing, "What matter?" 
 "Oh! Life is good to try!" 
 Lo! through my tears. 
 All the sky clears. 
 
 84 
 
WAR POEMS 
 
'WE MUST MAKE THE WORLD SAFE FOR 
 DEMOCRACY." 1917. 
 
 OUT on the prairies; 
 Where rivers flow ; 
 On crests of mountains 
 The stern words glow. 
 "War," say the rocks. 
 The rails ring, "War." 
 From smoking chimneys 
 The solemn clouds pour. 
 
 War in the khaki, 
 War in the lace ; 
 On youthful forehead 
 And stern old face. 
 "War!" smiles the lips, 
 Though the heart sobs "War." 
 A Nation's eyes flash 
 Like keen scimitar. 
 
 On all the houses 
 The flags are like fires. 
 East, West, arouses. 
 West, East inspires. 
 Light fills the banners 
 
 87 
 
Light tips the poles, 
 
 The thrilled Stars and Stripes 
 
 Slowly unrolls. 
 
 Doom of the nations, 
 Doom of the brave. 
 Now it breaks o'er us, 
 War's bitter wave; 
 But we shall hold us 
 Face toward the light. . . . 
 We have enrolled us 
 Now for the fight! 
 
 THE MEANING 
 
 PEACE is not small white flowers 
 Shining on a lawn. 
 Peace is not youths and maidens wedded in their beauty. 
 Peace is not silver sandals of a stainless dawn. 
 Peace is the calm acceptance of heroic duty. 
 
 War is not bloody standards hung with crape. 
 War is not murdered men and women's sorrow. 
 War, for our hearts and hands, is but a Shape, 
 That once destroyed, leaves ghost-less the tomorrow. 
 
 88 
 
THE MARCHING FAITH 
 
 I HAVE seen the men go marching, 
 Marching away from life; 
 Away from love and children 
 Into a bitter strife. 
 I have seen the men go marching 
 With strange high courage shod — 
 The old, old way of Crusaders 
 Men who believe in God. 
 
 Brown eyes, blue eyes, grey eyes. 
 Swing of the Highland kilt. 
 Shoulders of English lordling, 
 Slight form Eastern built, 
 Chin of a New York lawyer. 
 Head of a happy Greek. 
 I have seen the men go marching. 
 And I know the thing they seek. 
 
 I have seen the men go marching. 
 
 And I have no word to say; 
 
 They have read their hearts more truly 
 
 Than I in my wistful way. 
 
 They sprang to an instinct Action, 
 
 Though they scorned the path they trod. 
 
 Gold help us! we must follow — 
 
 Men who go forth for God. 
 
Brown eyes, blue eyes, grey eyes, 
 Eyes that have laughed with love, 
 Eyes that have glowed with music, 
 Indian eyes that rove. 
 Jaw of a tall Italian, 
 Teeth of the French Touraine, 
 Faces full of the tide of life, 
 That will not come back again. 
 
 I have seen the men go marching. 
 And I know what I must do: — 
 Never to play them weak or false 
 Though the news be false or true; 
 Whatever the Great Endeavor 
 For body or brain or pen, 
 I must be true forever 
 To the faith of the Marching Men! 
 
 90 
 
HOME COMING 
 
 *"They will fight until the stolen and lost and scattered 
 children return home." 
 
 T'WILL be a great day for the Children, 
 The lost and scattered Children, 
 When they come home ! 
 I can see now the little faces smiling, 
 Hear broken words, see baby hands beguiling, 
 And watch the dear processions straggled filing, 
 When the Children come. 
 
 In all the crushed, insulted, stricken households, 
 In all the bare and desecrated households 
 There will be joy. 
 
 Mothers will rouse them from their haunted sorrow, 
 Because their love has given the Tomorrow 
 A pledge, on which posterity may borrow 
 From girl and boy. 
 
 Mothers will rouse them from their stricken anguish. 
 
 Daring to face the future in their anguish, 
 
 Because the Children say, 
 
 "We have no part in all the hopeless killing; 
 
 We are your sacrament, your holy willing; 
 
 We are your cups for the glad, new wine-filling 
 
 Of a new Day." 
 
 T'will be a great day for the Future, 
 The dim and broken Future, 
 
 91 
 
When the Children come ! 
 
 They will bring back some clean, unlooted treasure; 
 New hope in life, of love a higher measure ; 
 Unselfish aim, and purer, keener, pleasure 
 When they come home. 
 
 I see them dazed, the little bare feet stumbling; 
 I see them hasten, stunned, confused, and stumbling- 
 Yet unafraid. 
 
 For one great People comes to bring them gladness; 
 To take away the pitiful child-sadness; 
 To heal the infant pain and baby madness — 
 Another People made. 
 
 On one side wait the agonizing mothers, 
 
 The tearless, outraged, consecrated mothers. 
 
 To see them come ; 
 
 The other side is lined with silent fathers, 
 
 Dead, mutilated, tortured, murdered fathers, 
 
 Sacred, elect, regenerated fathers, 
 
 Who died for Home. 
 
 And with them march the gay and ready Strangers, 
 
 The sunny, stern Americans, the Strangers, 
 
 Who bid them come. 
 
 Yea, though my eyes be blind with bitter crying, 
 
 Yet do I count worth while the fearful dying; 
 
 When dead men on a hundred red fields lying 
 
 Send the children — Home! 
 
 ♦Editorial Leader of New York Times, July 21st, 1917. 
 92 
 
FOR OUR MEN 
 
 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 delights 
 Hunger deserves. 
 
 Let us lift high God for them, 
 
 And like tall candles hold 
 
 The 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 ashamed 
 Of 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! 
 
 93 
 
WORLD FLOWER 
 
 ON the Stem of the World 
 A flower hangs blighted, 
 Flower that plighted 
 Its scarlet, uncurled, 
 To Pageant of Kings 
 And war-garlandings 
 And banners unfurled. 
 
 On the Stalk of the World 
 That flower hangs broken. 
 Gold pollen-token, 
 Nothingward hurled. 
 Withered its fineness 
 Its perfumed divineness, 
 Petals far whirled ! 
 
 On the Branch of the World, 
 
 Bud of tomorrow. 
 
 Watered by sorrow, 
 
 Holds, all impearled. 
 
 Blossom increase, 
 
 Petals of peace 
 
 In sunlight whorled. 
 
 Ye, who walk doubting, 
 Care for this Flower! 
 
 94 
 
Not yet its hour, 
 
 In all the shouting. . . . 
 
 Only, soft hid in the stamens, is lying 
 
 Pollen of souls that dared all the dying. 
 
 They gave the seed. Wet from our crying 
 
 Blooms the New World. 
 
 EPOCH, 1914 
 
 MORNING broke on Fecamp shore. 
 The sun rose from the sea. 
 Along the stone digue, wooden shoes 
 Clattered busily. 
 
 And one glad, little Norman voice 
 Carolled, "Sans Souci." 
 No care! no care! Tra-lal-la-la!" 
 The child's glad voice sang on; 
 A red-capped figure crossed the digue 
 To where the great boats swung 
 At peaceful anchor, with their nets 
 Spread azure in the sun. 
 
 Evening came to the little town 
 
 Where white cliffs wall the sea. 
 
 A dark bell rang, "To arms! To arms!" 
 
 The women on the quay 
 
 Choked back the tears, when Jean and Pierre 
 
 Marched forth gallantly. 
 
 95 
 
And then no lift of little voice 
 
 Singing, "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 dead 
 
 Ere the new moon, all pitiless 
 
 And smiling at her dreams, 
 
 Took her strange way of battlefields 
 
 And bloody battle-streams. 
 
 The ripe grain dies on Fecamp hills. 
 
 Sails wither at the quay. 
 
 Old people totter to the digue, 
 
 And shiver ceaselessly, 
 
 And in the pallid Gothic church 
 
 The dead and wounded see 
 
 To it that no Norman voice 
 
 Carols "Sans Souci." 
 
 Deep care, deep care, for us ivho try 
 
 To save and clothe and feed! 
 
 Men taunt us for our dream of Peace 
 
 Our hope of better breed! 
 
 Courage! Let faith fight down the years 
 
 Oh! let our battle be, 
 
 That the world's children some day sing 
 
 Another, "Sans Souci!" 
 
 96 
 
TO AMERICANS 
 
 SOOTH, Citizens! there are few hours to dawn 
 Of a red day and black gun-horrored night. 
 The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawn 
 Of 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 Dream 
 
 Still hold? Once more the robust States declare 
 
 Against the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem, 
 
 Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we share 
 
 The same proud purpose to defend the Scheme, 
 
 Under the flag our lofty standards bear? 
 
 Americans! Look we with fearless eyes 
 Loyalty? 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 formed 
 For War, or Peace in solid moveless Race! 
 We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmed 
 To cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face. 
 We are Souls, standing in our rightful place. 
 Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed. 
 
 97 
 
Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowers 
 
 Portentously 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! 
 
 PENMARCH— BRITTANY 
 
 At the time of the "Pardon," 1914. 
 
 THE Penmarch roads are sandy white; 
 By the old church the blue nets dry. 
 Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright, 
 Tremulous scarlet splashes high 
 On tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes. 
 Stiff snowy caps and ribbon hues 
 Go 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, who 
 Is like embodied song, her eyes, 
 Clear with the light of faith where through 
 Looks sweetness of her soul's surmise? 
 What are the words she sings, her smile 
 So Mother-merry? What the wile 
 That draws the small coifs nearer, near. 
 And charms away the peasant fear 
 
 98 
 
(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 art 
 Like gentian flowers after rain. 
 'Tis World-Dream in her simple lay — 
 Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play. 
 No wonder wooden shoes keep time 
 To magic of her lilting rythm. 
 (Gay little Bretons hold their ring. 
 Shouting the Stranger-Lady, "Sing!") 
 
 That was one summer. Now a dirge 
 Breaks on that coast in bitter wail, 
 And news told by the ocean surge 
 Makes Breton-maids and mothers quail. 
 O holy Fires of fisher-lights. 
 Gleam out no more on Pardon nights! 
 The great red sails hang listless, torn 
 The empty blue nets trail forlorn. 
 And yet I think that 'ittle feet 
 Sometimes on Penmarch beaches meet, 
 And Penmarch children cease their play 
 To talk of how She sang that day. 
 And that once more a happy iing 
 Is formed to hear a Lady sing! 
 
 99 
 
TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER GOING INTO 
 ACTION 
 
 France, August, 1918. 
 
 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 pace 
 Your 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 be 
 The face of one, who for our Hope has stood, 
 Manly and resolute, whose spirit would 
 Be at the Front, and elsewhere could not be! 
 
 100 
 
RESURGENCE 
 To C. L. B. 
 
 DOWN the glad morning lane a lucent veil 
 Of dogwood wavers like a windblown screen 
 Revealing vistas lit by golden trail 
 Of netted water-brooks that intervene 
 Where ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen; 
 Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhale 
 On the spring world ; a buoyant path of green 
 Makes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grail 
 Of exquisite re-capture of the frail 
 Fresh renascence of all that fair has been. 
 Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyes 
 That watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom! 
 Are ours the only forms that may not rise 
 Out 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. 
 
 GARDEN ADVENTURES 
 
 No. I — Aerial. 
 
 T^OWN the long garden path the message came, 
 -■-^ Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed ; 
 "My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame, 
 
 101 
 
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 desire 
 
 Waft 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 flare 
 Concentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dare 
 To think that it might answer to the call? 
 
 Up the blue garden air a winged ship, 
 Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way, 
 Hangs for a second where the poppies' tip 
 Shoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slip 
 Impatiently from honeyed bud and spray. 
 
 Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow; 
 Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they see 
 The yellow tulip near them suddenly grow 
 Quivering, tremulous? Does the tulip know 
 What meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee? 
 
 No. 2 — Invasion, 
 
 In wooded depths the lilies grew, 
 Nunlike in canopies of green. 
 Hanging white bells of paladin 
 
 102 
 
In Gothic ferns beneath the yew — 
 A sanctuary, with the dew 
 Telling 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 hordes 
 
 To menace distant lily chords. 
 
 Or chapel treasure all unsealed; 
 
 And all day nettle airships sail, 
 And on the moonlight thistle swords 
 Leap from their scabbards, flashing towards 
 The priestly yew that guards the vale; 
 Till haughty casqued snowdorps quail, 
 And violets rush borderwards. 
 
 Alas! By stealth th' invader came, 
 Intrenched near lily convents, where 
 A startled fragrance fills the air. 
 Green cells are pierced by nettle spike, 
 And dandelions, shield and pike 
 Ravish white bells that rang to prayer! 
 
 No. 3 — Diplomats 
 
 Archippus, ambassador 
 
 To the poppy emperor. 
 
 Enters with his wings extended. 
 
 Orange, black and samite blended, 
 
 103 
 
Bows o'er cups of columbines, 
 And at taste of royal wines 
 Flashes spangled semaphore 
 Message — "To the end of the war." 
 
 Philemon, black, green and pearl 
 Wavers to syringa whirl; 
 Lightly shod, his errant feet 
 Win the white pavilions sweet; 
 As he flits to salvia cells. 
 Dipping into ruby wells 
 His antennae, as he goes 
 Wig-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 crest 
 To 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, 
 
 104 
 
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 night 
 Went over all the ground with searching light, 
 And only found that, where the peony-head 
 Hung erstwhile white, 'tis now disguised in red. 
 
 Tell me not why. I only know that since 
 I paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince, 
 A group of tents, some warlike grey, some white 
 Cover the ground, pitched in a single night. 
 
 No explanation gives me peace of mind, 
 When long battalioned caravans I find 
 Crossing my garden walk; and when I see 
 Under-ground trenches grow unceasingly. 
 
 Give me no reasons for squat forms that pass 
 
 Lurking 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 white 
 Mystical raying disk spills frankincense 
 From her stored sweet and balmy opulence. 
 
 105 
 
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 stir 
 At 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 strays 
 O'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 wings 
 
 Floats from his moonlit forest wanderings. 
 
 And by enchantment led, there plights his troth 
 
 To the night's Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth. 
 
 Now, while the garden drowses, and the cool 
 Of 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. 
 
 106 
 
CAMOUFLAGE 
 
 HERE is the waving river line, and here 
 A rail-road made 
 (And here float lilies white as those that were 
 Where Marsyas played.) 
 
 The thrilling sky is wild with winged planes 
 For air ship raid 
 
 (Yet — still steals up the hidden cirrus lanes 
 The Huntress Maid!) 
 
 The country road is gashed with lurid signs 
 Of commerce-gods: 
 
 (Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantines 
 
 Hang votive pods!) 
 
 The man who walks in front of me to work 
 Has pointed ears 
 
 (He speaks with modern emphasis and jerk 
 So it appears) — 
 
 But where he toils the chimneys range their pipes 
 In Syrinx form 
 
 (Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what types 
 Of dancers swarm?) 
 
 Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say 
 
 No one escapes " 
 
 (Ye Gods, ir/io is that smiling such a way 
 Among the grapes?) 
 
 107 
 
HOME-SICK 
 
 HE sees the white moon climb the city skies, 
 Far over rank, black roofs and balconies, 
 And with her spectral radiance anoint 
 The 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 old 
 His 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 strays 
 Away to leafy lanes and country ways. 
 
 He vizualizes green of plashy mead 
 Of kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed. 
 Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloom 
 And 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 stiles 
 He leans, and listens as in other whiles. 
 
 108 
 
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 strays 
 Out of the city gates to the old days. 
 
 THE INTERPRETER 
 
 LAST night I heard Masefield, 
 Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tomb 
 Reading old plays and masques 
 And gipsy drama of old England. 
 
 I saw strange eyes flickering — sad, 
 Set in a face recording vigils, 
 Moody, unfellowed prowlings 
 Vague contemplations and wanderings. 
 
 I saw his face, dream-magnetic, 
 
 Pale, withheld, until he told 
 
 Stories as odd as coins in a sailor's chest; 
 
 Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow. 
 
 And a smile like water ehook on his face. 
 
 I heard the grind of creaking anchor chains 
 Felt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull, 
 Saw driven slanting masts, and yaw the hoops 
 Slink as some halliard parted, and was caught. 
 
 109 
 
I heard dead seamen's lips 
 Recounting 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 voice 
 Droned 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 canvassed 
 Close-hauled on happy seas. 
 
 He stood limply on a little platform 
 World-blind before the rows of set, still, faces, 
 Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word 
 "Beauty." 
 
 110 
 
KLEPHTIC 
 
 "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 wear 
 The curly white fleece, 
 And a man, with a beard, 
 Like a horse's mane. 
 Plays a small pipe, 
 A carved 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 mumrnings cease 
 In the mountains, the mountains of Greece. 
 
 Far in the mountains, 
 The mountains of Greece, 
 The values are strange — 
 
 111 
 
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 values 
 
 Long after our silly values cease, 
 
 In the mountains, the mountains of Greece. 
 
 In the mountains, the mountains of Greece 
 
 They 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 Turks 
 
 112 
 
Done 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 boys 
 Dressed 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. 
 
 u^ 
 
AT THE FEAST OF LIFE 
 
 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 mist 
 Before 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 prays 
 For 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 intervene 
 To the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye. 
 O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascend 
 I see you toil; your pallid candle shakes; 
 The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend, 
 Drops — faded flakes. 
 
 114 
 
DEATH WITHIN DEATH 
 
 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 shell 
 Holds 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 keen 
 Destroys a thing that might have been 
 Yet, smiting him, it was as well 
 To kill my Soul, thou Israfel! 
 
 lis 
 
AT THE FLOWER-SHOW 
 
 A ROSY haze misted the air, perfume 
 Of 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 strings 
 Sprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room. 
 
 So quietly the human throng moved by. 
 
 It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest face 
 
 Was wistful, pensive, reverent of eye 
 
 Wandering 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. 
 
 116 
 
Then there came women made of night and stars, 
 
 Women of dusky eye and cirrus tress 
 
 From whom men rush to wreckage and to wars, 
 
 Frenzied of their inscrutable caress. 
 
 "We are like you," they said, "competitors 
 
 For 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 sense 
 Of umbelled mysteries, of disks, and norms 
 Of 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 sign 
 Of 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, Siveet, thou'rt like us," smiled the flowers! 
 
 117 
 
TALISMANS 
 
 JUST now the Mother left me, and I stand 
 Holding 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, where 
 The coiled lights quicken, and I see the fair 
 Woman-ward leaning of a childish face. 
 
 I see that face gaze down the crowded years, 
 Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stir 
 To find the deep maternal heart of Her, 
 Who gazes back all undeterred by tears. 
 
 I see the child eyes give their radiant speech 
 
 Once more to mother-eyes that never failed; 
 
 I see a heart that never yet has quailed 
 
 Answer those eyes over the long years' reach. . . . 
 
 The Winter sun goes down ; quick chills the air 
 Outside my window. . . . While the West grows old, 
 I stand in Sanctuary, for I hold 
 Undying Faith, enshrined in golden hair. 
 
 118 
 
SUBLIMINAL 
 
 I SHOULD like to be very lonely indeed — 
 Much lonlier than I am; 
 With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed, 
 And simplicity like the sun, and no other need 
 But 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 v/ould talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout; 
 
 I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out, 
 
 And bathe iq the Sea of the West I 
 
 119 
 
THE WALLED CITY 
 
 HERE is the mass, you see it astray and astruggle, 
 Deafened with noise, pushing and jestling along; 
 Pleasure and envy and greed, in a feverish juggle, 
 Outside the City of Song. 
 
 There are the Vapid, watching their hookah's smoke- 
 bubble; 
 There are the slothful, drunk at the wells of wrong; 
 At a scarlet booth is a Gypsy pleasing the rabble. 
 Outside the City of Song. 
 
 Here are the credulous, cheated to death by a thimble ; 
 Here are the hungry stumbling on to the gong; 
 Here stands a lover grasping a treacherous symbol, 
 Outside the City of Song. 
 
 Whirl of pretense, of gilding, of tinsel, of glitter; 
 Strange that its patter and laughter can keep up so long; 
 Echo on echo of mocking and cat-call and twitter, 
 Outside the City of Song. 
 
 Long is the road, that they travel and know not the 
 
 turning ; 
 Black is the pit at the end, and the fear and the wrong; 
 But bitterest, blackest, their last inescapable yearning 
 For the lost City of Song. 
 
 120 
 
While in its courts, where the fountains leap up to the 
 
 zenith, 
 Dreamers and poets and lovers go all the day long. 
 Dazzled, and raptured with pondering all that it meaneth. 
 To dwell in the City of Song. 
 
 j21 
 
ON LILY STREET, NANTUCKET 
 
 ON Lily Street, where drowsy crickets hum, 
 And two and two the summer lovers come, 
 Straying so happily their island paths, 
 Where the white candle flickers at a low-hung door, 
 I see soft hooded figures cross a bit of moor — 
 Hurrying, eager, they — 
 To hear you play. 
 
 Now as the moonlight slants on whitened roof, 
 And old New England still gives austere proof 
 Of bygone things in narrowed window glass, 
 The guests sit quiet in the panelled rooms 
 Content with half lights and half tinted glooms, 
 Because they know that they — 
 Shall hear you play. 
 
 And I who lean upon the leafy sill 
 
 Feel moonlight dreaming change to vagrom thrill, 
 
 And looking forth as on some lantern screen, 
 
 See, flitting o'er the stark old house-wall nigh. 
 
 Soft shadows of your vivid melody. 
 
 So — in an eerie way 
 
 I hear you play. 
 
 Till, on the house wall opposite my place 
 
 I see wild Carmen's bright poinsettia face; 
 
 I see Grieg's "Day break," streaming up the sky, 
 
 122 
 
Upon the old Nantucket houses blank 
 
 I watch Tannhouser's Pilgrims climb in solemn rank, 
 
 — Past windows grey — the while you play. 
 
 Long on the bare screen grieves the "Butterfly." 
 
 Then, as her Oriental sorrows die, 
 
 Forth doth the "Earl King" ride; 
 
 The Schumann "Warum" drops its pensive leaves, 
 
 Macdowell's "Sea" its toppling billow heaves, 
 
 Chaminades, "Dancing Fay" 
 
 Trips, as you play. 
 
 But ere your noble hands have given their gift 
 Down on the town, the bells of Curfew drift, 
 The candle gutters at the low-hung door. 
 Yet, see ; from this low window where I muse, 
 All Lily Street doth spectrally suffuse, 
 Glimmers each tiny pane. 
 
 You call it "moonlight," but I think that they 
 The old Nantucketers, long passed away 
 Peer forth to hear you play! 
 
 123 
 
THE "BLIND" ROAD, NANTUCKET 
 
 IF you would find 
 Peace, and a lightened load. 
 And wells of delicate, salt, sweet-fern air, 
 And tranquil lines around you every where, 
 Follow the "blind" Rut Road. 
 
 It leads to liberties of yellow gorse. 
 
 To secret heather and to banks of bay; 
 
 It winds along the ocean, and its course 
 
 Is wet with wild sea-spray. 
 
 It leads along the swamps, where honey-ball 
 
 Hangs scented globes, where clethra scatters sweet, 
 
 By holly hedge, where pheasants thread the tall 
 
 Indigo plant, or flying sea-gulls meet. 
 
 It leads away from every fret and jar. 
 From everything that hurts and stings and tries; 
 Through green dwarf-pines, and hills of cinnebar, 
 Marshaling grasses up to windswept skies. 
 
 If you would find 
 
 Rest and forgetfulness and all things new. 
 Take the Rut Road, and it will bring to you 
 All dear forgotten things, things you see through, 
 But that this road holds sacred, being "blind." 
 
 124 
 
THE END OF THE SEASON— NANTUCKET 
 
 THE hotel building sees its doom, aghast, 
 And all its windows fix in sullen stare, 
 For no girl-voices ring on sunset air, 
 And no bright-breasted youth goes speeding past. 
 The latticed roses and the phlox have cast 
 Their petals upon paths where lovers dreamed. 
 And grey old streets, where gauzy figures streamed, 
 Settle to lamp-lit quietness at last. 
 
 Yet there is endless romance on the moor; 
 
 The hawks o'er wine-red hollows stretch their wings. 
 
 Wild ducks loop Autumnward in ranging strings, 
 
 And swallows balance round time-silvered door; 
 
 High looms the bluff in castle like contour. 
 
 And wear the beach the full white breasts of dunes 
 
 Nourish sky-silence, while the sea communes 
 
 With shells, a-quiver to the foam's allure. 
 
 125 
 
MOVING MILESTONES— NANTUCKET 
 
 MIDNIGHT, Black, and a wild sea of stars, 
 A gold-white surf of stars whose sparkling foam 
 Breaks into waves on occult ether bars, 
 Where star-tides have their deep eternal home. 
 All night the solemn Wonder sweeps me by; 
 Arcturus, Vega, Spica cross the sky 
 On one fixed path, by laws that do not change, 
 Unfailing while all other laws derange. 
 
 Midnight, black; and a wild horde of fears. 
 The brains half-knowledge and the hearts fierce pride 
 Questions me cold and distant to my tears; 
 Yet on my thought the old true Visions glide — 
 Tenderness, Truth, Unselfishness; their lights 
 Travel the wastes and glimmer on the heights. 
 So may I keep my way, whose avatars 
 Gave me a path that leads beyond the Stars. 
 
 126 
 
SOURCE 
 
 "If Beauty grows old, share it before it be gone, and if 
 it abides, why fear to give away what thou dost keep?" 
 
 BY the Alpheus, where the reeds are blown 
 Aslant by winds that flick the tawny current, 
 There runs a path that is all overgrown 
 With low dwarf oaks and many a vine deterrent, 
 Which leads past grain and broad mulberry trees 
 To soft Olympia's cool sanctities. 
 
 There, where the cypress makes a trancelike shade. 
 White pillars gleam, and floors of old mosaic. 
 Hold gemmy moss and tender bud and blade. 
 In hints of bygone Pyrrhic and Trochic — 
 In those fresh petal rhythms which Nature keeps 
 Like poems living where the poet sleeps. 
 
 And all about the place the Games go on. 
 The buoyant clouds fly swift to winged races; 
 One tall fir gives an Ode to Marathon, 
 And down th° temple pattis 3^oung sunlight paces; 
 And that strange rare Perfection, that is Greece, 
 Here holds its happy spell of calm and Peace. 
 
 127 
 
Dreaming Olympia, whose footpaths take 
 Their secret way to temple and by column, 
 Thou art so far away. The blue daybreak 
 Is all war-reddened now, and the Vow solemn; 
 Yet, incandescent in those aisles of pines, 
 Thy same still tranquil beauty grayly shines. 
 
 And this is well, for after all the pain. 
 
 And all the hate, and all the human blunder, 
 
 How we shall need to bathe us once again 
 
 In baths of pure Greek beauty! Ah! the wonder 
 
 Hellas has ever held ! Shall we not need 
 
 That wonder to rebuke our shame and greed? 
 
 Sylvan Olympia, keep the untouched dream 
 
 For years to come and for a noble future! 
 
 Bind all thy classic pathways to one Theme 
 
 Of Soaring Youth and starward high adventure! 
 
 So shall thy dusks, when wistful feet come roaming; 
 
 Mean always — world-pain healed, and spirits homing. 
 
 128 
 
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