PS 35:5 \ \ f Book -^11 3 P» ^ Gi)£^ailGIiT D£P0S1C I PIGEONS OF ST. MARK'S By LOUISE EDGAR PETERS FELLOWSHIP PRESS SERVICE, 31 ST. MARKS PLACE. NEW YORK. N. Y. Copyright 1922 by Louhe Edgar Pelers D£C-4?2 'J^ ©CU682210 FOREWORD BY THE AUTHOR This little book is an attempt to put into Tvords rvhat I see as the solution of the problem of religion and religious ffnowledge, especially in its relation to science and scientific k^oTvledge. Those who un- derstand something of the laws of the subconscious and the nature and function of poetr'y will know wh}^ I have been obliged to express this solution in verse. Louise Edgar Peters Pigeons of St Mark's PIGEONS OF ST. MARK'S UP, up from the great throbbing city's life You rise and soar. None of its sharp, uncouth, self-centered strife. Nor senseless roar Can reach you as self-poised you float in higher rhythmic law. Steady and calm you hold the place you've won By upward surge. Swinging and iridescent, charms us on Your flight's swift urge. Contagion supersensuous ! Our divinities, unique, emerge And soar as you have soared in vision rapt. Articulate, Only to fall. Alas! To fly not apt. Our heaven gate Leads by slow steps and long laborious wait With faces altar turned — but now no more In fear or gloom. We failed to grasp thy birds, O Truth, yet tore Some feathers. Bloom Celestial ! Omen of our dear transcendent doom. Pigeons of St Mark's THE GOOD SHIP PARADISE npHE ocean lies with open arms, * The ocean knows and waits. The chattering streams Hke homing flocks Trip through her silent gates. For the tide draws out with compelling force In their dark unconscious deeps, Though the fickle wind like a wayward sprite Its vain resistance keeps. So it's On waters, Out waters. Back to your mother's breast: For it's drop to drop and it's heart to heart And it's birdlings to their nest. A stately squadron of tall ships Is headed for the sea: But some are caught in the brush on shore And some are sailing free, And some have chosen to anchor where The water is sweet and cool, And the tide has gone and left them shut In a tiny, lifeless pool. For there's on ships and halt ships And there's caught in the land sprung snares; Pigeons of St. Mark^s But it*s sail, if you sail, with the pilot moon Or it's dry dock for repairs. One quaint ship called the Paradise Is keeping near the wind. She forges forth in the van alone While the sluggards lag behind. Her sailors are young and keen and bold. Her helmsman steers her true And her orders come by wireless straight To the captain and the crew. So it's Hey, sailors! Ho, sailors! Steer for the open sea. You've a stout old hulk of sufficient bulk, And her rudder's swinging free. The Admiral sits at his desk, on board The flag ship far ahead. He speaks to his men and they hear him call. Save those who are deaf or dead. And those who are lost in the fog of doubt Where illusive voices lure. But the helmsman who knows his Master's voice Holds his rudder firm and sure. So it's Hark, helmsmen! List, helmsmen! Don't you hear your Master call? Then steer to the sound of Heaven's Hound Be it schooner, yacht or yawl. 6 Pigeons of St. Mark's BEHIND THE ALTAR \X7E'VE built a home for you behind the altar, ^ ^ Will you not come and dwell with us O Lord ? If you do not like our house we shall not falter; We will wreck it at your pleasure And rebuild it to your measure From its cellar to its summit board on board. But we heard you left directions how to build it And we've followed them, if so we understood. We've dug a cellar deep in truth and filled it With the furnace of man's love That warms all the rooms above. And we've made the frame of planks of service- wood, — Then one upon another laid our duties In a ladder-stairway climbing round on round. And we've packed the rooms with all art's praying beauties That hang or stand or swing So that every lovely thing That speaks to man of God may there be found. Pigeons of St Mark's We cut the windows facing each direction That we might hear the truth that all men say And learn the law of your sublime perfection Which unites in East and West And in North and South what's best. As all colors blend to make the light of day. And at the very top we built an attic With a sliding window open to the sky. An arrangement of our own and symptomatic Of our still, subconscious pleading For some clear, convincing leading, Straight and steady as the birds see when they fly, Now can you think, O Christ, this home is fitted To house your spirit, lofty and divine? Or do you find some vital thing omitted? In your most heavenly grace O let us see your face, That hides beneath the bread and in the wine. 8 Pigeons of St. Mark's MY DREAM 1 HAD a dream. I dreamed I stood * On the smooth verge of a steep precipice. Behind — a wood, enticing fair, Beneath — a gulf of great abysmal space. I could not to the wood, Alas ! I knew too well the horrors therein hid. That yawning gulf I knew not yet. And fain would fling myself into its depths If there I might find peace or death. O Peace! O Death! Are ye then so far off Or sleeping now or deaf or cruel That ye come not when I do call you so? O Power that ever urgest me on. Why may I not forever clinging here Escape from worse? Why must I on To unknown woe and fiercer strife? Is there no end to sin or pain or time? O dull and blinded mortal eyes That seeing see not clearly nor perceive! O hard and crooked mortal hearts That in your pride ye will not understand ! O hope of all most undeserved! Pigeons of St Mark's E'en as I cried for help the help was near. Behold an isle most glorious, fair and lovely With a beauty far beyond aught I had dreamed of or desired. And in the peace and glory of that isle There walked all spirits beautified and clean. In whom no guile was found nor sin, Through Jesus Christ and his pure blood. And blindness, blindness, most incarnate blind. To be so near and not to see. O ever looking down how could I think To find a rest or peace or love To fill my soul? I'll hie me to that isle And not stand here forever lone Because I lack the courage or the will. And there I woke. But still that isle Shines clearly in my vision up above. And when I look upon its light A great peace fills my soul and a great love. So ever looking upward now I'll keep this goal in view until the time When I shall join those spirits that I saw. 10 Pigeons of St Mark's THE BIRTH OF THE SOUL \ MAN I knew who had seen God ; ^^ He made me see him too. A man I knew who walked where angels trod ; With him I walked there too. A man I knew to whom Christ spoke; our Lord Spoke to me too. And when he went away they died ; And I died too. Dull, deep emptiness. Dim despair. A weight as of a world in chains. Manacled and prisoned. Death Half conscious of itself. Inane futility. Infinite incompetence, and fear Of slipping further in this slough Of creeping, crawling thoughts. Shuddering I cried, '*0 God ! So be it.'' Clarion like the call ! I stirred and turned Once in those mighty arms Where all unknowing I had lain. Bathed in a sea of peace. The radiant morning glow Pigeons of St. Mark's 1 1 Of the new day lighted my will. I raised my head And looked straight in God's eyes. Then, laughing, rose and spread my wings And leaped into the air. *'Wake man,'* I cried, *'God smiles." 12 Pigeons of St Mark's TO CAPITAL I SAW a mountain lion behind bars, * Small bodied, lithe. Chin high he stood and scorned. Not knowing his disgrace. Or drowsed with head on paw. I turned toward home and strolled through groves and fields. Five deer were straying in a meadow green Nibbling the grass. Kind eyed And beautiful they were. * 'These five and thirty more a lion needs Each year to keep alive,'* a woodsman said. **He does not need so much But likes fresh food. **The government values the deer and thinks The lion's cost too high. A hunter roams The mountains, paid to kill The whole infesting breed." '*But could the lions not be tamed," I asked, **And taught to eat green food like other beasts?" **I fear me not," he said. '*For me," I said, *'I hope." Pigeons of St Mark's 13 TO LABOR \T|^E are disappointed in you, brothers. ^^ You had your chance. You are no better than those others In your blind trance. Our nation's future hope is in the middle — - Sane men between; The solution of our social riddle — Mind, not spleen. For what we need is thinking men not grafters- Men of good will. Strong houses are not built on rotten rafters. Sam pays the bill. Your intermittent fights which keep us quaking Are too high priced. A social mind quite new is in the making — The mind of Christ, SONGS OF THE UNCHURCHED Songs of the Unchurched 1 7 SONG OF THE UNEMPLOYED \JiT E were outcasts and you brought us home, ^ ^ Not ahens but friends to your hearth. Weeds, you planted us in the rich loam Of St. Mark's Garth. Love warmed, faith watered, fast we grew Under the gardener's pruning hand. Propped in our weakness till he knew That we could stand. So it's out and away in the morning gray, There's work and a home for the best of us. In the dawn of hope we will climb life's slope — There are gardens still for the rest of us. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Outcasts and we brought you home? Those were our Master's orders. So shall he hear us when we call. We would be a fertile, watered garden in whose borders The waters never fall. (Isaiah 58J 18 Songs of the Unchurched SONG OF THE BUSINESS MEN TPHIS world is ours. We know no other. * Ours is today. We are the keepers of our brother Be who he may. We see that poets starve without us. That artists fail. We see them dying all about us. Of what avail? If life must have two wings to fly by. Let us be one. Enough if we have priests to die by When life is done. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Already you are one wing — you point in one direction — And steady birds need two. Art is life's light and crown. Seize and act on this reflection If you would journey true. Songs of the Unchurched 19 SONG OF THE INTELLECTUALS YOU unchurched us when you were untrue to truth. We stand for the mind of man. Science has proved what is our due to truth Since scholarship began. Man's mind has done so much, can still do more. We stand for the open door. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Truth — yes, but what is truth? Your professors can not Rnd it In their academic youth. Their logics end in contradiction; Their explanations jump affliction. Life is our teacher and in the silences behind it We hear the voice of truth. 20 Songs of the Unchurched SONG OF THE HEATHEN VrOU thought God had forgotten us * And left us out in the cold. You thought Christ was your shepherd. And we were not of his fold. If you'll face our great religions With clear, unbiased view You'll say, "One flock, one shepherd For the heathen have got it too." RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Other sheep He has who are not of this fold — Them also will He bring. There shall be one fold and one shepherd. Songs of the Unchurched 21 SONG OF THE ACTORS "VrOU came not to our church; * We would not go to yours. We did not Hke your church ; You did not know of ours. And so you judged us hardly. Not knowing our intent. And we too judged you hardly For what we thought you meant. We speak of life as it is, you know. And life is realistic. If you say we're fast, why we think you're slow And unduly optimistic. But we're all athirst for the truth to show What we mean by realistic. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH You mean by realistic not the shifting beads of fact; Rather the cord which makes the chain. True plays are bound together scene by scene and act by act : Many carriages — one train. 22 Songs of the Unchurched SONG OF THE PAINTERS IN the folds of his garment we glimpsed Him in * its shimmer of sunlight and shade, Evanescent, retreating, illusive like the whisper of secrets half heard. Earth-clad and girdled with waters, tiared in the eyes of a maid. And warbling with gladness transcendent in the full throated joy of a bird. But the pastors and priests were against us. They wanted a portrait more clear. They said it was sacrilege utter to speak of the cloth- ing of God. They tried to portray and describe Him in the lan- guage of logic and fear — A garment, though strait and confining, as impover- ished souls can afford. But to you who have learned of the richness and manifold meaning of life We offer our whispering Godhead, the far reaching truth of the soul. Let partitioning mental profesosrs go on with discus- sion and strife; Songs of the Unchurched 23 We cling to our whispers and glimpses, as fragments which point to a whole. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH To compile the Book of Life God needs just such record ers — Men who can hear his faintest call. You will be a fertile, watered garden in whose borders The waters never fall. 24 Songs of the Unchurched SONG OF THE SCULPTORS WE have wrestled with the granite, we have chiseled, we have hewed. We have thought great thoughts and uttered them in stone. We have heard God's giant little voice, his marble vision viewed And we've caught the captive spirit's answering moan. But as yet we have not freed her from her dungeon in the rock. We must nobly live if nobly we'd create. And our shepherds who should help us say we are not of their flock — That our vision is but scrawlings on a slate. We were strangers and you welcomed us, you spoke our language too, Our vernacular we knew you'd understand : For the captive we had visioned had showed herself to you. So we give ourselves to God in your command. Songs of the Unchurched 25 RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Not strangers, brothers-in-arms, let the Ideal lead us forward To the Lake of No More Thirst. Till the ripples which run from the troubled centre shoreward In that centre are immersed. 26 Songs of the Unchurched SONG OF THE MUSICIANS IF you've sensed the still sea lapping * On a smooth beach. If you've heard white gull wings flapping Just out of reach. If you've felt musicians playing Behind the notes And known they were really praying With wordless throats. You will know what we mean by saying That music is God's prayer-speech. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Art is God's vernacular and beauty bears His orders. Aspiration is our call. We can be a fertile, watered garden in whose borders The waters never fall. Songs of the Unchurched 27 SONG OF THE POETS DEEP within a mountain fastness, Where no man has trod, Lies a lake, enclosed in vastness. Like a thought of God. From its bosom clear, pellucid, Flows a mighty stream ; Sings in rhythms flaming, lucid, God's procreant dream. **Roaring, surging, leaping, swirling. Bursting into foam. Over flat rock surface whirling To my valley home ; Bounding over boulders massive Into olive pools. Falling chasms down, impassive. Shattering all rules. Waterfall of inspiration From the mountain crest. Dealing death, source of creation, Earth-food from God's breast, Heaven sent. Oh valley dwellers, Spurn me and you die. 28 Songs of the Unchurched Spirits poisoned by best-sellers Unto heaven cry. Drive your mills by eagle power, Eagles lose their wings ; Whitest cleanest meadow flour Sullies mountain springs. As you've failed to see my banner So you've strayed unled ; As you've scorned celestial manna So you've starved unfed." Lo ! the flood from heaven falling Bringing heaven down. Beckoning, pleading, coaxing, calling To the valley town. "Scale the cliffs of intuition ; Purge the mountain stream. Cast the shackles of tradition. Dare to dream God's dream. »> RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH We are strangers, will you bring us home. ITiose are your Master's orders. So shall He hear you when you calL You will be a fertile, watered garden in whose bor- ders The waters never fall. Songs of the Unchurched 29 SONG OF THE BLESSED DEAD inU^E'VE been knocking at your doors ^^ Many years. In your little narrow rooms, from the floors You have scarcely raised your eyes for a peep out at the skies, Blurred by tears. Raise your latches, lift your eyes. And anon Smiles shall take the place of sighs. Put your lamps out. Let the Night lead you with her lanterns bright Out and on. RESPONSE BY THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH Dead and alive let each his God inspired message give; We bind them in one sheaf. So shall we save that wheat of truth by which all spirits live — The fruit within the leaf. CLIPPINGS FROM THE GARTH OF ST. MARK'S Clippings from the Garth 33 THE GARTH A TANGLE of quaint flowers borders the street '^ And the straight centre path — soft-scented, rare Or strong with pungent odors. Maiden-hair And crocuses and phlox and bitter-sweet. The children of all climes and seasons meet And interchange their fragrance in the air. As from a broidered cushion soars a prayer. So stands a row of poplars with their feet Slippered in nosegays and their steepled tops Speaking to heaven. Strong and lean and straight — The spirit's pioneers and virtue's props — They mark the path from the walled entrance gate To the clear fountain where the great dog roams And, growling, drives the weaklings to their homes. 34 cuppings from the Garth THE GARDEN WALL T^HE garden wall is made by those outside * Who dignify themselves by building jails Where they may dwell select. So man entails His genius to the uses of his pride. To such the fruits of genius are denied. E'en so those bricks of prejudice are frail Protection to caste-weaklings, but avail To fence this bower from the floricide. Let stand the wall and may he pass who can. Soft vines about it climb and droop. The gate Is open wide for all who humbly wait And sweetly, patiently seek entrance there. Garlanded graciousness courts every man. Life's rambling roads approach from everywhere. Clippings from the Garth 35 PURPLE IRIS SHE stands a purple iris in the green Of high traditions. Little deeds of grace Stream past her either way, and o'er her face Is spread the ripening summer's mellow sheen — The prismed aureole of what has been : Perennial flora of a noble race! In heaven's seedling plot she has her place : God's babe she is who might have been man's queen. Patrician dignity in service meek That overturns the world, makes high things low. Low high ! So first and last each other seek. In dirt and dung all radiant flowers grow. If Earth to crown her travail Heaven needs. Heaven needs our Earth to bear his little seeds. 36 Clippings from the Garth BITTER-SWEET HIGH nested in the tree-tops, where on wings Of many birds your throbbing maiden song Leaps wordless to the sky ! O artist strong And masterful, such fate-enraptured strings Are wont to tear their hearts out. Ocean flings Its treasures wildly on the sand along A firmly beaten beach : each wave, a prong Of Neptune's trident, cosmic purpose sings. So lady of the tree-tops, bitter-sweet. Strong-frail, cool-passionate, proud-meek, you ?/# A necklace of sharp contrasts. Oddly-neat You cling about the neck of life till far She thrusts you from her. Then you stand A rock of fortitude in a green land. cuppings from the Garth 37 FLOWERING EUCALYPTUS nPHOU woman of the untamed pagan heart * And mystic sight, in whom the Jew and Greek Are bound relentlessly in love, I seek To know thy secret, thine inspired art. We see thee fair : thou in thy native part Of beauty dost reign all supreme, but meek, Steadfastly good, walled fortress of the weak. We see thee shame thyself in higher part. Thy soul is like a precious fabric, wrought With all the skill of ages that compete For prize of perfectness — I have seen naught To rival it — a peerless jewel meet For angels' wonder and men's love, self-taught To answer those who sit about thy feet. 38 cuppings from the Garth THE MONTEREY CYPRESS 1 AM the indomitable one, supreme * Above disaster. Blow on blow may fall, I stand erect, head high, eyes clear, and call On God whose child I am to prove the dream Of man*s divinity. Through me a stream Whose source is in His heart flows down to all Who will receive it. Let Him pour out gall, I'll drain nor hold such fealty extreme. But O, if you had known that man you'd see The love I bore him could not have been less. He overpassed all merit, and to me Embodied faith triumphant through the stress Of failing fortunes — so the royal fee I ask of life is blessing — and to bless. Clippings from the Garth 39 THE WATERING POT THE Buddha stops to tea with anecdotes And songs and boudoir tales. The ladies shout With glee. The children hold his hands and pout If others are preferred. The Buddha quotes From Laotze, from Plotinus and the notes In Emerson's great Journal. Flowers sprout In every fertile spirit. Fountains spout. The sun upon the budding landscape gloats. Sweet melodies sing in my inner ear. The voice of God behind the veil of words Though still and small makes all his meanings clear. His plan hides in the warbling of young birds. Buddha and ladies build a world foundation — Music for all and peace for every nation. 40 Clippings from the Garth AMERICAN BEAUTY ROSE TTHEY tell me she is dead and look for tears, * Or speak of hope with hesitating lips. My mind rejects their fact; my spirit grips The life beneath all death and calmly peers Into the veiled abyss. My sharpened ears. Intent, hear voices. Broken meanings, quips And trivial facts converge. Thus science strips The mask off Death — souls cradled in their biers. O tallest, fairest, sweetest, reddest rose ! Though just outside our garden wall you grew. No barrier your fragrance ever knew. Your heart prevailed all gardens to enclose. So stay with us and still your fragrance shed. We'll sense your presence, sweeter being dead. •.*i r iQf5 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS IliillHIil 015 937 349 6